Arrival

                                            I watched the darkness come down

                                            as the breeze rushed by

                                            and the sawyers started to sound

                                            their aching choir, sorrows wound

                                            in a cricket's cry

                     

                                            I watched the lights spring awake

                                            in a dark-eyed casement

                                            trimmed with paint, starting to flake,

                                            saw reflected the glassy green lake

                                            on the glazed encasement

                              

                                            I heard the whisper of leaves in the wind,

                                            breath of Fall creeping

                                            into the colour of grasses that bend

                                            their tawny heads low, in gusts that send

                                            geese to the sky, weeping

                                            I felt the sigh of Autumn's chill

                                            breathe down my spine,

                                            paint bushes aflame, gild the hill,

                                            tinge the air crisp, and spill

                                            out the scent of pine

                                            I saw the day fall into slumber

                                            and stars blink awake,

                                            a silent host too many to number

                                            over black bear with heavy lumber

                                            shown by aspen's quake

Sorrow and Stars

Last light is leaping from hill to hill

spilling like liquid from an upset cup, 

A golden haze spreading o'er rock and rill

until, until, until the valley has its fill

and the glory thins and wavers and is taken up

The clouds' creamy bronze hues drain clear, 

drop by drop—suddenly they run ashen grey

in an eye-blink, in the drip of a tear

giving way to darkness, uncertainty, and fear

as the sunset darkens and turns fey

A stab of pain blooms to full grown ache

with the dimming of day and the coming night;

sorrow saps hope, makes dreams break

swooping in the moment that light forsakes

the rim of the earth, reminding us of our plight

Amidst our sadness, star eyes open with a wink,

sweeping our thoughts toward vaulted skies—

there is beauty beyond woe, we are led to think

as argent gems pressed on velvet cause us to blink

and shake silver sorrows from our eyes

O Stellar Beau

I looked into the sky last night

   with upturned, amorous eye,

              to catch a glimpse of the Hunter

           who treads the Winter sky.

There he was in all his might,

            I gazed quite long upon the sight

                     of his stately form and arcing bow,

                          his star-studded belt shone bright.

I tromped on, past bend and tree,

     to find the Hunter, peering at me!

O, it made my heart quiver

                  with a hope that anyone could see.

Alas, alas! We are lovers, star-crossed

in the truest sense—he is all star

                 and I am all alight with love from afar,

                  love that even distance cannot mar.

How marvellous that he has trod

          the great dance steps—none forgot,

             no falter of his magnificent form

                      on the waltz floor breathed by God.

Across the sky the Hunter sings,

      a silver star-song to the Pleiades,

       to the fairest sister of them all;

                        thus, the Winter sky with music rings.

Ever valiant his bow keeps at bay

Taurus, the bully of the fray,

               and so they dance, one Winter sky

                    to the next—half the world away.

He's sinking Westward more each night,
my longing heart can only sigh,

                        aching with dreams of the starry Hunter,

                             until once again his crescent bow I spy

                  rising up in the Winter sky

                                     to proclaim that my Love is nigh...

Shadow Reflections

I walked home from the stars

last night, and found upon my way

a branch, as an elderly hand in sway,

its shadow on the wall made scars.

Painted limb appeared more real

than the mesh of winter twigs

twining about in grey-green sprigs;

the shade-tree’s lines dark enough to feel.

I pondered how I would like to be

a clear shadow on history’s wall,

though I could only grapple with the Fall,

redemption shown in depths of two, not three.

All we are is but flickering shade—

yet in this season of Bright Sadness,

even shadows reflect in crisp blackness,

the glory of the King, fresh made.

Stars in the Pools

Ridges of foothills rise and swell, then swirl away in the fog filling the valley. Streams of melting hail run off the eaves with the sound of endless rain—and the look of thick snow. My neighbour's flower box is one puddle of icy water. The gravel parking lot is more like a muddy-red pond than solid ground. All at once, a wave of thunder shatters the air, makes the ground shudder. Lightning flares pink and the ground trembles again—and again. 

It is Spring in the mountains—cool, wet, glorious. Yes, glorious, because pools of water seem incongruent with this arid place. This comes from having transplanted into the mountains amidst a lingering drought some years back. I am learning that even dry climes have Spring rains and puddles, once the spectre of drought moves his dwelling elsewhere. 

The pooling rain water recalled to mind these words:

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.¹ 
When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, 
it will become a place of refreshing springs. 
The [early] rains will clothe it with blessings.²

Long have I loved this Psalm. Long have I gained hope that tears will come to fruition in blessings. Then, I met this Psalm in lectio divina and my perspective was expanded. My attention caught in those pools, as my world is dotted with puddles—puddles colossal, puddles micro. Rarely do they last very long—the ever-thirsty earth slurps them into deep aqueducts, unseen, insatiable. Oft I have thought of the Valley of Baca (translated, weeping) as a cracked desert, bare and ugly, sometimes covered with stagnant, muddy meres. This vision has now been replaced by one of red soil, juniper trees, and depressions lined with rocks of many hues, filled with clear water. 

Pilgrims on their way to the house of God—where even the birds of the air vie to raise their broods—walk through this valley. It is the proverbial (or Psalm-ish, in this case) 'vale of tears' to which many individuals refer. Long have I thought that the tears shed in this dry land were simply for the refreshing of the valley, for the watering of any living scrubby bush in the desert. Wrong. Again. That is just the surface tension—these pools run deeper.

Think for a moment how many tears it must take to fill even a small pool. So many. A large puddle would take myriads more. I began to picture all of us sojourning toward home, where God is, traversing through Baca to reach our desire. The tears of our whole lives are collected in those pools encrusted with rocks of so many shades and shapes. My long-standing mental photograph of the Valley of Weeping withered. Our tears are not collected in turbid puddles, watering needle-nosed cactus or gnarled brush. The pools are refreshing springs, says the Psalmist. He must know from experience. 

There they are: dusty, foot-sore, the travellers trekking on toward a home they have never yet seen. In the dark of night they reach this Weeping Valley. Swish! Their feet splash into an unseen, unanticipated, unthought of pool. The night air has cooled the hot salt-tear puddles. These unexpected springs cleanse wounds, refreshing the hot and filthy feet. They are a resting place for the weary. Water weaves, wavers, settles. The travellers are arrested by the night sky above them, but no! Below them, all around them—the stars gently throb and quiver. What mythical valley have they entered? Wobbly circles of star-light spread out as far as the horizon, kissing the starry ceiling. How can this be? It is all of the sorrow-pools, echoing back the beauty of the night canopy. Long the pilgrims gaze, their bloodshot, dry eyes drinking in argent rivers of liquid light. Hearts and feet and eyes refreshed, rest comes to the weather-beaten bodies and parched imaginations. Though these wayfarers will weep enough to fill puddles of their own, for now they are given strength to journey on.

Our tears, our sorrows, can somehow heal and refresh others. We might not see them come through the vale behind us, but our tears are not wasted. Always and ever do we go onward, toward Zion. Suddenly, my view of the Psalm dilates again—I see that we are dropping tears into varying pools of all sizes as we press on toward the lights of home. Our tears are not one deep tarn itself—no! Our tears are co-mingled with the saints who have gone on before us to refresh those who follow. Whether to wash and heal them, to inspire them, or to water the fruit trees to feed them. Indeed, the Valley of Weeping is clothed in blessings—the blessings of Beauty, of healing, of satisfying. Our weeping is not in vain, it is a blessing.

Splendour in Every Crack and Crevice

The night skies sing the glory of God!

Dark and light, clouds and constellations are crafted by His deft hands.

Daily they declaim, night upon night they raise a chorus of praise.

Even though our ears cannot hear their speeches and symphonies,

Still their message of God's glory and splendour has filled

Every crevice and crack in all of the cosmos.

Thus I paraphrased the opening verses of Psalm nineteen a few weeks ago. I was out on a snowy tramp in the mountains, seeking some solitude under the night sky. The Milky Way was so thick with stars that it was more like seeing specks of black space in a sky of silver light. My heart responded with the opening lines of Psalm nineteen and the Doxology. 

In my life I find that Beauty leads me to worship. Beauty soothes the wounds inflicted on various fronts. No, let me rather say that Beauty heals our wounded souls. It enriches our lives. This is because Beauty is not an end in itself, but is a reflection of God's holiness. Beauty heals our hearts by leading us to worship and thank the Almighty One.

This giving thanks (eucharisteo in Greek) is our connection to life in Christ Himself. Think for a moment of what various church traditions call the Lord's Supper—the Eucharist. Growing up in a more evangelical set of churches, I thought that the Lord's Supper was a time for seeing how wicked I was and for repenting. Earnestly I would examine myself, tell God I was sorry, eat the bread, drink the juice, and go home. 

Years of conversations and reading Scripture more deeply have reshaped my understanding of the Eucharist. Yes, I examine my heart, I agree with God that the things I have done or left undone are sin, and I ask to walk in newness of life—the spiritual life of Christ received in the bread and the wine of the common cup. My response to His sacrifice and His life is spoken by the chalice bearer: "Take this in remembrance that Christ died for you and be thankful." 

God, Who is good (eu), offers me grace (charis) through Christ. My response is to give thanks (eucharisteo). It is a daily rhythm, like the steady beating of my heart, or breathing in and out. Every day I am greeted with Beauty in various places, ways, and individuals. I am offered the healing and grace of God, if I will keep my eyes and heart open to see and receive His gifts. In response, I breathe out my thanks, my praise of His goodness and holiness and Beauty. 

I am learning that healing and thanksgiving do not come in one fell swoop. They are an everyday process. As it is an existential request to be emptied of myself and filled afresh with God's Spirit, so it is with practising eucharisteo. Only Jesus can accomplish something "once for all", whilst we must take daily steps toward Him and His completeness. 

Stars have never put a scrap of silver in my pocket, but I am richer for their beauty shining into my eyes and heart. The person I am, fragmented by the Fall, is becoming more like Jesus, made whole by Beauty that leads to worship—by grace flowing in, thanksgiving flowing out. Every crevice and crack in me is being filled with the splendour of God. Like the stars in the heavens, I shine out with the glory of God. Yet unlike those silver spheres, my words of praise to God can be heard by my fellow men, if only I will speak them.

Even in the valley of the shadow the stars shine...

Deep red light streaked across my kitchen panes yesterday morning. In the fog of sleepiness I thought of the line, "Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning," then rolled over for a little more precious slumber. 

When evening came, I honestly have no idea what colour the sky was... I only knew that the red dawn was followed by an evening call. "She's gone." Words I had been anticipating for a week. Words I have been dreading to hear. Words one never quite knows how they will receive until they have to. 

Blindly I walked out into the night, feeling the cool Spring air revive my tumbled thoughts. Revive: breathe new life into... How could I have so much life in my lungs when her lungs were empty now? I walked harder, feet pelting toward the mountain. I needed space. Stillness. Steadiness. 

Clambering up the washed out path, I reached a flat place, panting. Stopping in the darkness, my eyes adjusted enough to look up at the mighty beams of light above me. Mighty, yet so distant as to appear but pin pricks in Heaven's canopy. My eyes traced the trio of beacons in Orion's belt. There sat Betelgeuse, a splendid red orb in the hunter's shoulder. Red. Like the morning sky... 

I reeled, seeking for an anchor in the midst of my anguish. Next to me the rush of snow-melt in the stream sang its joyful, gushing tune. Above me the wind swept through the pines and over my sorrow-streaked face. O'erhead the constellations solemnly trod their seasoned steps. How many times has the earth revolved around the sun? And there are the Pleiades every Autumn (in this hemisphere), peeking above the low ridge, beginning their trek across the sky. My eyes will only see them only a little longer before they visit the other half of the world. Then we will see the Summer crown rising in the next season.

Even in the change of seasons there is a constancy, like the river and mountains, trees and stars, and the continual rising and falling of the sun and moon. Even as the wind brings a change in the weather, it is still the same familiar wind we know from every playful Summer caress, or wild Winter dervish. Even as my dear 'snow season' melts into golden and royal purple crocuses, there is a familiarity in the pattern of the year. 

New hope springs up in me. The ebb and flow of life remind me of the Creator's hand holding all things together, ordering the strides of the universe from day to day and night to night. How much more incredible is it that He orders my daily and nightly steps, small as I am? He Who is acquainted with our grief walks with us through the dark valley of the shadow. 

One day, death will stand on its head and everything sad will come untrue. Because He danced the reel of this earth, and died our death for us, and is so full of life that not even death could hold Him... It had to let Him go into abundant life. This is another grappling hook for my soul... Yet the fullness of Life found in Christ does not mean I am cheerful in the face of death. Oh, the face of my own death, maybe. I am not afraid of what is to come, though perhaps that is because I don't know how truly grave and mysterious and real and joyful it will be. 

But in this shadow before the real, this dream before the waking, I feel the rending claws of death. I see it filling its voracious appetite with unborn children and frail grandmothers, with soldiers and civilians, rich and poor. I shudder at its touch on my shoulder, upon my family. "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!" cries my soul. I seek refuge under the shadow of the wings of my Father in Heaven. Here I will hide my shredded soul, until the Healer begins –no, continues– His work to remake this fragmented me into something Beautiful. Here I will hide, until a flame rises out of the cold ashes. Here I will mourn, and He will weep with me, even though He knows the end of the story and has told me that all shall be made well. 

Helen Margaret Marie Sophie Byrkett 

27 December 1919 – 17 March 2014

~ Johanna