Category Archives: Spirit

Mothering Spirit

19 Saturday May 2018

Posted by in mothering, Spirit, Uncategorized

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Betsysrainbowquilt                  Betsysmourningquilt

I am right between Mother’s Day and Pentecost. Our pastor gave a trenchant sermon last week on the “mothering” aspects of the Holy, taken from the first story of the creation, allowing that to neglect the feminine force of God means we are missing out on part Hebrew word, Ruach, Spirit, present at the creation. This week we are anticipating celebrating Ruach once again, this time when She came visibly and audibly on the gathered ones to create a community called Church.

I am wondering what is particular about the Mothering Spirit this week. Our new-ish hymnal gives many choices:

  • Mothering Spirit, nurturing one/in arms of patience hold me close. (Jean Janzen, 1991)
  • Womb of life and source of being, home of every restless heart,/ in your arms the world’s awakened, you have loved us from the start. (Ruth Duck, 1986)
  • Like a mother you enfold me, hold my life within your own…(Shirley Erena Murray, 1986)

As a daughter and as a mother and grandmother, I recognize what it is like both to give and receive that kind of care. However, I must say in honesty that that kind of care was not only offered by  women, or by mothers. I have been graced to receive it from surprising places, from unpredictable places.

So what is it? In conversation with a friend this week, we tried to identify one who embodied a mothering Spirit in our faith journeys. Our attention fell naturally and the easily on the woman who had been our spiritual director for many years, Betsy, whose “Rainbow Quilt” and “Mourning Quilt” are attached. Words like Grace, hospitality, welcome, wisdom, joy, creativity, bubbled up between us. But more than anything else was the sense that she saw us and knew us for who and what we are and loved with unconditional graceful regard, without judgement, categorization or label. That was evident in many ways, and led me to recall others who have “mothered” me along the way.

In the days that followed I am thinking of other persons of mothering spirit:

  • a college counselor who took delight in me and imagined my future accomplishments
  • a pastor who was not threatened by my questioning struggle, but challenged me to pursue being all I was meant to be
  • a couple in my church who subsidized a trip to my first Christian feminist conference when I was a new mother of two small children
  • that one who sat with me as I wept over a deep, deep loss
  • that one who saw my mistake and helped me try over again
  • the one who taught me certain kinds of knowledge and skills with patience, always believing I could do it
  • the ones who listened without censoring to my stories, sometimes over and over again

So as I prepare to celebrate the Holy Spirit tomorrow, who gave birth to the Church and to all people, I am grateful for all the “mothering” I have had, whether it came from a man or a woman, an elder or child or peer, from a source I had hoped for or a complete surprise. All of them were holy. All in that moment saw me for who I was right then, and all were cheering me forward. I am blessed by that Mothering, and I want continue to keep Mothering, in Spirit and in Truth!

 

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Come. Holy Spirit

04 Sunday Jun 2017

Posted by in prayer, Spirit

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Come. Holy Spirit! Today we celebrate your presence in our lives, in the Church and in the world.

I pray to meet you in the depth of my heart where I am so prone to fear and anxiety, so quick to forget that I am committed to Hope, to Love, intending to believing and acting on the principle that “all will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.”

I pray to let you heal me–body and spirit–of those wounds and scars that are left over from old memories, early traumas and the hurts and slights that keep popping up in the course of my daily rounds.

I pray to feel your energy surging in my recovering body, in my brain that too often forgets things these days, in my praying spirit that bogs down with the enormity and complexity of this sad world.

I pray to allow your wildness keep opening my heart to finding ways when there seems to be no way, to taking in the most unlikely ones who cross my path, to putting the resources I have to the healing of the fragments of this world where I can make a difference, however small.

I pray for the wounds of so many in so many places, with its accompanying fear that we can’t know where terror will break out next. I pray that You will keep up Your powerful attack on the minds and wills of those who are heartless, greedy and self-serving only, and transform their hearts to ones of compassion and caring. 

I pray for Your Presence in the created world, that as it struggles to survive and thrive, you will teach me how to cooperate with that healing, with Your power to give me words and actions that will preserve and respect the beauty and sustainability of Earth’s resources.

I pray for Your Wisdom for all people of faith as they wrestle to know how to be observant of their commitment to You in times and events that are muddy and messy.

I pray that You, Holy Healer, will touch the bodies and spirits and minds of those who suffer, and where there is despair, replace it with hope and peace.

And for all those areas for which I have words but can’t get them out, and for those things deep inside me for which I have no words, Spirit, turn them into creative and cogent expressions of my heart to the Holy–for what is loving. joyful, peaceful, kind and generous, and faithful in my walking and talking, singing and dancing, working and giving, hoping and living each day with imagination, energy and love.

Come, Holy Spirit, Come!

 

 

 

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Points of Sorrow: Valleys and Shadows

30 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by in compassion, dryness, grief, Lent, sanctuary, Spirit

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I have been comforted on my Lenten journey to encounter Holy Presence in signs and detours and delight. However, I am deeply aware that I am also daily faced with other phenomena: valleys–of the shadow of death, of dry bones, of tears; and of depths–sorrow, fears and despair. I am of that era in my life where news of death, of troubling diagnoses, of unbearable losses are so regular that they are almost routine. Not a day goes by without another request for prayer–for the world, for the nation, for the Church, and for people who are loved and cherished. And so I travel the Lenten way on a road of mourning as well as rejoicing.

The “valley of the shadow of death” becomes more real to me each year. I have been helped greatly by reading the two volumes by Marilyn Chandler McEntryre for those traveling in that valley, those who are facing death themselves, A Faithful Farewell,
and for those losing someone they love, A Long Letting Go. The author herself, no stranger to grief, gives some perspective, some comfort and some practical helps is the process of mourning:

To mourn is to open ourselves to comfort, which is a unique dimension of love. To mourn is to make our sorrow hospitable to those who are willing to enter into it…Our work is to accept the sorrow, to live it, to suffer it, and finally in humility to let it be drenched in the healing waters of love that come to us from as many sources as we allow–great wells of it, great waves of it, and daily infusions from old friends and from strangers who may be angels sent to walk us through the valley of the shadow. (A Long Letting Go,pp. 84-85)

Part of my Lenten journey is to do this work of mourning, on behalf of those whom I have lost, and on behalf of those who are in the valley of the shadow themselves right now. Yesterday I heard of two more friends who have lost parents, always a turning point in each person’s life. I now know that grieving is holy work, an important piece of giving sanctuary to those I am given in the world.

Others within my ken can only see a Valley of Dry Bones when they look at our world–few life givers, few Spirit breathers, few points of Light. I resonate with that. If I only read headlines, banners and listen to sound bites, I know that dry bones might be all that I could see also. But I feel strongly that even as I look at the Truth, with as much clarity as I can, I must point to and witness to a bigger reality than the current state of things in the universe, the nations, the Church, even in the microcosms of deadness in our personal lives. I believe that in God’s providence, there are no final defeats. Therefore, I plant myself in that reality as a starting place on my Lenten journey, and then pray, as I weep over the Valley of Dry Bones, that the Spirit will breathe Life back into them. I ask also what my part will be in that; to whom do I speak? to whom do I give? am I invited to bear witness in a way that is public and noticeable?

And with those whose losses can seem less tangible, less noticeable, less dramatic, but who like the Psalmist have experienced that “tears have been my food day and night, while people say continually, ‘Where is your God?'”, I am to be a friend listening to their truth with respect and without judgement, and without letting their sorrow become my sorrow, only holding them with compassion and hope.

These valleys and shadows are not the easiest part of the Lenten journey. And once again I turn to a British hymn set to a French carol:

When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain,/your touch can call us back to life again;/fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:/Love is come again like wheat that riseth green.                                               (John Crum, 1928)

I hold this as I continue on my Lenten way, for those I have lost, for those I love, and for myself.

 

 

Personal photo of street art in St. Petersburg, Florida.

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The Green Spirit

15 Sunday May 2016

Posted by in blessing, creation, earth, gratitude, Mystery, reflection, refreshment, renewal, Spirit

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images-4And so Pentecost comes! Traditionally the liturgical colors are red with yellow, reflecting the fire that alighted on the heads of the faithful in Act’s story of that event, signifying the illumination and power of the Holy Spirit. But Maren Tirabassi, contemporary liturgist and prophet, has called our attention to the fact that in some circumstances, this year, for instance, flame and wind are not positive and encouraging symbols; in the case of the horrendous fire in Alberta, Canada, and in other places around our planet, fire is only a force for destruction and devastation. So she in her winsome and provocative blog, Gifts In Open Hands, has lifted up other metaphors for the Holy Spirit. Her musings immediately pointed me to that earlier medieval liturgist and prophet, Hildegard of Bingen.

From one of her visions Hidegard sees God declare:

I am the breeze that nurtures all things green…I am the rain coming from the dew that causes the grass to laugh with joy of life…I am the yearning for the good.

It is the greenness of the Spirit I am longing for this year. Dr. Rebecca Button Prichard in her book Sensing the Spirit (Chalice Press, 1999), says:

The Spirit of greenness is visible in a way that transcends metaphor, analogy and imagery. The Creativity that causes leaves to unfold and buds to flower is the Creator Spirit, the One who broods over creation still. (50)

So many people and places in life I encounter need the greening from the Spirit inside to bring life back, to bring healing throughout, to spring back into fruitful encounter with the Holy and the world. And I feel the need of it in places in me. I often pray that poetic voice of T.S. Eliot, “Oh, thou Lord of Life, send my roots rain!”

I am looking at new plantings of a more drought resistant grass in the small patch of lawn in my back yard. They are bright green as they take root, and they need much less water than our previous sward. They remind me of places where I would invite the Spirit to bring her nurture into greenness–my energy for coming alongside others, my patience for sitting still and listening as the Holy One speaks, my perseverance in doing those things that will bring good for others, now and in the future, my openness to hearing, seeing and sensing what is new. I would love my life of prayer to become jade green, shining and gem-like in its consistency and beauty. I would like to wander down forest green paths of Mystery that I have not yet discovered. I pray that my encounters with those I meet be bright kelly green, sparking with mutual compassion and  appreciation. The colors of all life will be brightened with a fresh infusion of the greening of the Spirit.

After this Eastertide past with equal shares of Light and Darkness in our world, I find myself needing to sing this hymn for Easter and beyond:

Now the green blade rises from the buried grain, wheat that in the dark  earth many days has lain; love lives again, that with the dead has been: love is come again like wheat arising green.

When our hearts are wintry, grieving or in pain, your touch can call us back to life again; fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been: love is come again like wheat arising green. (John M.C. Crum, 1928)

Come, Holy Spirit, green my heart!

Image created by Marcy Hall for Abbey of the Arts

Blessed is She Who Believed

02 Saturday Apr 2016

Posted by in blessing, gratitude, grief, Spirit, spiritual direction, wisdom

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Betsy'sQuist

I sit each morning at my window that faces east toward the rising sun. Behind and  sometimes around me is an antique quilt, passed down to me by Betsy, my spiritual director of nearly 25 years, who died suddenly on Good Friday. She had been in a process of recuperation for the past five months, and we had spoken a few times on the phone, but we had scheduled face to face appointments for the next three months. Instead of seeing her in person, I will be sitting with her spirit in  the space she blessed for me with her generous gift.

She embodied the spiritual director as a Quilter in my life, taking ragged, old pieces of experience and belief, and with skill and patience helped me to envision and live into my own ongoing present life with the Holy, a wholeness, a work of art. We came from differing faith traditions. Initially our callings were very different–mine in public ministry, hers in intimate spiritual direction. Our family systems were a contrast in culture, size and sensibility. Yet from the start we were united in our quest for an intentional life of Spirit.

I have been musing these past days over all that I learned in my hours with Betsy. With the gospel writer I could say that if I were to recall everything, the world itself would not be able to contain it. However, as I grieve and remember, I keep assembling “squares”in the quilt that was gathered together in the years of our shared spiritual journey.

  • She expanded my perception of the spiritual to include the visual arts. We began by using the sand tray, a tool from Jungian psychology which helps the seeker choose objects in her own arrangement that reflect the journey of the soul. I did not feel at all adept in this exercise, but I did begin to see that the material world could be an outer image of my interior one. Then as I risked trying to express my soul in collage, she encouraged me enthusiastically often pointing out things that I had not observed about where my heart was.
  • She did not use the word Grace freely, but for me, she embodied it. Her welcoming presence, her compassionate listening, her gentle course correction when I got tangled up in my own frenzy, sadness and despair, were all manifestations of the Grace of the Holy One. After a life full of experienced judging and criticism, I found a place of Spirit where I was my longings for the Holy One were accepted just the way they  were; she offered more compassion for me than I was able to have for myself.
  • She was generous with her time, her space and her resources. Often after we met she would follow up with a notation on something we had pondered about together or readily loaned a book or resource. I never felt hurried or rushed in her presence, except by my own tight agenda.
  • She exemplified for me what a spiritual director actually was, not someone who “directed,” but someone who accompanied me as my life unfolded, and helped my see how the Spirit might be at work in and through me.
  • She trusted the Holy One implicitly and explicitly, and knew that “all will be well, all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” When my mother died, she was able to companion me in a way that both acknowledged the loss and gave hope for the days ahead. When I wrestled with the unknowing future, she brought a serenity rooted to the Spirit that allowed me to rest in the unknowing.

She often remarked on the fact that we were two Elizabeths seeking a spiritual path in the Christian tradition together. And in her loss I have peace as I mourn in the words of the Elizabeth in the gospel of Luke, who when entrusted with the momentous event in the life of her cousin Mary who was to be the Christ-bearer, sang with joy: Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of that which was spoken to her by the Lord. (Luke 1:45). Betsy believed that she was in the hands of the Holy One in all parts of her life, and her belief nurtured and nourished my belief. When I sit on my couch each morning, I will believe that Betsy’s life here has been fulfilled, and is still being fulfilled in my own. I am grateful!

 

 

 

Coming Into A Clearing

21 Thursday Jan 2016

Posted by in listening, Mindfulness, Mystery, opening my mind, paying attention, Spirit, wisdom

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HuntingtonDogBeach

The big pressures of the Season are over, and even though there continues to be much to do, I feel as if I can pause to take a breath. I have been doing a great deal of reading about “mindfulness,” and listening to a multitude of voices who speak from their experiences about what this practice does for, in and through them. In attempting to participate in the practices about which I read, however, I find that they are not intuitive to me, or easy to get the hang of.

This break in the liturgical year between Epiphany and Lent does give me space to try to practice some ways of mindfulness. The calendar is not quite so event-filled, the deadlines have been met for the time being, and the sales forces are losing a little of their steam. I can be a little less in a hurry, a little gentler in my intention, and more expansive in my gaze.  Susan Phillips in her book, The Cultivated Life, (IVP,2014), when speaking of mindfulness for someone on a faith quest, says this: The praying person enters the silence, pays attention to what’s on her heart, and then directs attention to God, aided by the text and the community.” (116)

I am attempting to take that pause, to allow this change of pace to be more mindful and attentive. On a trip to the section of beach where dogs can roam free, accompanied by my grandson, husband and wild dog Max, in the crispness and quiet, I sit shivering, but still, captured by the juxtaposition of motion and stasis: rolling waves, calm ocean farther out; dark mass of clouds softening into promising light; intrepid surfers and quiet watchers. How do I attend to Holy Presence in this moment?

I begin with gratefulness–for being here in this moment to behold the beauty of the Creator in wave, sky and sand; to delight in the weaving of grand-boy, grandfather and dog, up and down the strand; for living in proximity to ocean and mountain both; for ample time to take a day to celebrate the birthday of this unique grandchild, with a love for creatures and a longing to wander untethered in as much wilderness as he can inhabit.

Then with the prayer, Loving God, here I am, I turn my heart to questions for clarity: what do you want me to know? where do you want me to be? how shall I do the next right thing? I experience these prayers as seeds being sown in the garden of my heart, to be brought to fruition when the time in right. For the moment I need only to offer them, and sit with the panorama of Light and Dark before me, and wait. Like the roses in my garden behind and as the irises in my garden in front, the flowering of answers will appear in due season.

The next morning I am in a sanctuary preparing for worship. I am sitting with my husband, there is powerful music, stained glass, and a welcoming liturgy. But first to get quiet. I find that  I routinely need to do things: rest in the truth that I am now a “person in the pew” not a worship leader, and that I need to recycle all the Grace that was extended to me by letting go of any bits and bobs of critique I might carry forward from my years of experience as pastor; then, I need to remind myself that I am gathered here with the people of God in worship of the Mystery we call God, even though I don’t have deep friendships or feel connected. I am ready now to pray, Loving God, here I am, and to see what how the Spirit will catch my attention and nourish my thirsty soul. Will it be words of a new hymn? will it be the reading of the Word by a sweet and adept 10 year old? will it be a line from the Word preached, a cadence sung by the alto soloist, an invitation to participate in the healing of the world close by? I tune my hearts to listen.

The next challenge will be to bring my practice of mindfulness to a committee meeting. Will I be able to lay aside my resistances, my anxieties, my critical spirit long enough to be quiet, pray again Loving God, here I am, and then listen for what prompts the Spirit brings to me: is this a time to speak, to refer to my past experience, to jump into the fray or this is a time to call of the Spirit ot “set a seal on my mouth,” to listen to the deliberations with an open heart, while praying for the common good for all of us gathered?

“Thou will keep her in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee…”  Isaiah 26:3

Loving God, here I am, make me mindful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freed to be Free

04 Tuesday Aug 2015

Posted by in Discernment, freedom, Spirit

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Freedomstatue I recently found the first sermon I ever preached to a congregation, over 30 years ago. It was called “Freed to be Free,” based on Galatians 5, and I preached it on a summer Sunday when all the regular church staff was away. I was in seminary, had had no preaching classes, just trying to imitate what I had always heard from the pulpit. I am not sure why I was preaching on that text, because I didn’t know much about the lectionary at that stage of my learning. But as I re-read it, I could see clearly that the call to freedom in my spiritual journey was compelling and urgent for me. And the call to a journey of freedom in the Spirit still compels and invites me.

I began to wonder how I have lived into the FREEDOM that is called me so deeply when I first preached on it. I see how careful I was, coming from whence I came, being sure not to allow for uncontrolled license, or to confuse FREEDOM with “doing what comes naturally.” I felt is necessary to speak a cautionary word about anger and self-centeredness, but I was not able to anticipate the ways in which I would become free on my journey of Spirit.

This past month, I have found myself unable to write anything. And maybe that was the FREEDOM I needed–no self-imposed deadlines, no internal pressure to find meaning or something meaningful, no meeting my own carefully crafted intentions. Maybe I needed to listen to the Word that came to me when I was on retreat, which was to “Just stop!” I am at a delicious location in life, where in most ways, I can do just that–stop, let it all go for awhile. And so I have. This July I have completed no projects, no ambitions, not even many lists of to-dos.

But I have been and still am  continually musing on how, when and where I am living in the freedom for which Christ made me free:

  • I am free to remember and marinate in, maybe even to trust, that there is nothing that can separate me from the Love of God.
  • I am free to love and appreciate my person that God created–body, mind and spirit.
  • I am free without fear to allow the Spirit to gentle and guide me through whatever means She chooses: sources from my own tradition, those of other traditions, using words or no words.
  • I am free to love those that are brought to me whether or not we seem to have things in common or whether we agree on anything.
  • I am free to let go of judgement of another person’s motives and behaviors, while holding one to my own beliefs and convictions.
  • I am free to speak and act for justice and mercy for those who have no voice or agency or protection.
  • I am free to bring my gifts and talents to the communities in which I dwell, and free to say “no” when the call does not have my name on it.
  • I am free to trust my own discernment about where and when the Spirit is inviting me to show up; to quote a beloved teacher, “The need does not constitute the call.”
  • I am free to enter into the deep waters of forgiveness–offering it, asking for it, receiving it–and then “letting it go.” This is applies even when musing on my own failures and shortcomings.
  • I am free to give thanks for the abundances of my life–people who have loved and are still loving me, places I have dwelt where I experienced Holy Presence, moments of “kairos” time, where I with others recognized that surely God was in that place.
  • I am free to continue to be a growing up, all the days I am given to live, not ever needing to call a halt to the practices of Spirit that deepen my understanding of the Holy and how I am called to live and move in the moment.

My understanding of God’s freedom for and in me keeps growing…I keep being set free; I am banking of the words of Jesus from the book of John: If the Son makes you free, you will be free indeed. May it be so!

Becalmed: Longing for Wind

29 Monday Jun 2015

Posted by in paying attention, Spirit, waiting

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I ventured out to my annual personal retreat last week, hoping to meet Simages-2pirit in all her personae of dove, fire and wind to ignite in me the energy I need both for myself and for those to whom I am called. I arrived at my familiar place (although there were plenty of personnel changes), settled in to a known room (although my favorite was already occupied), entered into well-tried practices to arriving, attending and resting. I walked, I read, I prayed, I listened, and in the first hours I felt the filling begin–no one else to react to, nothing on my to do list, no place to drive, no food to prepare. My brain and heart began to take notes, glad for the spacious interstices between impressions and insights. And then the energy stopped!

I am not sure what had happened. There was evening conversation around the table. There was problematic material in the book I am considering. There was a writing style that unnerved rather than reassured. There was lots of maintenance and construction noise in the surrounding neighborhood. However, as I checked in with my own heart, I noticed that I was becalmed, nothing was flowing and moving ahead. What had begun in energy now lay flat and still. I came to an awareness that even thought I had consciously intended to “come apart and rest for awhile,” another part of me was highly invested in achieving something on this retreat–setting an agenda, working a problem, moving on up a little higher with God.

But I was out of ideas and energy. So I put a stop to my Achiever in order to wait…and I discovered that the Spirit was still moving–in my breath. Breathe on me, Holy Spirit; breathe in me, Breath of God. Evening was falling, light fading, sounds diminishing. And I breathed–breathing out the clutter, breathing in Spirit. Over the next hours I kept reminding my self of the Breath, keeping me alive, even when I was not “accomplishing” anything. Jesus’ words, Come apart and rest awhile, reminded me that one thing was necessary for me, as it was for Mary–to listen to and for the Wind of the Spirit, even when it came in ways that were not Bright Red, or Aero-dynamic or High-Flying. The Sound of Sheer Silence was enough for now.

Over the remaining hours I had set aside, I rested, tuned into the moment in my body and in my mind, trusting that what I needed would be provided when I needed it. Into the rest I continue to take in and expel the Breath of the Spirit, to follow its lead, to let it propel me where it willed. I discovered a forgotten resource for my planning in the trunk of my car. I discarded one vista for another that took me into a peace garden full of Sadako’s cranes surrounding an infinity pool. I prayed for rain in our parched climate where the creek is no longer flowing. I sifted through images that spoke to me of gardens, of grief, of letting go, of loving. I savored poems of beloved poets who continue to feed and nourish my spirit. I drank peppermint iced tea, awaiting me in the pantry. I engaged in appropriate conversation with other retreatants when the time was right. And out of that rest I was led to some sacred texts in books that i had already discarded that had a Word for me in that moment.

When it was time to leave, I was ready. But I had no outline, no calendar, no assignments for people; nor did I have insightful imagining into my own questions and musings. Yet, I had experienced the rest that comes from standing down from even my unconscious lists of “to-dos” and trusting in the freedom that the Breath of the God brings, even, maybe especially when we are out of the energy we generate out of ourselves. I met and was met by the Spirit of Christ, and She set me free.

…where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom!           2 Cor. 3:17

Longing for Water

04 Thursday Jun 2015

Posted by in refreshment, renewal, Spirit

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images-2My senses are alert to water! It is summer, the season where I always imagine that refreshment is coming. Ocean, lakes, rivers beckon me to immersion, nourishment and respite.

Yet, my soul is aware of its own dryness.  Maybe it is mirroring the California environment, drought plagued, with wistful longings for El Nino and desalinization projects. Or it may be reflecting the Church in its seemingly endless fights and posturing for power. And what could be more arid than the hue and cry about the premature race for the presidential election next year, in which we cannot trust a word or a character than comes splashing out of the next news cycle? I long for clear fresh water that cleanses, satisfies, and hydrates my spirit.

I have been calling on spiritual images from sacred text and song to give me hope and to dwell in the part of the Mystery that slakes my thirst. I remember my friend at the well in John 4, whose dessicated habits separated her from neighbor and from herself. Yet she got herself to that watering place that noon, and met One who embedded in her “a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4: 14). In that spring which he gave her, she met the Holy and she met herself.

So I am trying to notice where the Living Water is located for me in this summer season.

I am finding it in a usual watering hole of reading, primarily sacred reading. Right now I am reading slowly in four different strands of faith: a book of theology on perichoresis by long-time friend of my youth, Dr. Charles Twombly–which prods the ancient boulders of my seminary study into letting trickles of awareness through; a book on Church History about the Beguines, a lay movement of women in Europe in the 13th and 14th centuries, whose story enriches the encouragement I see in 21st Century women all around the world; a book on gratitude by a Mennonite woman in the South with six children who is seeking to live more thankfully; and, possibly most close to my own drying up in aging, a book of reflections by Marilyn Chandler McIntyre, written as if she were a person of faith who had been given a brief amount of time to live. Each of these streams bathes my spirit, delights or challenges, and refreshes my fevered brow.

I find living water from writers and speakers who speak good news to the broken places, to the misinformation that teems around the communication channels. Just this morning I read a cleansing word from someone who had been mightily betrayed by his colleagues who spoke with clarity and graciousness and peace, and another who brought a perspective of gospel to a new flash that the clamoring twitters had missed altogether. Healing streams indeed!

I am also allowing non-verbal springs to replenish my dryness. The iris, the butterflies and the humming birds are like little rivulets of God’s grace through my window. The harmonies of contemporary composers like Stephen Paulus, Arvo Part and Eric Whitacre ripple with waves of hope and faith that fill the parched places in my soul. Paintings–old and new–spark both my remembrance of the faithfulness of the Holy One, while at the same time they cast a vision of what could be, of what is promised.

And I am finding that the my own practice of offering Presence in the lives of those who are suffering keeps my own heart juices flowing. E-mails, snail-mail cards, phone calls, monetary contributions which I send, all remind me that there is Living Water to be received and recycled to others, despite my felt creakiness and aridity. Just showing up in those ways sends my roots rain, as T.S. Eliot prayed.

My summer pump can be primed by flowing Grace if it is trusted and used. This morning these words came to me from The Wisdom of Ben Sirach, a non-canonical pre-Christian source of ethical sayings, speaking of the Holy One:

As a mother shall she meet him…/with the Bread of Understanding shall she feed him,/ And give him the Water of Wisdom to drink. (15-2-3)

May I find that water for my soul and for our world!