Tag Archives: Lent

Lent: Giving Up and Letting Go

06 Wednesday Mar 2019

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I have really wrestled with discerning a Lenten practice this year. I had thought that I would “give up” certain things in my eating habits this Lent, although in other Lents, I more often have added things–works of charity and love, connections, extra giving. However, as today got nearer and nearer, I was increasingly uneasy about that the “giving up” choice, since what I long for in a practice is a window to connecting with the Holy One, not a obligatory box to check off to demonstrate my piety. Through night prayers and tossing and turning, I asked myself what right now seems to be blocking my spirit and freedom to receive and enfold the gifts of God. I had to own that what gets in my way many mornings and nights is my habit of hanging on to the negative, judgemental and toxic, and not allow the good, the hopeful and affirming to enrich my life. Therefore, even though it will be healthy to make dietary changes, that action does not point me to the Mystery we call God. So, back to the Lenten sketch pad!

In the wee hours of the morning these old familiar words from Psalm 37 bubbled up out of my darkness. Take delight in the Lord, and God will give you the desires of your heart.” (V. 4) The challenge to TAKE DELIGHT struck a deep chord in my heart. Instead of prying my hand open to let go of an unhealthy habit, I was being invited to turn my hand upward to receive the delights that the Holy has for me, even the love and affirmation that God has for who I am, just the way I am. I checked with my favorite paraphrase of the Psalm from Swallow’s Nest by Marchienne Vroon Rienstra, and see that she expands that thought even more generously: If you delight yourself in God/ She will give you the desires of your heart…She will make your integrity shine like the daylight/, your beauty glow like the moon and the sun. 

So I begin this Lenten season. these 40 days, with a lighter and more open heart, with the question: where do I experience the delight of God–in me. in my location, even in the world? And noticing it, let my heart praise what I see, and then share that good news with those around me? In the words of Mary Oliver: Pay attention, Be astonished, Tell about it.  I understand this invitation to be not one of passivity, but of an energy that takes me from sharpened awareness to deep heart praise, to active sharing of goodness with a world that is desperate for hope, healing and grace. 





My heart is grateful for the Midnight Caller, the Spirit that brings illumination even in my darkness. May the Lenten journey be one of deepening, widening, opening and trusting for me and all of us! 






		

			

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A Mixed Up Lent
										

			24
			Saturday
			Feb 2018
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in body, darkness, Lent, Light, presence, Uncategorized		

		

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I am upside down and all turned around this Lent! On the one hand, there are all the traditional calls to introspection (not not too much), to repentance (but not too harsh!), to giving up and self-denial (but doing no harm!). On the other hand, I hear the calls to act, to affirm, to resist, to look for the places where the Light can get in. It did not help me that on Ash Wednesday, the liturgy and focus of which is very clear, it was also Valentine’s Day, for me the anniversary of my first date with my lifetime Beloved, and we were celebrating with sweetness and grace. To add to the confusion was the unbelievable act of terror and violence in Parkland, Florida, not far from where one of my beloveds goes to college. And there was the outpouring of unfiltered opinions and screeds that followed publicly in the aftermath. So where do I plant myself this Lenten season?


I also live in a body with ups and downs, among a people whose bodies have ups and downs. Will I know on a particular day whether I have enough sleep to be able to set out on my Lenten intentions? Will the diagnostic test take me in a different direction than I planned? Will the pernicious and virulent viruses and bacteria swirling around this year pass by me by or land in my throat? On a mundane and frivolous level, what should  I plan to wear day to day–sackcloth and ashes or my dancing shoes?


I have hunkered down to what is basic. Each day I am asking myself: what does my soul need? To stay alive, to go deep, to become closer to the intention of the Holy for me today! And I ask myself: where am I encountering Joy? In breath itself, in creation, in the “littles,” and in the hearts, voices and bodies of those who live their truths unwaveringly. Sacred text grounds me in the constancy of the Holy One; poetry challenges me to find new language for what I believe and continue to believe; mystery stories amuse, divert and give me rest. My soul is refueled with energy and imagination, as I count not only blessings, but wonder and truth and grace.


Then, I am trying to see what the the day holds: a phone call, a change of plans, a lunch re-connection, some quiet reading, a trip to the doctor, a meeting. In each of those I am bringing a consciousness of Holy Spirit accompanying me, nudging me, illuminating me, holding me back. Some days it is a time to share Love–with snacks and coloring, with recommending a book, with listening. Some days it is a day to weep and mourn–with those who weep, with our children, for the grief of the world.


The Singer of Psalms knew the dilemmas: “My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors./Let your face shone upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love.” (31:15-16). So each day I awake–rummaging around for soul food, catching the joy as it flies. Either way, whatever I am called to wear, to do, to sing, my heart and schedule are in Loving Hands. For this Lent, ending on another mixed metaphor–Easter and April Fool’s Day–that is enough!



        
    

					


	





	

								
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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Points of Hope: Signs and Symbols
										

			24
			Friday
			Mar 2017
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in beauty, grace, joy, Lent, paying attention		

		

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Even though the Lenten journey is a serious one, leading to an intense Holy Week, I am also looking for signs and symbols that point me to hope along the way. Because Lent and Easter are so late in the calendar year this year, the days are accompanied by the signs of spring, even in our supposedly “season-less” Southern California.


My irises in the drought resistant garden are thriving, especially with the unusual rainfall. There has been a constant parade of beautiful blooms beginning in Advent (white) and continuing on with Lent, all purple, four come and gone, four to about to burst forth. The liquid amber tree and the fig tree next door have tender green leaves and shoots multiplying each day. The ornamental plum tree and the peach tree are showing their tiny flowers. All of them remind me that after the winter, after rain, after the Great Grayness there is Hope. The Creator has made each thing beautiful in its own time.


Another sign of hope has been discoveries of missing things. In my clearing out and de-cluttering, I have found things that I believed to have vanished–some pairs of socks, a quotation that I had written out on a card with decoration, some pairs of old shoes. I am reminded, even in the simple nature of the retrievals, that with the Holy One, nothing is lost, there are no final defeats. Hope can spring up.


Some signs locate me. Some creative people in the neighborhood painted the power boxes on many corners with folk art, reminding us of who we are, where we are, a gathering of people from many nations, places and beginnings. And we are people who in proximity to the freeway are people on the go, working, traveling, walking the dog. It is important to me as I journey, not to forget where I am grounded, where I am heading and whence I have come.


In the providential movement of this season, I have been engrossed by three memoirs, chosen without intentional theme, that have reflected to me a part of my beginnings that still shape me, but from which I have moved. Each writer comes from a different place than I have geographically, and each one is younger, but we have in common a shared religious heritage that gave us great gifts and enormous challenges. As I watch and listen to each voice, I am filled with hope. Thought there have been moments of pain, or disorientation, of wandering without a map, each woman has found her spiritual center, her place of belonging and her traveling mercies. I have found joyful hope in locating myself at points on each journey, and sharing moment  of  Grace.


I am finding that Lent is not only solemn and gray, but is also alive with reminders that Light and Darkness together are part of our human pilgrimage. This year it is profoundly important for me to remember that here on earth, although there is tremendous grief and suffering, there is also the whimsy, laughter, cheer, surprise of hope that manifests itself, sometimes daily–in the smile of the server, the grace of the responsive leader, the compassion of the helper, the delight of the discoverer, the unfettered laughter of old friends, remembering the way we were, and how it is Grace that has led us safely this far. I have taken on as a Lenten practice to look for those signs.


I am reminded of an old Brian Andreas drawing in which the angel appears to him in tights, he laughs and then knows that when signs appear, if there is no laughter in them, they are not for him. Nor are they for me. And neither are they for me if there is no Grace, no Joy, no Hope. On our way through Holy Week I am like the faithful one singing Psalm 126 of Ascent: ..our mouths were filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy…the Lord has done great things for us, as well as small ones, in tiny but unmistakable signs. In Lent, I can rejoice.


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Points of Detour: Roadblocks
										

			16
			Thursday
			Mar 2017
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Lent, paying attention, waiting		

		

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Some days the Lenten journey is frustrating. I set out to do something, and there is construction on the street. I go to pay for something, and the computer is down. I send a note of good cheer, and it is returned to me, “Addressee Unknown.”  And sometimes all of those things happen in one day! What does that tell me about my attempts to pay attention to the sanctuary that God can give and that I aspire to be?


My attention gets turned to the Psalms, and how often they challenge me to wait.


I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, in God’s word I hope./My soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. (Psalm 130:5,6)


The roadblock, the detour is an opportunity to wait for the Holy. These past six months of recovery and restoration from surgery and a fall have given me ample opportunity to wait–for healing, for test results, for new ways to re-engage with life as I was used to it. I will admit that I am not always fond of waiting. I much prefer to imagine a kind of Wonder Woman progress that swoops up into the adventuresome task and gets immediate results. But the waiting, the detours and roadblocks have given me some gifts as well.


They have focused my attention on the immediate moment, and led me to ask, “What is here in front of me–both to enjoy and to care for?” I have watched enriching TV that I didn’t know was there. I have spoken to people about uncharted territory, and learned things about my being and the mysterious world of created humanity that I never would have discovered. I have practiced small movements, prayed small prayers, celebrated tiny successes that heretofore I would have swept by. I have learned AGAIN that my worth to the Holy and to those I am given to love is not in how much I accomplish, produce and deliver, but in just being who I am, as transparent and as open as I can be, everything that I was meant to be in the moment.


The hold-ups also direct my attention to others that I might miss if I am zooming about my intended agenda too quickly. While slowing for construction, I wonder if if I have taken time to pray for those who are doing the demanding and dangerous work. If I am delayed by technical difficulties at a counter, can I feel compassion for the one who is trying to sort it out? As I meet the seemingly unending array of caregivers in doctors’ offices, am I a person who notices names and faces, and treats each one with respect and interest, while still asking clearly for what I need? And as I “wait for the Lord,” where does my heart rest in trusting that wisdom and wholeness will come?


So it appears that part of my Lenten journey is attending to the waiting, the already but not yet, things hoped for but not yet seen. The waiting is a place of looking close up, of listening deeply and of opening myself to see how the Holy will appear and in what guise. It is not wasted time, but another gift.


Help me in the waiting times, O Holy One. 


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Sanctuary: A Place of Shelter
										

			01
			Wednesday
			Mar 2017
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Lent, listening, peace, sanctuary, shelter		

		

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czium_dozskabh7kasn21ndm7o8edvhd284hczzaxq3ezlbztzjhjl7vpc8fgfeabrm17as128I experienced sanctuary this past week, and what I found there was shelter: shelter from the torrential rains we were having, shelter from the hot desert sun in between storms, but primarily I found shelter in safety to be and to say whatever I was feeling and thinking. Friends created for us a safe space, where we could listen or speak, sleep or eat when the time was right for us, and be silent or enter a fascinating conversation in which we tried to resolve our wrestling, with curiosity and respect.


Sanctuary that sheltered occurred again later in the week when over a long nourishing supper, one guest poured out a heart of despair over the state of the universe, global and personal, and the listeners heard, received and offered themselves in response. No fixes, no remedies, just shelter from the stormy assaults of irresponsible, manipulative and abusive rhetoric that is characteristic of so much common parlance these days.


In the 1960’s a feature of the upheaval we lived through was given voice in rock music. Mick Jagger sang, “Gimme Shelter,” and Bob Dylan begged for “shelter from the storm.” In the church tradition in which i was raised, we used to sing “Jesus is a rock in a weary land, a shelter in the time of storm.” However, none of the singers–rock or congregation–ever imagined that the shelter of sanctuary was a permanent abiding place. The sanctuary that sheltered was a a way station, an oasis, a place of protective replenishment, on the way to plunge back into the madding crowd.


There is a way that the Lenten season is a shelter because it focuses me and contains me on an inward journey to be walked with Jesus. My attention each morning, beginning today when I wear the cross, asks me to pay attention and to act from a place of deep trust in my belonging to God; how does that identity both ground and shelter me and propel me to action in the world? Both the inward and the outward movements, claiming my spiritual identity and from that center, shining the Light on the darkness around us gives me sanctuary, comfort and energy.


So I will shelter in sanctuary in very small and undramatic ways. I will read from sacred texts, walk the labyrinth and sing songs that remind me that I am both “frail and glorious,” as Sister Macrina tells me. I will clear a space in my dwelling which has become cluttered, making room for Spirit. And I will pray with Bread for the World for the hungry ones, gather clothes for those who need them, and wear a pin designed by my friend Kris Haig that tells those I meet, “You are safe with me!” It does not seem like much, but in the practiced ritual of Lent, I am given shelter–respite, identity, protection–that empowers me for whatever lies beyond.


My prayer is that in that claiming of myself and my call in ministry during Lent, I will become a better and better sanctuary for those who need a listening ear, a place to rest, an infusion of beauty, a reassurance that the Light is  and will be still shining.

In our new hymnal there is a song introduced to me a few years ago by a group of young people, committed to working for peace and justice in our world. It is my prayer today: Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary for you. (John Thompson and Randy Scruggs)


The photo is of a cottage at Findhorn Foundation in Moray, Scotland.


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Holy Week: The Lorica
										

			24
			Thursday
			Mar 2016
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in blessing, Holy Week, music, peace, prayer, presence		

		

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The last practice from Joyce Rupp that I am observing this holy season is repeating the “lorica,” a Celtic prayer attributed to St. Patrick, invoked for protection and mindfulness. Last week on St. Patrick’s Day my inbox was filled with images and versions of that prayer, in calligraphy, icon and song. I knew that I was going to pray it myself this week, so I enjoyed the diversity of forms that were shared.  From the extended prayer, I especially like these parts:


I arise today with the strength of God to comfort me, the might of God to uphold me, the wisdom of God to guide me…


Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ with me, Christ within me, Christ around me, Christ about me, Christ on my left, Christ on my right…Christ in the heart of everyone that thinks of me, Christ in each mouth that speaks of me, Christ in each eye that sees me, Christ in each one that hears me. 


The cadence and the tempo of the prayer ground me in my present moment, who I am right now, and from whence my help comes. But the image of a lorica is an armored breastplate–from medieval times, metal, sturdy impenetrable. Whether it is too remote by centuries or location or I am not a military type, I don’t find that image helpful. Nor, as I looked through books of painting and sculptures of Christ at the end of his life, did I find one that represented the sense on presence and protection that the lorica gives me. Then I  remembered that for several decades I have always carried with me a postcard of Rembrandt’s “Christ in the Storm.” The painting was stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum many years ago, but before it was stolen, I was able to see it hanging there. The painting is huge, impressive, compelling. From the first glance I was captivated by it–the contrast of light and dark, the characters of fear and confusion, and in half-light down toward the right of the painting is Jesus asleep in the boat. The image of the sleeping, yet powerful Christ, stays with me, especially when my own “rough seas” seem to be gigantic and overwhelming. No matter what, I can trust the One who is at rest because he knows that all will be well, and at the right moment, he will rise and say, “Peace, be still,” to the madness, the wreckage, the terror that swirls around me, that swirls in our systems of work and connection, that swirls in the chaotic world.


So in these last days of Lent and Holy Week, I wake each morning saying the words of the Lorica, keeping in the eye of my heart the Christ whose knowledge and power and grace will bring all things to wholeness in the fullness of time.


May Christ guard me today from poison and fire, from drowning and wounding, so my mission may bear fruit in abundance.




 


I prefer my image of Jesus from Rembrandt to the art in this youtube from the Celtic Women, but the song with the words helps me in my planting myself at peace with Jesus in the boat. May each of you have holy days of trust and peace despite the raging of the storm and the roiling of the waters!

					


	





	

								
Lent 5: A Time of Silence
										

			16
			Wednesday
			Mar 2016
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in Lent, listening, Mindfulness, silence, Uncategorized		

		

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After all the words read and said in my Lenten practices this year, Joyce Rupp invites me to observe a time of silence and solitude each day. What does the silence bring me?


    

  • a slowing down of my breathing
    • 

  • a clearing of my space of external noise, a choice for me to unplug and shut down what creates babble
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  • a lens through which to notice the gifts of creation around me–the first rose in bloom, the sprout from the succulent in the box by the gazebo, the hummingbird and the pair of romping squirrels, the endless forming and re-forming of clouds
    • 

  • an inner word to anchor my reflection; today, once again, it was GRACE
    • 

  • a space in which to spread and to sort all the pieces of my daily life, my memories of past adventures and hopes for the unknown and unfolding future
    • 

  • an ear by which to listen to what comes to me from the Spirit–for today, for those closest to me, for creation, for all people everywhere
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  • a tangible connection to all others who long for and seek the Holy in all places around the world
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  • a context for understanding and hoping in prayer for the broken world that God loves and that I try to love
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  • one more encounter with the Mystery we call God, ephemeral, real, numinous, in that slowed down breathing, closer than my own breath.
    • 



Thomas Keating says, The root of prayer is interior silence.


I pray in this final week of Lent that what I choose for my exterior practice becomes a reality in my interior heart.


 

					


	





	

								
Lent 4: Love of Wisdom
										

			11
			Friday
			Mar 2016
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in discovery, Lent, paying attention, peace, sacred reading, wisdom		

		

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It might have been said of me, “She is too fond of books, and it has addled her brain.” This quip attributed to Louisa May Alcott certainly captures my best pleasure or best vice, depending on one’s point of view. I am and have been an avid reader since I was four years old. So when Joyce Rupp suggests that in this fourth week of Lent we attend to a love of learning and wisdom by reading spiritual books, I dive in eagerly.


Her suggestion makes me ask some questions not only about what I am reading, but how I read them. Because I am a rapid reader, I can often read without being very careful about every words and nuance. Yet, for this kind of reading I need to slow down, maybe even with the rhythm I use in lectio divina, reading slowly enough to let a word shimmer for me, then meditate with it, pray with it, let it sink into the marrow of my soul. I am prone, I confess, to spiritual “obesity,” reading or gathering as much as I can without letting the full nourishing value reach into the places in me that long for transformation. So in the books that are coming to me of late, I have been invited to read more slowly, pay closer attention, and to let there be space in between intakes, even doing some written reflection on what I am reading and learning, seeking what the invitation there might be for me.


I find myself profoundly grateful to live in a time when so many sources of wisdom are so freely accessible to all. Between the old resources like libraries and newspapers and the newer ones on electronic media, I am never without wisdom at hand, at least on one hand or the other. So in this season I have been touched by memoirs of the dying and those growing older, of those in seminary, of those on the front line caring for others. I have been challenged by theologians, from my own tradition and other traditions; on my stack of books awaiting me is the papal encyclical on the environment, Laudato Si’. I am accompanied by spiritual writers, again from many traditions, from many places in the world, from many location in our own country; I have seen that spiritual practice often has a different face in snowbound or rural settings, far away from my Southern California urban life. Novels continue to touch me, particularly those whose central character seem to be on a quest for touching, feeling, loving the Mystery. And, the dessert course to almost every meal is the poetry, whether it is Malcolm Guite, Jan Richardson, Denise Levertov or Lucille Clifton. The wisdom that lies in the language of the poet touches deeply, lasts long.


I have also had a shocking encounter with an old realization about reading this week in this practice. I am an avid collector of lists of “bests” in reading from magazines and blogs, copy them down, often ordering them on the basis of recommendation only, rather than discerning whether or not they might be a fit for me, for my journey thus far, for my particular sensibilities and ways of knowing. Over my journey I have come to know a great deal about myself, especially what builds me up, what nurtures me and challenges me, and also what diverts or oppresses me. Some events that are reminiscent of past wounds and scars, some language that is punitive and exclusionary, some tones that are arrogant and condemnatory, even if the writer’s intention is pure, are writings that do more harm than good to my spirit. My own wisdom can be a discerning voice, were I to listen to it. This week I didn’t!  I picked up a book from a list and forced myself to read it all the way through, even though a few pages in, I knew it was not good for me. My reading resulted in nightmares, a very infrequent occurrence at this point in my life. Had I listened to Lady Wisdom, I could have prevented that fear and anxiety.  That very good book wasn’t wisdom to me.


I love the quest for wisdom. I take to heart again the words from the book of James:


The wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace. (James 3: 17-18)


As I seek wisdom this week, I will also seek the things that make for peace.


 


 

					


	





	

								
Lent 2: Discovering the Goodness of Creation
										

			23
			Tuesday
			Feb 2016
		

	
	

		

			Posted  by  in beauty, creation, discovery, earth, Lent, Mystery		

		

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As I continue to follow the recommendations of the reflections of Joyce Rupp, I am practicing another the emphases of Celtic spirituality this week–discovering the goodness of Creation. She suggests “listening to creation,” pausing to look at what you see, finding something new to you, and letting creation reveal its deeper meaning. This is much more challenging to me than last week’s call to see God’s presence in the ordinary, in my case blessing each of my children morning and night. I seem, either by nature or nurture, to need to work at connecting with creation.


I have been working hard at trying to engage what Calvin calls the “second book of revelation,” the natural world, and so this invitation to a focused practice is welcome, though not easy. However, I have received a gift that has made the practice more central in this past year which is the installation and blossoming of a drought-resistant garden in our front yard. We chose to embark upon this project for practical reasons: the merciless drought in Southern California has frightened and threatened us all. We have been given standards by which we need to decrease our water usage, and have been seeking ways to be good stewards of the water we do have. The garden took longer to install and cost more than we first estimated, despite the rebate that came from the state government. Yet what has developed where our lawn used to be is a constantly unfolding display of wonder and beauty. Under the tutelage of the marvelous Merilee, a garden designer, we were able to create and execute a garden that not only saves water for our parched land, but gives us examples of the ways that God’s mercies are new every morning, much to our surprise.


It begins in the dark. It is full of surprise. I am never sure when I go to bed at night what I will find in the morning that has blossomed. During Advent our purple bearded iris on the south patch kept us entranced with a new bloom almost every day, a continual parade of glory from one violet sentinel to the next. Now in Lent the white iris on the north side sheltered by the salvia has begun the same array, one blossom per day; is it marching us toward Easter?


The variety seems infinite. Just when I think I have noticed each plant and flower, another one emerges in shape and color utterly different than the one next to it. What are those little neon green capsules all in a row? What are those tall drapy red leaves in a bush? What color are those tiny florets hiding behind that prominent plant? Creation, when I focus my attention, has more manifestations of beauty and design than I can count.


I continue to be challenged by beauty. I have long known that I am “buoyed by beauty,” a phrase that I read in a narrative describing my beloved isle and community of Iona in Scotland. But my own little clusters of drought-resistant plants in front of my house keeps expanding my definition of what beauty is–not only vivid color, now only shapely fronds, not only striking succulents–but odd outcroppings, angular leaves and open patches are beautiful too. And how glad it makes me.


This week I am taking care to observe–truly, madly, deeply–the creative array that proliferates in my front yard, and ask myself how this reveals the Holy One to me. Calvin teaches me that there is much about the Mystery that can become known in creation. I am hoping that is discovering the goodness that is there, I will also have a deeper intimation of the goodness of God.


Personal photo from front garden.