Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” John 20: 24b The closest thing I've experienced to what I've been feeling in the past couple of days is the first part of a triathlon. We swim. Hundreds of us. Together. In all three of the tris I've participated in have been lake swimming. Truly I can't imagine an ocean. We take-off in human waves. 25 or 50 souls. Really it doesn't much matter. It's a gaggle. We all hit the water at about the same time. And bam. Three times out of three times, I've panicked. Full-on panicked. Folks who have been doing tris for years call it the fight/flight thing. It's real. It takes your breath away. What I've learned is the importance of gathering myself. Slowing down. And focusing on just the next thing. Perhaps my fear is partially rooted in haste. Perhaps I am caught up in all the uncertainty and unknowing, and so much of my life experience has been to hurry and scurry and figure "it" out. Whatever "it" is - figure it out. No matter how big and looming and impossibly complicated - do something. There is a madness in this, a breath-taking energy-suck that leads to run full out in a random direction heading for an unestablished finish line. Or perhaps my fear is that so much is unknown. It's hard to order my life these days. Plans I was counting on are being changed with no clear notion of how anything can be rescheduled. Not being with the people I'm used to seeing, people I love is heartbreaking. I’m drawn to this text because Jesus’ friends are in a locked room. I’m there. I know for me what that might have felt like for them. It is that running down the steps into the storm shelter before the winds blow through and life as you know it is changed forever. It is that kind of locked room. Many of us are in that kind of space and place these days. The life that his friends had known, the world as-they-knew-it was changed forever. It is in that room and that moment. And Jesus enters. “Peace be with you.” Perhaps what makes these words so very powerful to me is that he knew. Somehow, he knew the words that could melt their worst fears, could dry their fresh tears, could enter into their hearts in both the gentlest and strongest way – Peace be with you. It is to this time and to this place that these words come today. Not as a declaration, “all manner of things will be well.” Or, “be not afraid.” Or “don’t worry, be happy.” Instead, it is as simple and as full as this: “peace be with you.” Somehow the locked door is no longer locked, I am no longer holding my breath, I am no longer curling myself inward until there is little left of me. Instead, I turn and return to the one who lived his life to teach us the one thing that can get us through the darkest night of the soul: Peace be with you. Emmanuel. “I am here, right here with you. You are not alone.” These words don’t fix it. These words don’t cure the pandemic or our unknowing or these unexpected, uncharted, social distancing days. They just don’t. But for me, there is now a beginning place for the peace that passesth understanding to enter is and find a place in my head and in my heart. Thank God, I am no longer alone. Thank God, peace is being offered in a way that has never meant more to me than it does this day. Though the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” John 20: 24b The closest thing I've experienced to what I've been feeling in the past couple of days is the first part of a triathlon. We swim. Hundreds of us. Together. In all three of the tris I've participated in have been lake swimming. Truly I can't imagine an ocean. We take-off in human waves. 25 or 50 souls. Really it doesn't much matter. It's a gaggle. We all hit the water at about the same time. And bam. Three times out of three times, I've panicked. Full-on panicked. Folks who have been doing tris for years call it the fight/flight thing. It's real. It takes your breath away. What I've learned is the importance of gathering myself. Slowing down. And focusing on just the next thing. Perhaps my fear is partially rooted in haste. Perhaps I am caught up in all the uncertainty and unknowing, and so much of my life experience has been to hurry and scurry and figure "it" out. Whatever "it" is - figure it out. No matter how big and looming and impossibly complicated - do something. There is a madness in this, a breath-taking energy-suck that leads to run full out in a random direction heading for an unestablished finish line. Or perhaps my fear is that so much is unknown. It's hard to order my life these days. Plans I was counting on are being changed with no clear notion of how anything can be rescheduled. Not being with the people I'm used to seeing, people I love is heartbreaking. I’m drawn to this text because Jesus’ friends are in a locked room. I’m there. I know for me what that might have felt like for them. It is that running down the steps into the storm shelter before the winds blow through and life as you know it is changed forever. It is that kind of locked room. Many of us are in that kind of space and place these days. The life that his friends had known, the world as-they-knew-it was changed forever. It is in that room and that moment. And Jesus enters. “Peace be with you.” Perhaps what makes these words so very powerful to me is that he knew. Somehow, he knew the words that could melt their worst fears, could dry their fresh tears, could enter into their hearts in both the gentlest and strongest way – Peace be with you. It is to this time and to this place that these words come today. Not as a declaration, “all manner of things will be well.” Or, “be not afraid.” Or “don’t worry, be happy.” Instead, it is as simple and as full as this: “peace be with you.” Somehow the locked door is no longer locked, I am no longer holding my breath, I am no longer curling myself inward until there is little left of me. Instead, I turn and return to the one who lived his life to teach us the one thing that can get us through the darkest night of the soul: Peace be with you. Emmanuel. “I am here, right here with you. You are not alone.” These words don’t fix it. These words don’t cure the pandemic or our unknowing or these unexpected, uncharted, social distancing days. They just don’t. But for me, there is now a beginning place for the peace that passesth understanding to enter is and find a place in my head and in my heart. Thank God, I am no longer alone. Thank God, peace is being offered in a way that has never meant more to me than it does this day. As I arise today, may the strength of God pilot me, the power of God uphold me, the wisdom of God guide me. May the eye of God look before me, the ear of God hear me, the word of God speak for me. May the hand of God protect me, the way of God lie before me, the shield of God defend me, the host of God save me. May Christ shield me today. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit, Christ when I stand, Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me. Amen ~ Irish Prayer Prayer Look up .... Then look down and in front of you and in back of you and to the left and to the right. In every direction in every space, God is there. God is all round and at the center. God is here, right here with us. The Irish Prayer above feels like a strong and kind companion for this day’s journey. “As I arise today” welcomes us into the day. Beginning at the beginning, we are reminded of a strong energy and a deep wisdom. As we are welcomed into the day, we are gathered into a great presence that walks this path with us. In these words, we are reminded with each action and the next and the one following that God is with us. God dwells in us. Before us and behind. God holds us in loving grace and mercy. Space has become a focal point in these past days. Space, that notion of what is here an what is there. Social distancing is now not only a phrase we know, but something we are measuring our comings and goings by. It is how we are intentionally moving in and through the world. We are told that it will save us, protect us – us and our brothers and our sisters. And in the midst of our distancing, God is here. God is in our midst of us. How are we to mark our days, in addition to the 6 feet? For me, it brings strength and comfort to think horizontally as well as vertically. Our stories are recorded both in the depth of this particular moment in which we are living, as well as in the breadth of this moment’s story joining with our next story. One story leading into the next, and into the next. And how are these stories joined? How are the stories of my lifetime held together? Prayer. My prayers, whispered and shouted, stumbled over and sung by heart. Prayers offered in joyful gratitude and in deep, deep despair. All of my prayers weave my life stories together. I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to look back on the whole of my life – birth to death – if I do, will it look like a giant quilt, held together by the strong threads of my prayers.? Held together in God’s hesed (lovingkindness)? For this day as I rise in greeting, I pray this to be true - our life prayers are holding us as we find our distancing and connecting’s. God be in my head, and in my understanding; God be in mine eyes, and in my looking; God be in my mouth, and in my speaking; God be in my heart, and in my thinking; God be at my end, and at my departing. ~ Sarum Prayer Yesterday when I asked my friend, Susie about prayer, she said, “Just do it.” In those three words there’s an understanding that God is already there, always there with us. My prayerful offering is just walking cross the threshold of a door that’s always open. And maybe for all of us, it’s been as easy as that all along. Thanks Susie, wise and graceful friend. Song Just in time. I mean it with all my heart. Spring is entering just in time. This has been such a long week. Making it to Friday and making it to Spring on the same day feels symbolic to me. I don’t know about you, but I am feeling a little disoriented. I’m losing my keys. I’m having trouble remembering what I was going to do next. It’s overwhelming. This is one of those times when the last thing I want to do is listen to the news, and at the very same time it feels so very important. Somehow listening to whatever is happening out there in the world feels like a lifeline to the greater community. I don’t want to float off, adrift. I want to stay tethered. And one way to stay tethered feels like keeping informed of what is happening out there in the world. For Native Americans, spring is the season of the East. It is the time of dawning. What a great and kind gift. It feels like grace to welcome spring today, this time of dawn arriving. We’ve heard so much about the coming of the COVID-19 and this is the week it feels as though it has arrived for Atlanta. So many shifts. So many rearranging’s, so many reorganizing’s, so many adaptations and it feels like it has come. And today, so has spring. From Sun Bear’s Book, The Medicine Wheel, we read that “The power of Wabun, of the East is the power of illumination and wisdom. The season of Wabun is the spring when the earth is awakening from the sleep of winter and the new life which has been preparing itself in the womb of the earth bursts forth.” He goes on to say, “…each dawn when the sun climbs above the horizon, it illuminates the landscape of whatever season it is. The sun causes all of the children of the earth to awaken; to get up to greet the day with its fresh promise. At the dawning, it is the time to take the knowledge of the spirit received in sleep and turn it outward, to guide your steps through the new day to come.” As we continue on our Lenten journey, we are reminded today of welcoming this new season. May we be reminded at all the best times in these coming days of the gift of illumination. May we lean into the wisdom gained from winter’s time and tending and take with us into spring the best of those days. May we not forget the gift of waiting for the dawn’s coming. May we not forget the hope that blesses that waiting. A birding friend once told me about the early singing that happens before light comes each morning. He told me that the birds sing because they are seeking one another. Just at first light, you can hear them. One song and then another and then another. Calling out. Our friend birds know the importance of not feeling alone. They remind us each morning in their song. Maybe this morning their song sounds something like, “Here comes the sun, here comes the spring. Just in time for all of us.” Symbols We have journeyed more than halfway through this Lenten season. I have somehow forgotten about that. For me, these past days have felt not robotic, as much as detached. Left foot, right foot. It’s been so much, so fast, so unbelievable. Here we are now, finding ourselves and this world of ours halfway through the wilderness. It’s not possible to make time, so for me and maybe for you as well, I’m feeling the need to be intentional about marking moments and seeking a space for my soul to have a chance to catch up. One of my life-symbols is the image of the river. When I was in seminary one of my professors kept his evaluations of me pretty simple. Time and time and time again he would say to me, “when do you think you will quit bucking the river?” Or “why do you spend so much time bucking the river?” Or “is this how you want to spend your life…” And in these past couple of days (has it really been measured in days and not in years?) I have seen old patterns coming back. Bucking the river. I’ll never know what he meant for me. I’ve been carrying his words with me now decades later. For me, for these days in which I find myself, for these days in which we are all living, I now am exploring what it would mean to not buck the river. What would it mean if instead of doing my best to stand knee deep in a strong current, what if I would walk on through to the other side? Or better yet, what if I would allow myself to be taken where the current is headed? Back in the day I taught canoeing at Girl Scout camp in Arkansas. So, I know a little bit about being on top of the water. I know that there can’t be a total surrender or giving up. I have learned the hard way that to make your way successfully down river, one needs to go either a little bit faster or slower than the current is going. By setting an international pace one is better able to steer and avoid being repeatedly caught between that ever-present rock and hard place. A good friend has told me, you know what you know when you know it. I think my bucking the river is about that old fight-or-flight thing. We don’t yet know what will happen in the next couple days or weeks. There is that deep urge in us to react and to do something to protect ourselves from what is not yet. And… we continue, you and I on this Lenten journey through the wilderness. We continue making our way along a path that may have been traveled before, but never in the way we are traveling it now. We travel this path that shapes us, stretches us, focuses us in ways that are new, brand new. For me, this life lesson circles back today. I feel like I am planting myself in the center of the river, I can feel the current pushing harder and harder and I feel myself (already) growing weary. My friend also is known to say at times, the best times: to what end? How does it serve me today to buck the river? How does it serve me to be angry or miserable or grasping for control? What if instead…if just for today…what if instead I turn and lean back into the water? What if I begin to pay attention with my heart and eyes opened differently? What if I use all the strength and skills that have gotten me to this moment to enter into the water, not push against it? What if my focus is on what is right here around me and before me? What if my prayer is less about defiance and more about being alive and being held by something much greater than myself? What if I learn to trust in some brand-new way? The river is all round me, the choice today is mine. (Thanks, Fred Hall) It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do. ~Anne Lamott Letting Go These days are bringing up things in me that are unexpected. It makes good sense because these days are so, so unexpected. I’ve been aware that I’ve been trying to grab and hold on to some much. It feels like I’ve been trying to hold on to just about everything. Grasping tightly to the people that I love, to all that is precious to me. I've been trying to hold on and never ever, ever let go. Even in the midst of it I know that at some point I will let go of everything. In the stress of these unexpected days, I am trying to be mindful of what I treasure. Not clinging or grabbing. Not white knuckling it. Instead, when I am able to catch my breath and slow down my heart, if just for a bit, I am trying to hold on with an open hand. That for me is prayer. Prayer is so much about letting go. When I pray, I acknowledge that things are bigger than what I can do, problems are greater than what I can solve, times are lonelier than I can endure. These times hold the prayers of letting go. These are the prayers of humility side-by-side with hope. These are the prayers that speak to seeing in the dark. These days continue to unfold. What was unimaginable last week is getting pretty close for many of us and is now reality for some of us. These are days that feel like the tide is going out, way out further than we thought the tides could go. We are standing on the shore and the sand is pulling out to sea underneath our feet. It’s hard to keep standing. Prayers are whispered, sometimes shouted into the wind. And here, especially here I believe from life's lessons and stories, that God is with us. I believe that God hears our prayers. Sometimes it’s as easy and as hard as letting them go. I love what Anne Lamott writes about our life-toolboxes. Perfect image for me, for this time, for my heart. I love that even against all odds, what we’ve counted on counting on – brings us back and brings us home. (thank you, Kimberly Parker for this picture) “It is a world of magic and mystery, of deep darkness and flickering starlight. It is a world where terrible things happen and wonderful things too. It is a world where goodness is pitted against evil, love against hate, order against chaos, in a great struggle where often it is hard to be sure who belongs to which side because appearances are endlessly deceptive. Yet for all its confusion and wildness, it is a world where the battle goes ultimately to the good, who live happily ever after, and where in the long run everybody, good and evil alike, becomes known by his true name....That is the fairy tale of the Gospel with, of course, one crucial difference from all other fairy tales, which is that the claim made for it is that it is true, that it not only happened once upon a time but has kept on happening ever since and is happening still.” ~ Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale Mysterium tretendem et fascinas “To the words and how we live between them. And to us and how we live between the words.” Thank you, Carrie Newcomer. Mysteries speak to that living between space. That space that holds a meandering path through people and places and things. Sometimes that meandering feels like it is as easy as an activity of connecting the dots. Other times the space feels like a maze where there’s no way out. Mysteries remind us that we don’t know everything, never have and never will. Mysteries invite us into the space of not having all the answers. Mysteries can sometimes just give us permission to relax. Other times they might invite us to explore, to stretch beyond what we can see. And still other times mysteries just companion us – gracefully whispering in our ears that (maybe this time) we don’t have to try so hard to figure it out. These COVID-19 days bring up all kinds of not knowing, throw a spotlight on uncertainty, show us moments of not having the needed / desired answers. The boundary lines are moving all the time. What is safe? What is not safe? Who is sure? What is unsure? Is this the final precaution? What will be changing later today? Tomorrow? The day after that? It’s a mystery. I’m drawn to Buechner’s notion of mystery. Even in just those few words I feel myself leaning in and stumbling over. My heart feels at home, for instance with that first sentence, words about “magic and mystery,” “deep darkness and flickering starlight.” My head and heart understand and resonate with these images that speak to these days. I was stopped, however and had to read and re-read his continuing words, “Yet for all its confusion and wildness, it is a world where the battle goes ultimately to the good, who live happily ever after, and where in the long run everybody, good and evil alike, becomes known by his true name....” I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if agree, if I believe it. Uh oh. Wait. Maybe this, too is a mystery. And so now I find myself circling back. Maybe this is one gift that can come from keeping our heads and hearts open in mysterious times like these. COVID-19 days like these. It’s not that there’s no place to rest. Our lives demand that. But these times are teaching us that there is not (yet) a stopping place. If it is true – and not just something found in fairy tales that “the battle goes ultimately to the good,” then it matters greatly that we stay engaged, that we participate, that we not quit. If we do continue to be engaged, if we continue to participate, if we persevere and do not quit then maybe in the end we will be “known by our true names.” It is our living between the words in these days of not yet knowing or seeing, that we will come to be truly named and known. These days are shaping us just as certainly as we are shaping our days. Therefore I say unto you, Be not anxious for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than the food, and the body than the raiment? Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; and your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not ye of much more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit unto the measure of his life? And why are ye anxious concerning raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God doth so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Be not therefore anxious, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? For after all these things do the Gentiles seek; for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first his kingdom, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Be not therefore anxious for the morrow: for the morrow will be anxious for itself. Matthew 6:24-34a “Making it up as we go along, praying we’re making the right decisions” "I’m feeling pretty exhausted.” "I’m feeling pretty stressed.” "I’m not sure who to listen to. Not sure who to trust.” For me it feels like the clouds that hold the tornadoes from that Helen Hunt movie, Twister. Maybe that’s being raised on the prairies of Central Illinois and something is surely coming rearing its ugly head. Conversations are swirling around and most all of them filled with uncertainty, filled with unknowing. And that’sthe truth of it – we just don’t know. So, is it possible, without being too naïve and without auditioning for the role of Mary Poppins in the next Broadway show, is it possible to sit with the unknowing of this? And if we are able to sit with the unknowing, then what? Centuries ago Jesus is said to have gone up on a mountainside to teach. His words from Matthew’s 5th, 6thand 7th gospels bring light to guide our way. Beginning with Beatitudes and continuing through the next chapters, he speaks words to comfort and sustain. Words for us for times when we feel lost and afraid. Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. Consider the birds of the air. These are words about not doing anything, instead they are words of re-focusing. It feels so easy to get into mind-loops of worry and despair. It feels so easy think of what is missing, what is not enough. And again, I’m not ignoring the seriousness of these hours, but inviting more. Consider the lilies of the field, in the midst of our knowing that clouds are appearing on the horizon, just out beyond where we can now see, in the midst of all of that, consider the lilies. For me, these words help me catch my breath. These words help me re-center and re-focus. I am not alone in this. You are not alone in this. My faith tells me that Jesus knew how easy it is to get into fearful loops of unknowing. He knew what it was like to be afraid to take the next step, because there didn’t appear to be a next step. He lived among us. He knew compassion for sisters and brothers who felt the storms growing on the horizon. And his words? What did he say in response? “Be not afraid.” “Be not therefore anxious for the morrow: for the morrow will be anxious for itself.” Where we are right now is not where we will always be. We are facing something that is not yet known. That’s the truth. AND there is more to our lives than that. WE are more than just that. As I’ve been listening to conversations this week I’ve been inspired and encouraged by the smart and thoughtful and compassionate people in my life. I’ve heard words not just of “me and mine,” but kind and generous words of “how can I help with…” “What can we do for…” Consider the lilies…are words of not seeing smaller, but of seeing bigger. They are words of not only going inward but continuing to look out and around. These are words of not losing sight of a greater Presence that invites us to not give up. These are words of not being anxious, not trying to control the uncontrollable. Instead these are words that go to the heart of our faith – be not afraid. Emmanuel, God-with-us. Left foot, right foot. In the night as I gaze at the stars in their flight, seeking answers above, seeking all the is right. Although nothing is said in response to my plight, I can see many things that remain out of sight. What I see calms my fears, what I feel seems so near it’s the essence of hope and a blessing to hear. It is faith that I find, it is gentle and kind, It gives light to the blind and sweet peace to the mind. Songs Yesterday while I was writing about paying attention to patience and waiting for the mud to settle, I was aware that a song had been gently humming her way into my heart. Does that ever happen to you? Well the song that came early on while I was trying to get my thoughts on paper was the song above. And this morning, this soul-song sings on. In the Night is from the musical, Spoon River Anthology. A hundred years ago (give or take, of course) my sister, Claudia directed this musical Spoon River as her senior project at Illinois Wesleyan. She invited me to perform the music. If I do say myself, my sister did a beautiful job of weaving the stories and these songs together. These words fit hand-in-glove for me as I companioned Lao Tze's words about waiting and settling. There are songs that hold us in place. There are songs that are tucked safely away, staying always close to our hearts. Somehow these songs know how to revisit at just the right time. Maybe it’s been years, maybe it’s been decades since I thought of this song and just at what seemed like the exact right moment, the song comes back. I will never understand how in the world this happens. I will always be forever grateful. Few folks know about Spoon River Anthology. Edgar Lee Masters wrote it in 1915 about a small town in downstate Illinois. It’s a beautiful story of a cemetery, and different residents who now are in different plots, side-by-side. In this book, they tell us of their stories. These reading tell us townspeople’s memories of their lives and loves, their hopes and fears. I will always treasure that time and those stories and songs. The words to this song comfort and sustain. They wrap their arms around me and hold me close in their hearts. They see me through when I can’t see for myself. They feel when I’m afraid to. They see in the dark. So what does all this mean? What does it mean about some songs showing up uninvited and coming from the past? What do these songs bring to us? Songs somehow revisiting us at just the right time? Maybe it's in those unexpected moments, that grace comes. Maybe it's lovingkindness that shows up, uninvited - yet, just on time. Grace needed for me today. Grace needed for all of us. Sing into us a song this day, Creator God. When what we have known now seems to be unsettled and unsettling, sing into us a song that will hold us and steady us. Sing into us a song that will move us from where we are to where you will have us be. Sing into us a song that draws bigger and broader circles that include more of us, not less. Sing into us songs that create harmonies, connect more voices, not less. Sing songs that unite us and inspire us into who You have created us to be. From our first breath to our last, sing into us a new song, Creator and still Creating God. “Do you have the patience to wait Till your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving Till the right action arises by itself?” ~ Lao Tzu Symbols Time and again in these past days of Lent I’ve been reminded of my impatience. I’ve found myself feeling stressed and frustrated when something happens or doesn’t happen. I’ve felt myself feeling blindsided because someone said or didn’t say something. It feels like my system is somehow charged and sparks are flying all round me. We are suddenly and dramatically in uncharted waters with the coronavirus. More than any other time in recent memory, we are both global citizens and local citizens. This virus has belly-flopped into the deep end of the world’s pool, leaving many of us still trying to clear the water out of our eyes. This feels like an impossibly hard time - minutes into hours into days. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been looking for the remote so that I could fast forward through these not-knowing days. We are people who know things. Google has convinced us that there is an answer for everything, and not only that, but there is an answer for everything right now. So, these tender days of waiting are bringing up (for me anyway) feelings of vulnerability, confusion, fear and powerlessness. One of those would turn my day on its head. Those four and even more make for disheartening days and make it tough to get out of bed. Centuries ago Lao Tzu asked the question that might help us now, “do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles…?” It’s hard to ask people to wait who are used to doing and solving and fixing. Many of us are wired to do the next thing. And yet I can’t help but think that this is a necessary question, a soul-singing question, it may even be a light in the darkness question. Do you have the patience to wait till your mud settles is a necessary question because the truth is: we know what we know when we know it? Not a minute before. Perhaps in our asking this question we can begin to collect better tools for our toolbox. Perhaps this question can stop us for just a split second to catch our collective breath and gain a new perspective. Lao Tzu's question may also be a soul-singing song. There is a balm in Gilead to make to the wounded whole. Hearing Lao's question names for me the pain of not-knowing, of being anxious. Listening for my soul's song while I’m waiting brings a companion that can sit with me in the darkness of these hours. Be still and know that I am God, is another soul-singing song that brings perspective. Settling mud is one of those things that can’t be regulated by our wrist watches. Settling takes as long as it takes. These coronavirus hours are that as well. We don’t yet know what this looks like. The picture is still being painted; the paint hasn’t yet begun to dry. Be still and know…In the darkness that is with us in these days, it matters that we seek a soul-song to whistle or hum as we make our way through. This question feels for me like a light in the darkness. There is an invitation in Lao’s words that feels almost like a glimmer of light, a reminder to us of what may already be there. Yes, we know that mud fills everything up, so that nothing is visible. Yes, we know that the mud won’t always be mud. There is a settling that will come sometime after the dirt and water meet. The darkness isn’t all there is. Somehow, somewhere – light shines in the darkness. If we pay attention and keep looking, we can see that light out there. Dim and barely visible, but I believe that it's a there just the same. May Lao Tzu’s words remind us, encourage us, exhort us, comfort us in and through the coming days. May they bring grace enough for you and for me. May we be as present as we can be to ourselves and others in these days. May we remember to keep breathing. May we remember to be thoughtful. May we extend grace and be given grace and enough. May we find the patience we need to wait for the mud to settle. |
AuthorLesley is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ. Her passions are listening to her sons, John Brogan and Sam sing; great conversations, long walks and baseball. Archives
April 2020
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