Category: Reflections

In the morning there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground. When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, “What is it?” For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, “It is the bread that God has given you to eat.“
                  —Exodus 16.13-15

What gets you through the desert?
What gets you through?
What gets you through the chemo,
the healing from abuse, the bad marriage,
what gets you through
the job that tries to kill you,
the dark alley of the shadow of death,
the rotten places, the placeless places,
the evil you fear, the evil you’ve done,
your daily inadequacy,
what gets you through?

Some will call it courage or stamina,
luck or faith or reaching down deep.
But you know it’s not you, not yours.
It’s given. To you. For you.
From the Holy One.

The thread you follow,
the source you drink from,
the encouraging voice,
the Divine desire that you thrive,
the gift amid the desolation,
you find it anywhere—
the usual, the impossible,
the unwelcome.
You learn to recognize it.
You learn to receive it.

For that grace that gets you through
you learn to say thank you.

You learn to count on it,
and be surprised,
every morning.
Every morning.

   —September, 2017

I lay down the backpack,
quit the journey to the far place.

I set aside the pick and shovel,
the coded treasure map.

I renounce the person I want to become,
abdicate mastery of my fate.
I rest my fears, desires and intentions.

Even the angel within me,
wings tightly wrapped, rests.

Already a holy vessel,
I rest with the Presence I hold.
I rest in this:

You, I AM,

in me,

becoming,

and I allowing.
 

   —September 19, 2017
 

Trees are beginning to turn.

They turn toward me.

They walk with me,
along the turning road.

Teach me, friends,
the grace
of turning.

_______________
Weather Report

Release,
as the winds of grace
lift from you
the burdens
of all you possess.
Changing winds
will shift what you think you need;
expect heavy things
to precipitate out of your life.
 

   —September 18, 2017
 

Settle and breathe deeply. …

Rest in the peace of God. …

Bring to mind a person you haven’t forgiven. …

The two of you stand together.

Jesus comes and looks at the two of you
with great kindness in his eyes.

He embraces the other.
Perhaps there are words,
though likely you can’t hear them.
Perhaps there are tears.
He holds them for a long time. …

They release the embrace, look at each other
and smile. …

Jesus turns to you
with great kindness in his eyes.
He embraces you.
Perhaps there are words.
(What might they be?)
He holds you a long time. …

He releases you and looks at you
and smiles. …

You look at the person you want to forgive.
What is in your heart? …

Tell them. …

Jesus blesses you and leaves you
with your new heart.

   —September 15, 2017

The ocean,
all movement,
seems so still,
the surface of a mind,
the waves coming in
against the grain.

Behind me
two horses,
mine and another,
wait together
grazing in tall grass.
They are friends,
they know the way.

I sit and wait,
not for something,
just wait.
The afternoon floats by
overhead, white and puffy
in the blue of God.

You come up
out of the sea
to me though
it seems you have walked
down into my waters
and disappeared.

September 14, 2017

To forgive you will pass through the sea.

You will leave much behind:
what is owed, obligations,
the heavy chains of your master anger.
Just leave them.

You will be tempted to turn back and fight
but that is the slavery you are escaping,
the lie of superior and inferior,
the cruel economy of deserving.
It is a lie. Walk away from it.

You will be afraid of being overtaken
and hurt again
but God’s mystery will protect you.

Go, on foot, through the wounded sea,
your tears a wall on your left and on your right.

Take only your love with you.
You will find yourself on the far shore
unburdened, free,
in the wilderness of love,
never needing to go back.

You will do this
seven times seventy times.

September 12, 2017

I sit, giving my weight to the chair.
I breathe. I wait. I behold.
The tree exercises patience,
lets go a leaf, pauses,
lets go a leaf.
I can’t see it
but the horizon embraces me.
The hills pass it on.
The ground abides.
Planets, too.
God unhurries, unworries.
A depth opens.
Presence wells up.
I have passed
out of the world of adjectives.
         
                        

   —September 12, 2017
 

         The Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea,
         the waters forming a wall for them
         on their right and on their left.
                  —Exodus 14.29

No one on the Underground Railroad ever said,
“Go back, I forgot something.”
When we are free
we sit on the far shore, bewildered,
with only what we carried,
and our loves.
And we learn to do that.

The mother makes it through the desert
with nothing but her children,
and is happy.

You stand beside the burned-down house,
the washed-away neighborhood,
and mourn the cost of actually being free.
The grief is real, though the possessions are not.

Sitting there on the shore you give thanks
that though you didn’t think to bring your soul,
it came along, in love for you.

Next time the fire comes, or the argument,
you’ll know what to grab.
                        

   —September 11, 2017

         “I will pass over you,
         and no plague shall destroy you.”
                  —Exodus 12.13

When fierce winds scream
you want to know
what’s your own breath and what isn’t.
When water rises over you
you want to know where your blood ends
and the sea’s begins.
When fear swirls
look to see how much of it is within.
When hate burns vast forests
don’t be on fire.
You are a child of God,
not the headlines,
in the world but not of it.
Know what is you and what is not.
Mindful, you can bear peace into chaos,
light out into the darkness.

   —September 8, 2017

         Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven,
         and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.
                  —Matthew 18.18

Maybe not “whatever you do, God will agree with.”

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever sins.
The hurts you hang onto you’re stuck with.
The hurts you forgive open you to divine healing.

Maybe: “whatever” means whatever relationship.
The relationship in which you stay connected,
despite conflict, is rooted in God.
The relationship you break loses its divine energy.

Maybe: “whatever” means whoever.
Whoever you oppress truly experiences oppression;
whoever you set free is truly free.

Maybe “whatever” means yourself.
You can set yourself free, or bind yourself up.
God doesn’t do it; you do it to yourself.

Maybe:
live in harmony with the divine energy of liberation
and the divine energy of faithful connection.

Maybe:
let go of what God doesn’t care about
and hang onto what leads you to God.
      

   —September 7, 2017