Rhythm
I’m beginning to sense the rhythm and sway of a stone that on the surface shows no movement. I come without a sense of time, no clock ticking it away, but respond to the sound of the bells almost without awareness.
No one says, “Stand up.” No one says, “Take your seat.” Still, I move in time to the hollow notes without a Protestant hiccup. Though I couldn’t tell you later the order of the liturgical process, my spirit remembers the rhythm in its practice.
And this is good.
Job | Not a Word
Say what you will about Job’s friends. It’s true. Once they started yammering, they wove their strands of talking points between what was true and what they only wished were true until it’s no wonder Job didn’t lash them all together with that rope and walk away, leaving them bound to discuss his plight amongst themselves into exhaustion.
But for seven days — an entire week — they held their knowing tongues and grieved alongside their friend in silence.
When they arrived, Job was in such emotional anguish and physical distress they did not even recognize him. This could no longer be the greatest man in the East. He was a blistered and scabbed shell of a man, the rhythmic scraping of his flesh with a shard of sun baked clay the only sign he was even still alive. (more…)
Preparation Day: 4
Why is everyone hungry for more?
“More, more,” they say. ”More, more.”
I have God’s more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day’s end I’m ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.
: : :
The words of David, upon being answered.
Psalm 4 for your Sabbath Preparation.
Find some quiet contemplation in these weekend communities:
Lament
The regular return to the psalmist’s lament, his unrelenting darkness, his inescapable sense of abandonment — in some odd way I find this comforting. I remember my own need to sit in the lament now and then. Even here, straight-backed in a hard wooden pew where the words of his anguish ricochet off cold stone walls.
Heman ends in despair. His last words do not return to hope. And yet I consider as I listen, as I recite, that though he speaks as though convinced God had stepped out of the room, he continues to pour out his heart, to talk to the one he believes had walked away.
And I wonder if he believes it at all.
The Artist’s Way
The last time I spent any time with a book by Julia Cameron, I got into an altercation with my Writer. She hovered over my desk, whining relentlessly about how everyone else’s Muse went for long walks and exotic dates, sipping tea hot tea and macchiatos at tables adorned with fresh cut flowers.
I lost my temper and whipped a pencil, aiming between her doe eyes. She slunk away whimpering to the showers. Not long afterwards, I looked up to see her dripping form, wrapped in a towel and reaching out from the dim shadows of my office with a crumpled, soggy scrap of paper. (Read the rest at Tweetspeak Poetry…)
::
We’re starting a new book club soon. I’ve been down this road before. Or on these tracks, anyway. I’m a little anxious. (Pick whichever definition you like.) Head on over to Tweetspeak to find out why, and get your invitation to join us in a new discussion of Julia Cameron’s landmark book on creative renewal, The Artist’s Way.
Becoming Samuel
I’ve been, these past weeks, getting to know the boy Samuel. I’ve hovered over and dipped into the early chapters of the first book of Samuel for a very long time now.
Once in a while I read the whole thing. And another day just a little bit seems to rise off the page to meet me.
Now and again I’ll even pull a commentary or read an article.
But I always end up back just chewing the text. None of the learned ones have managed to explain, at least to my satisfaction, what puzzles me most about the boy Samuel.
Samuel, the one for whom his mother ached and yearned for years. Her grief grew deeper whilst the other wife, blind in her abundance, shamed her for her emptiness ’til food tasted like sand. And small comfort, her husband, though he loved her most, failed to grasp her longing, and sought to fill her ache with richer servings on her plate. (more…)
Pastures
I wait impatiently through the antiphon. I’ve never felt so eager for the pause to end before. And yet it’s not for a refusal to sit still. I simply want more than anything to be saying these words out loud.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.
Rumors of Water [Hazards]
After pounding another ball toward the green, he stomped away, looking to the sky as if to curse the mythical gods of the game for abandoning him to flail on the fairway without hope. We followed behind and caught a glint of the Callaway with the orange chevron in the grass. It had bounced off the bridge and cleared the trees, playable but found too late.
I picked it up, feeling an ache for my son. At thirteen, he was among the youngest that day on a cruel, rigorous course. As the day wore on I reached often into my pocket, turning the ball and fingering its dirt-crusted dimples . . .
Read the rest over at TweetSpeak Poetry today, where we’re wrapping up our book club on L.L. Barkat’s Rumors of Water. And maybe you’ll be surprised to find out what we’re going to do next . . . I need a couple of weeks off to brace myself.
The Sparrow Knows
In springtime, when she flew in with twigs and
brittle leaves in tow did she know?
When she lined the inside of that sprig bowl
with soft grasses and downy feathers, did she know?
When she strained to push out fragile helplessness,
all dappled in brown, did she know?
And when she settled in atop waited
for life to crack out the sides, did she know?
Did she know of the searing, consuming fire soon would fall
so close to the kindling that formed her walls?
Did she know of the smoldering wrath?
Did she know of blood that would cascade?
Did she know of life one would lose?
Did she know of loss that was yet to come?
Had she an inkling of the danger
of building nests and birthing babes
in the shadow of a blazing altar?
Or, in finding home in His dwelling place,
did she see only the refuge? (more…)
Preparation Day: 22
The words of David, angry and bewildered, and then reminded.
Psalm 22 for your Sabbath Preparation.
He has never let you down,
never looked the other way
when you were being kicked around.
He has never wandered off to do his own thing;
he has been right there, listening.
- – -
Find some quiet contemplation in these weekend communities:
Still Saturday with Sandra King | Sunday with Deidra Riggs
(Thanks for stopping by today. I’m encouraged by your visit.
I’ll beg your understanding for the closed comment box
on Preparation Days. It just helps me not talk so much.)
Light
The Gospel is read from John 3 and I remember that no matter where I go looking, where I ever find him, it all comes back to this. God so loved the world…
The light has come into the world… I’m staring at the floor following the dance of the green and orange and red stained glass light on the floor tile while words of Gospel truth dance in the cool air. And people loved the darkness rather than the light… Just like that, the light shifts and vanishes from the floor and a grayness seems to cloak the space around me.
Just like that.
Job | Obscurity
Satan’s second stroll through the throne room has tightened a slip knot around my mind these last weeks and I can’t seem to chew through the rope to turn the page.
He waltzes in, following along with the angels into a place he clearly doesn’t belong, but presents himself in front of the throne nonetheless. He and God replay the episode from the first chapter on TiVo. It’s nearly word for word.
From where have you come?
From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it.
Have you considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man, who fears God and turns away from evil?
Of course Satan has considered Job. The last time we talked Satan had just dragged Job out back and beat the dickens out of him. Took everything he owned, everyone he loved but his wife and a few friends. (more…)
Preparation Day: 18
The words of David, upon being rescued. Again.
Psalm 18 for your Sabbath Preparation.
Find some quiet contemplation in these weekend communities:
Still Saturday with Sandra King | Sunday with Deidra Riggs
(Thanks for stopping by today. I’m encouraged by your visit.
I’ll beg your pardon for the closed comment box on Preparation Days.
It just helps me not talk so much.)
Meeting Diana
Diana Trautwein can stand flat-footed and look me in the eye.
(Not many can claim such a thing.)
In turn (defying some unwritten law of physics, or perhaps botany — science is not my subject), I tilt back my head and look up to her. (more…)
Rumors of Water: Are You Serious?
It’s tough to get me to unfold my arms from across my chest. My brand of fun almost always comes with a hint of reluctance and a straight face, and words like stoic, droll and deadpan come up often in my company. But some will see the quick-flashing glint in my eye, camouflaged by the stuffed shirt I often wear.
Make no mistake. Much of life is serious business.
But sometimes, a little permission to play opens a valve and lets loose a new thing or two.
Our book club on L.L. Barkat’s Rumors of Water continues today at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Preparation Day: 51
Grateful for David, always with the words to know my heart.
Psalm 51 for your Sabbath Preparation.
Find some quiet contemplation in these weekend communities:
Blessing
The others partake of the sacramental elements and I stay where I am, preferring my place at the periphery. Listening. Not seeing, not touching. But feeling, yes. I hear the young priest, the one with the rich lilting voice, approach my place. His hand rests lightly my head while my knees rest bent against the wood.
The Lord bless you and keep you, now and forever.
I consider the tender might carried in words that mean to call out blessing. My eyes burn at the words, at something I hear but cannot see.
Feeling a Little Hoarse?
I imagined L.L. Barkat and her daughter sitting together in their dining room (sunset yellow) talking about this new editor they’d taken on. In my daydream, they would look at the draft I submitted on Voice and shake their heads. Sara would raise a fork full of rice and spicy lentils to her mouth and say, “I’m sure glad I’m not the Managing Editor. What are you going to do?”
Some days, a writer just doesn’t sound like herself. Like, um, yesterday, when I turned in a piece on Voice for our book club on Rumors of Water over at Tweetspeak. And the Managing Editor had to tell me something hard.
Swing on over and find out what it sounded like. You can read the post and join the discussion here.
In the Morning
Give ear to my words, O Lord,
consider my sighing.
The psalter is pushed back a few feet from me on the bed, pale blue ribbon cut between Psalm 3 and Psalm 5. It’s Monday, I think. Lauds.
It’s the psalter for no better reason than my unwillingness to go back upstairs and get the whole book. It’s early, and still black in the hallway, and I’ve already stumbled into too many things because I didn’t turn on the lights. There are extra boys in my basement. I don’ t want to wake them on their last day of their break.
The psalter was handy there on the desk. And it’s pushed back on the bed because my old-people glasses are failing me these days. I blame the glasses, not my eyes. It appears I need the old-er-people glasses now. I can’t see the hand in front of my face. But I could see it a half block away. My glasses sit idle on top of my head most of the time, until I need them and can’t remember where they are.
In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice
in the morning I lay my requests before you
and wait in expectation.
All the house is silent. I hear the bed creak above me, blankets rustle in the room next to me where the sweaty adolescents line the floor. The space heater hums along because Spring is still a little edgy in the morning. The birds are subdued, not the usual chatter while they pour coffee and gossip over English muffins. I imagine it’s oatmeal this morning, and perhaps some tragic news of a neighbor crashing into the clear backboard of our basketball hoop in the driveway. They keep their voices to a hush.
I’m a few weeks into a new rhythm, about as old as that edgy Spring, pulling me from sleep in the earlier hours. Changes in the cadence can lose me in confusion while they heighten my awareness at the same time. So I’m several lines in before I hear my own voice, whispering into the silence.
But I, by your great mercy,
will come into your house;
in reverence will I bow down
toward your holy temple.
Lead me, O Lord, in your righteousness
because of my enemies –
make straight the path before me.
I keep reading aloud. The words sound like one long sigh.
The creaking and rustling become more frequent. And there’s enough gray light in my office that I know it’s overcast without pulling back the thin curtain. One small bird voice chirps into the emptiness, then hesitates.
There is no reply.
But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
let them ever sing for joy.
::
Psalm 5, my morning meditation It's a good day to read some David out loud. Photo: Resurrection Day sunrise
Resurrection
Death has been swallowed up in victory
Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?
::
Brightest hope for your celebration of the resurrection, friends.
Preparation Day: Here is Your King
When Pilate heard those words, he led Jesus outside.
He sat down at the judgment seat
in the area designated Stone Court
(in Hebrew, Gabbatha).It was the preparation day for Passover.
The hour was noon.
Pilate said to the Jews,“Here is your king.”
from John’s Gospel, the nineteenth chapter
:: (more…)
God’s Arm Seems Longer Somehow
Holy Week, for many of us, is a particular time of reflection. Isaiah 59 is not traditionally a Lenten, Holy Week or Easter passage. But it has, in the past few years, been the touchstone to which I return to as I contemplate the state of my own heart in light of the Cross. This post, first scratched out in the early morning light of near-Easter 2009 and run here every year since, marks the place where God said, “Here and no further,” turning me back from a dark descent in His firm but tender insistence the Covenant has no loophole, that He did not end that blackest of Fridays having spent all of Jesus’ blood and now drowning in buyer’s remorse.
I read this again this morning and while I know the fierce intensity that first pushed these words out, today that doubt does not feel so close at hand. His arm seems longer, somehow, than it has in years.
Just how long is Your arm, Father? How long is long enough for me?
The question formed as I knelt beside a queen bed in a hotel squeezed between Iowa cornfields. I rose early and lingered there before joining the growing crowd of family in the breakfast nook downstairs. I flipped through thin pages looking for Isaiah 59, wanting just one thing. I felt hungrier for the sustaining words of this one short verse than for an AmericInn breakfast no matter what the ads say. (more…)
Hearing
So then I walk by sound, not by sight. Movement makes its way in a sort of clunky unison, not synchronized, but together. Hinged wooden seats thump as they rise and fall, kneelers drop to the floor, robes rustle. Heavy footsteps paired with shuffling ones trace their steps from one end of the chapel to the other, the length so needfully punctuated with a simplicity of empty, yet inhabited, time. Each sound nudges me to the next thing, nearly without thought or effort.
The reading draws to its close and we join voices in the antiphon:
My sheep listen to my voice;
I know them, and they follow me.::
Rumors of Water
The same image plays in my mind every time I think about writing this post. Pages full of exquisite words bound with the cover that wears a certain girl’s delicate floral designs are mangled beyond recognition by rough, heavy hands in a scene that calls to mind Of Mice and Men.
Like Lennie Small fretting that mice are so easily broken, I ask too many times if she’s really sure she wants to entrust her book to my clumsy hands because I’m just certain she shouldn’t.
Enduring my doubts, L.L. Barkat answers in her best George Milton voice, “You get another mouse that’s fresh and I’ll let you keep it a while.”
::
The book club discussion of L.L. Barkat’s Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity and Writing begins this morning over at the Tweetspeak blog. To read the rest of the post — including, perhaps, irrational fear of toothless purple moths, and a glimpse into the kind of beans I keep in my own cupboard, stop by and join (or just enjoy) the discussion. The full post is right here.
The Conversation