On Holy Ground

Yesterday morning we parked in our usual spot at the bottom of the hill. Getting out of the car, I put on my pack, lengthened my trekking poles, and was ready for another trip to the top of the logging road. Uncertain of what the trip up - and down - would feel like given a recent, but unspecified, injury to my right knee, I waited uneasily for Tom to lock the car and join me.

I have no idea what I did to that knee, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Swelling, pain, instability. That kind of not good, and our upcoming hike into the crater at Mt. St. Helens in two weeks was looming especially large in my soul that morning. The hike is no small thing. 10 miles round trip over uneven terrain, some gnarly trails and boulders, no shade, and plenty of elevation gain, a girl wants to be able to put her best almost 70-year-old knee(s) forward. Not to mention the fact that Tom is the geologist who will accompany those who have paid a pretty penny for this bucket list trip, and I want to keep up with his almost 76-year-old knees.

I have the never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege of easy access to incredible healthcare, including a stellar physical therapist. Working with her, icing and elevating my knee, self-massage, targeted stretching and exercises, things were improving. But still…

Tom walked up with a look I’ve come to recognize. It is a look that signals his certainty for what is called for in that particular moment. Bending down, he laid both hands on that troubled right knee. And prayed. Out loud. For strength and healing and ease.

And then we headed up the hill.

And it felt good.

His wasn’t a “name it and claim it prayer” for which tele-evangelists are famous, and sometimes go to jail for. It wasn’t a plea for divine intervention. It was simply an acknowledgement of the sacred in the midst of our everyday lives. Of a Loving Presence that is greater than we can possibly imagine and closer than we will ever know.

His quiet words, spoken out loud, were a reminder that wherever we are, we are standing on holy ground.

Mt. St. Helens—Into The Crater Hike—2019

(Stay tuned for 2023)

Christmas Then & Now

When I was a little girl Christmas was one of my favorite times of the year.

It wasn’t so much about the presents under the tree as it was about the gathering together around the tree.

It wasn’t the amazement that Santa could make it down the chimney, although I did think that was pretty cool, but about the fire that blazed in our fireplace all season long.

It wasn’t the call from my dad’s friend Jack Figenson to let me know that Santa and his sleigh just flew over their house and I’d better get to bed, but the certainty I had that magic is as real as anything else.

It wasn’t the nativity scene that we put up every year to recreate that long ago story of the birth of a baby, but that I never once questioned the idea that the Love that set all of creation in motion would want to join us in our humanity.

My childish mind couldn’t imagine that the Love that is behind, and around, and within everyone and everything would want anything other than to live amongst us.

To this day, I can’t imagine anything else.

Finding A Church Home

Recently I returned to a neighborhood from my childhood. Almost every week we used to drive up a hill past a little white church that I fantasized turning into a home one day. Even back then I had a longing to live in sacred space. To dwell where God dwells.

Today, more than fifty years after those childhood drives and dreams, I discovered that someone has indeed turned that church into their home. Looking up at the white spire and leaded glass windows, it hit me, it isn’t the building that makes a space sacred, it is the spirit that fills it. God, at least any understanding that I have of the Creator that, one way or another, started it all, dwells wherever invited.

Church as home. Home as church. It’s all sacred space. Or at least I think it is meant to be.

Pentecost

In my tradition, today, on the seventh Sunday after Easter, we celebrate Pentecost, remembering the story of the Holy Spirit descending on those gathered in the name of the Carpenter, to celebrate the Jewish festival of Shavuot. The Spirit sounded like a fierce wind, and looked like tongues of fire. According to the story, those there felt themselves so filled with the Spirit of the Holy that they were able to speak in new languages.

There are days when I long to speak in a new language. One that blesses those who hear it. One that reflects the image of the One in whom we are all created. One that offers the message that has been true since before the beginning of time. A language that says to all, you are loved, you are seen, and you belong.

But man is that hard some days.

It has been windy around our home this week, and the sound of the wind in the pines is nothing if not the Spirit of the Holy, reminding me that Pentecost isn’t a one-and-done deal, but an ongoing story that is meant to be lived again, and again, and again. Today as we head to our church wearing red to symbolize those flaming tongues of fire, to gather again in the name of the Carpenter, I want to remember that that new language isn’t new at all. Our first language, it is as old as the wind that blows through the pines, and it is right on the tip of my tongue waiting to be heard in a world more thirsty for the message than ever.

You are loved.

You are seen.

You belong.

Sabbath

Because of our desire to succeed, to meet these ever growing expectations, we do not rest. Because we do not rest, we lose our way. … And for want of rest, our lives are in danger.

Wayne Muller

Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight In Our Busy Lives

In the biblical story of creation, after 6 days of work bringing the world into being, God rested, calling the seventh day a holy day. Even the creator craved and needed rest, and had the wisdom to not only take a day off, but to proclaim it holy to do so. As it was in the beginning, is now and every shall be. Every day, with every thought, and every word, and every choice, and every action, we participate in the ongoing process of creation, and I for one do a better job of helping to create a better world when I have the wisdom to take a day off, and to remind myself that it is holy to do so.

The world doesn’t happen to us, it happens through us.

The Holy

May we have eyes to see.