Bees in My Bonnet

 I took 3 days to be alone. In quiet, solitude, and rest.  Here at a retreat center called Christ in the wilderness, in Stockton, Illinois.  3 days of bird song, wind rustling leaves, deer cautiously regarding me. Birds at the feeder. Why do we love to feed birds? I wonder. Space like this makes room for all kinds of wondering. I've been here 3 times - 2020, 2021, and now. Five years is too long to stay away from this sanctuary. I've been to other retreat centers - also refreshing and soul restoring. "He restores my soul."  "In pastures green, He leadeth me, the quiet waters by," in the words of the Psalter. I listen, pause. These moments are holy - set apart to be with Jesus, to consider the wilderness He took 40 days to wander. I think of Him, walking, resting, praying. If He did this, why don't we all wander the wilderness in some capacity.  Maybe because my life feels like a barren wilderness sometimes. I wonder if Jesus treasured the wilderness or i...

 Recently our Church held its annual Arts Festival and invited poets and artists to contribute. The theme was centred on our calling, vocation - in short: work.  I spent some time pondering what my work actually is. Because I am an on-the-go, sometimes-at-home, Mom, Spiritual Director, Piano Teacher, occasional Doula, and all-round Presence In The House For Anyone Who Shows Up, it took me some time to consider what it is I actually DO.  Here is the poem that emerged from these ponderings: My Work My work is to be - to taste, to see Every good gift tumbling Flowing into these outstretched hands To be Open, waiting. My work is to worship: To savor Sweet bread, broken, given; To lift up my fainting heart To yield all I am for One Who yielded to death for me. My work is to welcome. If every good gift is from above, Then so is the stranger at my door. In no time he won't be a stranger, But a fellow pilgrim seeking Good gifts from a good God. Welcoming is Opening: I open my hea...

 19 years ago tomorrow I went to CDH to deliver our 3rd child. I didn't know then that we would go on to have 2 more babies. I was 29 years old and crossing that bridge where parents are outnumbered by children. I can't say I knew what we were getting into. It was a tumultuous time in our lives (I'm guessing that is more of a normal thing for the Logan family than for most!). Sam was still in grad school - having completed his first year, and was working odd jobs over the summer to support us. Throughout that hot and humid August, I was great with child, and fairly exhausted keeping up with a 5 year old Caleb and 3 year old Priscilla. They were ready and eager to greet their little brother, waiting with all the wonder and excitement a 5 and 3 year-old can muster.   At his high school graduation a year ago, I stood up to deliver this speech, which was in the form of a letter to my son: Dear Timothy Sheldon Logan, 18 years ago I was just beginning the 3rd and final trimester ...

 "Oh teach us to pray!" the disciples yearned: As children try on language, stumbling, awkward, We long to speak with words our God, our Maker, will hear. In settled calm, He teaches us, "Pray:     "Your will be done. Here in me, on this earth,     Do as You will, as it goes in Your homeland." First He teaches; then, He shows, "This is how:     I come to a Garden. Remain with me, Pray for me.     Pray with  me. My prayer is still, 'Your will be done.'" To stay with Jesus, here, now, in darkness, uncertainty,     Can I  pray, "Your will be done." ? "You found me sleeping," I confess. "Your spirit is willing; your flesh is weak."     My struggle is held with grace. He taught us once to pray, "Give us this day our daily bread." Then later, He breaks the bread: "This is my body: I am the manna."  I need this daily bread! The bread given.  In it, I am for given. How God is for  giving!! He gives His...

  It didn’t happen all at once, like in the fairy tales. By it, I mean love. Not what people think of when they think ‘love.’ Not the love that flutters the heart and weakens the knees. The love grew over time when the caught breath and hormonal impulses had found their proper place, behind the choice and mature yielding of the soul to another.  The man loved his woman until it ached. He got up each day, though weary and less than thrilled with his daily labours, and set out to win the bread for the home, wife, and children. The job was interesting on some level. It suited his gifts, a luxury to be sure. In the early days he had resented having to work. How much he’d rather fill his life with more meaning, more purpose, more self-pursuits. But he loved his woman, his family. He needed to serve their needs before his whims. He dedicated himself to providing, and it was his privilege to do so.  He might have pursued a perfect life, where every endeavour was perfectly suited...

 How can we talk openly about our lives and experiences? I think this is my driving need, my yearning, longing, deep desire. I want to write and share what is in me - for real. But I fear. I want to tell the truth of what I've known, seen, understood, and have yet to understand. And I freeze. There are other desires that lie buried in us - in me. One desire is that I can frame and shape my telling to in some way absolve myself of responsibility. To explain my own shortcomings. To make it look like even in my failings, I did the best I could. And there is a temptation to lie - to say, "I had this awful experience (or interaction or breakdown), but they were doing the best they could." What if we could simply own up to the truth. I DIDN'T do the best I could. So much of life seems to be about improving - my abilities, my status, my spirituality, my relationships, my diet - you name it - there is a beckoning from without and within: Be the best version of yourself.  I he...

For Previous Post Click Here   Here's what I wrote last year:  I start to get up out of bed and grab a purple skirt, and throw a t-shirt on. A random thought hits me - 'glad I'll be home in a bit as I shouldn't really go out in public looking like a disheveled trash collector wearing whatever I gleaned from a dumpster dive' (no dig for dumpster divers here! They're probably my tribe!). Sam offers to go instead. I tell Sam he can go to bed since he's tired. Last minute before I leave I see Sam up - some random impulse compelled him to come with me. I let him drive. 'Just go to North Avenue. Then go north on Gary - that's what Timo said. He said we'd find him there a little way up.' And find him we did. First we saw some bright lights. We figured a cop car had likely stopped. But there were so many. We didn't count them all. The road was cordoned off. A cop was re-directing traffic - no cars could head north on this road. We pull up to the ...

 Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and start to imagine the worst. I think of all the things that could be going wrong in this moment. I imagine what might possibly be harming my kids, both from without and within. I may dabble in worry for a time before other imaginings take over. My mind may go down a spiral and end up with the whole world falling apart - not only rumoured wars, but actual wars, disrupting the safety of all who inhabit planet earth.  I think of those who prepare for the end of the world and imagine them as lonely wanderers on the earth, finding all the others who prepared and stepping over the carnage of those who weren't (us among them!) Then, when I've mused about all this, I swing back to the immediate and wonder how we'll make it through the next week or month. Is it just me, or do our own hearts sabotage our rest, feeding us with potential far-off, unlikely fears, while also tasting a daily dose of very potential and likely fears that lo...