Bees in My Bonnet

 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...

 "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...

 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...

 Is it audacious to pretend that God has a birthday? Today the whole world seems to pause and recognize...some thing , if not, some ONE.   Those who come to adore the Christ-child and those who merely tip their hat in token reverence - most of the world will in some way commemorate the coming of this newborn baby, come to make all things new.   And how will we honour Him? In the markets we will purchase. In our homes we will decorate. Some will travel far and wide to gather together with family, whether natural or chosen. There will be food, feasting, desserts, fun, simple gifts, abundant gifts. We will honour the birth of the holy child by honouring each other.   Don't you think the God Who made us, delights in our  delight in good gifts - the gift of each other, yes, but also the new fluffy blanket, new notebook and pen, new robot vacuum, new piano books, new dollhouse, new art kit, new socks, new bouquet of flowers? Aren't these tangible pictures that hint to...

 The existence of fairy tales and their universality tells me something about the condition of the human heart: We love neatly contained stories with closure. It comforts us to feel the end of a story coming, and to know there will be a resolution, even if imperfect, brings a kind of relief. Most fairy tales have happy endings, some have gloomy endings, but they all seem to have a kind of solidly-footed ending. It wraps up the package, the telling: the journey for the hearer is complete. And I wonder if this universal yearning isn't also re-worked within Christendom to promote ideals that may yield fervour on the one hand, but despair on the other. For our fervour, consistency, zealous striving, and success are all prone to wane at times, and we may expect more from ourselves than is possible or realistic. Yet that doesn't stop Christian publishers from churning out books that beckon more from each seeker.  Who am I to complain? I wouldn't read such things anyway - though I...

  When I come to myself - Realize there is a self to come to, A space, a moment, an in-between - I find surprise - there is a me beyond the doing. The doing of things is necessary, A blessing, even. But a self that thinks, That feels the ground beneath my feet That beholds beauty and is awestruck, This is a gift - the first gift to me Is me. I am taken with the Giver - From His hand come all good things. But would He not have me welcome this first gift? To know it, receive it, accept it? I think He would.

 I'm going to let a bee fly out of my bonnet just now, so brace yourself. The term 'Best Practice' annoys me. It annoys me A LOT. It has burned me. I've used it myself; I've had it promoted to me. I've seen it in research, in literature, in pseudo-guru-speak jargon. And now I think I finally have the courage to push back. Hang On a minute!! Isn't 'Best Practice' automatically, by its very literal nature, completely warranted as acceptable? Doesn't everyone want to follow 'Best Practice' in every situation? Actually, No. No, we don't. And I'll tell you why. Because it's arrogant, proud, assuming, and lacking in nuance. It lacks a 'here and now' understanding of things. Sure, there's probably times where 'best practice' is helpful. If you are a clinician of some sort, and following a static experimental process; if you are a professional whose work is to follow exacting procedures, fine, go ahead, and consult...

‘Are you listening?’  Oh yes, I am. ‘What do you hear?’  I hear nothing. ‘Listen harder.’ Okay, I hear the birds. ‘What do they say?’ Whatever is in them to say - This is their song. They call, they wait, They listen for a response. Such curious little creatures, Free to fly, driven by hunger, They know the way to find food, warmth, a partner. They live dependent, simple, uncomplicated. They have all they need. ‘Do you hear their song?’  Yes; they have a voice.  They open their mouths - they find food for their bellies, And voice a song. ‘Where does that song come from?’  You made them to sing, I suppose. You gave them their voice, so they sing. ‘What has happened to your voice?’ I am not like the birds, O Lord. My voice got trapped, stuck within. I am not simple, Trusting, uncomplicated.  I have no wings to fly. “Oh for the wings of a dove - far away would I roam. In the wilderness build me a nest, And remain there forever at rest…” I hear this song deep w...

This time is like a conversation. I open my heart and say all the things - Sometimes nice things, Upsetting things, Confusing things. They’re all there, and I just say it all:  I don’t hold back. I imagine You curiously listening. You let it all come out, even when I’m frustrated. Especially when I’m frustrated. There is no slamming the door on our conversation. You are patient. Then there is a stillness - a pause. I wait. Maybe now You will speak. Maybe now I can hear. The pages of Your book are open before me: What might You say? You are alive in me - Of course in the words of the book too! The Spirit draws my eyes to read Your words. Oh You did hear me!  Your words soak into this parched soul. And I am satisfied.

  God, You are still reaching out to me. I am not forgotten, in the least. You are not silent. You see my gaping wound, You rush in with a viscous love: You will mother me -  You delivered me when bound. Bind me up in Your affectionate love. Let me soak in Your delightful gaze. Look on me with love- Helpless as I am. Fold me in Your arms and promise to keep me safe! I wonder why, if You love me like a mother does, Why You have allowed such horrors to come upon me? Yet You haven’t dropped me. I was close to stumbling, yet I didn’t. Has my fear been worse than reality? I cannot say. I want Your comfort, Your reassurance. I want to know You love me even if I’m broken. Will You welcome this fragile child? Will I be held, safe in Your arms? Can I look on You as a secure Mother? *********************** "Can a woman forget her nursing child, or lack compassion for the child of her womb? Even if these forget, yet I will not forget you." Isaiah 49:15

  Here you are with me; in me. I sit with You, beside You, dine at Your table, Walk in Your garden. The day ends and You are still with me. Moonlight on my path, stillness in the crisp evening air - You speak in the quiet of silvery clouds and the whisper  Of rustling leaves as the world beds down for the night. Sometimes this is all I need, to know You are near. Because then I can grab hold of Your hand Like a desperate, dependent child And cry out, ‘Please! Bring me out of my distress!’ And of course You do. I feel the loving turn of Your face towards me. Your grace flows freely, and I, in my lonely affliction, Am Seen. My steps continue in the darkness, and I am not alone. You hold the loneliness with me. My troubled heart spills out to You. You welcome me again and again. And I welcome You: Here You are - with me. In me. Beside me. I dine at Your table; Walk in Your garden.

  Sometimes I sit with the heaviness of the world, Or, it sits with me - I cannot tell Or be sure if I invite it, or it invites me. My eyes are open and I see My heart is open and it feels My mind is open and I comprehend Sorrows too great Soul-crushing agony Shame that beckons burial. A burial - closing of earth - over what has been lost; Needed ceremony to hallow and honour grief. Many burials are needed - some daily. I’ll wave goodbye to that loss, To that joy, to that which I knew That is no more. What cannot be grieved cannot be reborn. If I don’t sit in the solitary space, Give voice to my cry, give attention to my soul, I will miss the process of death turning To Resurrection.