Divine and mysterious God, I do not know your ways, nor can I comprehend your depth.  Your currents are swift and often beneath the surface.  Sometimes I do not even know where my own head is, but I trust that all will be well.  Thank you for this faith.

I lose things.  I forget things.  I do stupid things in fear or anger.  You love.

I have moments of grace, of joy, and sometimes even of sincere compassion.  You love.

No matter who we are or where we consider ourselves in relationship to You, we receive love – a love that knows no bounds, no conditions, no limitations.  As I read over my prayer list here in a moment, may I imagine a love like that for each of these persons.  Surely that kind of love has the power to heal, to forgive, to overcome, to bring peace.

It is so hot here.  I do not know how many are suffering in this heat and have no relief, but I hope they are safe and able to survive.  So many of us are blessed with air conditioning, and we selfishly complain when the thermostat pushes 80 degrees F.  Yes, I am a spoiled and whiney child at times, too.  Thank you for your Mother-love.

As our paths continue to flow in your Will, as the currents converge and diverge, seen and unseen, continue to grant us strength to persevere.  Thank you for providing me dear souls with whom to share my journey and from whom I learn so much about life, laughter, and love.  I am so blessed.

May I ever be surrounded in your Love and Grace.

Amen.

An evening prayer, not nearly so comprehensive as that of the Daily Office.  Thanks for Mission St. Clare for making the components of the Office so readily available.

At the close of the day, I cannot help but wonder more than a little whether or not I did all I could do this day.  Most likely, no.  So again I ask forgiveness and for strength to rest well and to do better tomorrow, if I am to be so blessed as to have another day’s chance.

I remember being so proud of memorizing the child’s prayer when I was younger.  The old picture with the glittered words was faded even then.  I don’t know if I have it stored away in my cedar chest or not.  The words, repeated often and before sleep, would draw me gently to a deep peace and an assuredly safe place, even though those very words suggested I might die in my sleep.  It’s funny, isn’t it, that I’m not so keen to teach the original verse to my children.  I haven’t exactly taught them to memorize any prayer.  I guess I hope that they will learn the prayers on their own, following the example of the rest of our church family, eager to learn the words themselves.  I know.  I’m a wishful thinker.

My sleepy prayer this night is that you would bless the children and protect them.  Indeed give us parents strength and patience.  Maybe give the kids a dose of obedience; I do get tired of repeating myself.  That’s my weakness, though.  I’m not a perfect mother.  I get tired.

Even in our fatigue, we are able to find inspiration, to be touched by Spirit in such a way that we might be inclined to live into our fullest potential.  To do so would be to live more fully into Your image.  O God, give us strength, and may all our work be so inspired.

Always, thanks be to You as we live and rest in your Light and Love.

Holy and Gracious God, I rejoice this day in gratitude for your Love and Grace.

Thank you for this day of rest.  Thank you for the friends and family with whom we have shared the weekend.  Thank you for our abundance of blessings.  At the service this morning, I could not think of just one or two things to be grateful for, and even now, mere words cannot enumerate the blessings bestowed upon my family and me.

Most importantly, O God, thank you for opening my eyes to see, my heart to feel, and my mind to know.  Thank you for bringing someone into my path to serve as yet another wonderful teacher.  The best teachers encourage us to tap into the wisdom within. The most compassionate people are open, willing, and most importantly loving, but at the core, they know who they are and allow you to be who you are.  Indeed, I have met another teacher, and there were butterflies galore.  (I hear this is a good sign.)  :)

I have much to learn about my religion and practice.  I have plenty of room to grow into the best I can be.  It is good to know with all my heart, though, what lies at the core of my being, my life, and in all of humanity — Love.  God is Love.  Oh, that all my ways would be in Love, with Love, and through Love.

To the Glory of God, Amen.

Glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.

You’ve given me to be one of those people who get headaches, and I’ve had all kinds.  Dull, ice-pick, tension, stress, heat, sinus, barometric, migraine.

You’ve also given me a gift of healing.  Now, I know how that works.  The truth is, I don’t do anything.  I just call upon you.  I tend to practice this gift with others.  I’m not very good at using it for myself.  That seems to take extra energy, extra effort.  How quickly I forget that you are ever-present and that strength through you knows no bounds.

I’m reminded of your love and compassion in the faces of those who are guests in our country this weekend, especially in the one who is our guest in our home.  Their people have known suffering I cannot imagine, and she practices and lives in her faith and beliefs in a way I can only admire.  Somehow in her journey she has found part of Your Mystery, has reached a point of not understanding, and yet the trust in You is called upon and overrides any slightest hint of doubt, if, indeed, there ever was any.   She doesn’t falter; she does blossom.

I was asked questions, too, about my beliefs.  What it boils down to is that I have more to learn about the Bible, about our history and creeds, but I have a solid grasp on the core of my faith.  I truly believe it’s the core of any faith, that God is about Love — love to God, love to self and others through, for, and as God.  This is practiced and appears as compassion, and it is Good.

Thank you for showing us the way of compassion through the great Teachers, Christ and Muhammed be praised.

Bless our home with radical hospitality.  Bless me with strength and healing.  Bless us all who strive to walk in your way, whichever path we take.

As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.  Amen.

Gracious God.  You know my heart.  You know my ways, and yet you continue to bless me.  I continue to ask forgiveness and humbly receive your blessings.

I know my faith will be tested — some big ways, some small.  My prayers don’t have to be typed and published the same moment I’m thinking them.  I can write.  Isn’t that part of what I’m supposed to be doing anyway?  You know my heart.

What I didn’t expect was to have so many prayers answered in one day.  My husband had a relatively pain-free day, and he received word that he got the job, with other work in store.  A friend received hopeful words from a tech running a test.  I received a call from a friend who’s been on my heart; I’ve been on hers, too.  Coincidences all in one day?  That was Day 1.

Today is Day 2 (typed into the computer and post-published due to network disruption), and I have a confession.  I’m afraid of prayer, God.  I’m afraid to fully tap into the divine connection with you because I don’t kow if I’m asking the right thing.  I know I’m not good enough, and I don’t know if I can do all you ask me to do.  I guess I’m afraid of the power of ultimate love.

Yet I believe in it.  Yet I show up.  And I ask for strength.

This evening we’re opening our home to an Afghani woman through the University’s international program.  Tomorrow we open our home to host a dinner for a friend’s family.  Sunday we take a child to church camp.  Thank you for the gift of hospitality, for us and for others.

All honor and glory and praise to You, now and forever.  Amen.

Does it still take 21 days to create a habit?  If so, I need to make one.  It almost worked from Lent a few years ago, but the only thing that remained from making prayer my Lenten practice was my prayer list.  It’s time to get serious now.  Let’s see what I can do in 21 days.  I trust you to help hold me accountable.

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you; for the community I live in, for the children who love me unconditionally, for the husband who upholds me, and for the home we share.  Thank you for your Grace.

Thank you for giving me the faith to ride through all that which I don’t understand.  I don’t know why some people get sick, get diagnosed with stage 3 or 4 cancer, their life turned upside down and those they love thrown into the ensuing chaos.  I don’t understand mental illness and why it’s so hard for our society to allow these people a place.  I don’t understand why some have so much and others nearly nothing at all.

What I know of Life and Love, though, are that nothing is so sure except these.  The world around me teems with life.  In this comfortable morning hour, when the sun promises us a scorching day; the birds are busy, the butterflies about, and the children, cat, and dog waking.  Even the trees and plants seem more at ease, and we are all alive, save for the scorched plants that couldn’t survive the summer heat.  Death is as sure as life — part of the cycle.

So Love, then, is the foundation of my being, the rock of my faith.  Why does it take so long to get there?  Love sees us through the impossible, takes us through the darkness.  Even when it seems like we don’t succeed, if we have walked in the way of Love, at least no one else was harmed and Christ’s example upheld.  Thank you for giving us such an example, showing us our full potential.

Help us, O God, to walk in the way of Love.  Help me to continue to trust, even when Life doesn’t make sense.  And thank you, again, for the beautiful people you have surrounded me with to share in my journey and I in theirs.

Give me strength to delight in your will and walk in your way, to the glory of your name.

Amen

There is enough . . . if we share.  It’s not just a lesson to the kids when they think — when they know — that they don’t have exactly what a sibling or a classmate has.  As if they didn’t have enough of their own.  There are plenty of toys.  There is plenty of food.

Unless you are deprived of something, unless others are not willing to share or have the authority or audacity to take some thing away from you, don’t you have enough?

The seemingly homeless man on the side of the road held a sign.

“I have EVERYTHING I need except money.  Do you have the COURAGE to give?”

As a matter of fact, I happen to have some dollar coins from our visit to the amusement park last week.  Let me share some of our abundance.  Let me ask him where he lives.  Let me hear that he does indeed live around here; that he thinks this is a nice place to live.  As I agree with him, I look directly into his eyes, smiling yet wondering how this could be a lovely place to live if he’s standing on the side of the off-ramp asking for money.  He did say he has everything else he needs.  Money isn’t everything.

Visiting a dying friend, before I took my leave, I said, “Love to you, my friend.”  Drugged as she was, she half-laughed.  ”You said love.  How can you  . . . ”  Her voice trailed off.  I understand.  We’re not close friends.  My coming to her is largely in part of a pastoral visit, but in my visits to her, sincerity wins over any sense of obligation.  ”I try to share my love with everyone,” I tell her gently.  ”It’s part of our responsibility in this life to share God’s love with one another.  You are my sister.”  Eyes closed, she smiled subtly.

We do not see reality the same as one another.  Our perspectives and interpretations are different.  Ultimately, there is one Earth.  One Source.  Our time here is too precious to live in fear, in a sense of lack.

What if we believed we had everything we need.  What if we made sure that we all had everything we needed?  Sure, take care of you and yours, but where does your responsibility end?  Is there a limit to abundance?  I don’t think so.

I only hope I can live into the dream of everyone having everything they need.  Enough to live.  Enough love.  Enough is enough, gently said.

Once a month, if my schedule cooperates, I get to take a Saturday morning apart from the norm.  I wake, shower and dress, and then make the short drive to the middle of town.  I think part of the transformation comes as I start to climb the hill, the hill that makes the van groan with effort not once but twice as I ascend the drive to the house at the top of the hill.

One morning it actually felt like going through the mists at Avalon.  There was a veil of fog around the mountain concentrated across the driveway.  The fog thinned around the house.  As if it weren’t magical enough.

The seemingly ordinary group gathers with chatter and coffee preparation.  We move and arrange furniture, make available nametags, pens and papers.  Then we settle, and the extraordinary happens.  We listen, like I mentioned before.  We might listen through the busy-ness that may be mentioned at the beginning in our introductions, but already we’re calling forth the true Self in each other without saying a word.  With stillness and patience, we listen not only to each other and ourselves but to what is not said aloud.  At times that still small voice calls out to us, formed in a gentle question (not for another but for ourself) or exclaimed in a statement so loud we wonder if others hear it.  There is the group time, but we get our solitude for a while.

This last time, I experienced the wash of contentment bathe me in comfort and joy.  I sat in a low cushy chair by one of the windows in a large room.  Of course the window looked out over the back of the mountain, away from the direction I had come and toward the mountainous horizon to our east.  The warm morning turning cooler; the sun rising across the sky.  My favorite wool shawl covered my lap.  A warm coffee rested in my hand.  The other hand held pen and notepad steady as words streamed onto the page.  I felt the union of woman, creativity and the Divine in that blessed moment.  I could have stayed there for hours.  Indeed, don’t many of us lose track of time when we are in such a place of contentment?

I like to think of it as a bit of enlightenment — a lovely experience but not one to be held onto.  Even in the moment, I knew it wouldn’t last, but I also know that I can access that feeling at any moment (sometimes easier than others).  It’s not my lot in this life to be secluded in a hermitage or cloistered among other nuns.  In this life I get to share my joys, faith, love and practice with others.

In this, too, contentment lies.

For those unfamiliar with the Anglican tradition, the Church calendar is a circle, a cycle, and it has certain colors for every season.  Naturally, there’s a lovely children’s song to teach the season and the meaning for each.

“Purple for preparation.  White for celebration.  Green is for the growing time.  Red is for Pentecost!”

The four weeks of Advent precede Christmas and its twelve days.  Advent is a time of preparing and waiting.  In that time we ponder the Mystery, the Light, Mary, and the other lessons accompanying the season.

In one of my rare solitary moments, I considered what it is that I need to be prepared for, beyond the religious norm.  What I discover, of course, is that my needs parallel with the lessons.

What needs to be done?  What am I required to do as a member of society?  I have to be counted.  I have to pay taxes.  I have to make sure the family is cared and provided for.  My husband and I do this together, the day-to-day, part-of-society requisites.  We have to follow the rules, even if it results in frustration from waiting in lines or finding businesses to be closed due to holiday hours.  We try again.  We do what has to be done.

What is needed of me?  The children need a more compassionate mother (especially this morning).  They need time and attention, which are hard to provide when one is tired and energy levels are low.  Others need the same of me; truthfully, they deserve the same.  Kindness.  I need this of myself, too.

And what might be required from me in this life?  Am I prepared to fulfill my purpose?  I believe that if I’m still alive, I have work to do for the greater Good.  I still don’t know what that work is, but I sense clues.  Ultimately, every moment is an opportunity to change the world for the better.  This is what makes me an optimist, I suppose.  Take the complacency, anger, animosity, even hatred and replace it with awareness and compassion.  It aligns nicely.

The advice given Mary and Joseph works for me, too.  ”Do not be afraid.”  Do the work.  Be present to, for, and with others and myself.  Trust the Mystery and live the Magic.  Goodness is here, in every moment, but I have to be prepared if I want to see it.  I have to be prepared to experience it.  I have to be prepared to be surprised, which ironically I am every time I experience true Grace, Light, and Love.

May we all be so blessed.

Of the four children smacking their cocoa-sweet lips and held captive by The Polar Express, one has a birthday this week, two days before Christmas.  Ten years ago I was 40 weeks pregnant, great with child.  But it wasn’t my first.  I had my support in place.  Preparations had been made.  I knew what to expect, more or less.

In this fourth week of Advent, I love that we light a pink candle to honor Mary.  I love remembering that she surrendered to something greater than herself, that she humbled herself to be a servant.  She didn’t know . . . she couldn’t know what was in store.

Every time I picture Mary or try to work with any kind of visualization or exercise of lectio divina, I have a sense of what Mary might have known.

Surrender.

What was happening was beyond her control.  It wasn’t just about Mary the innocent young woman suddenly expecting child.  As with every mother bearing child, from the moment the baby is conceived and grows, the mother can only do her best to keep healthy.  The formation of the child is left to genetics and the miracle of life.  A mother-to-be can seek the wisdom and comfort of other women to learn all that she can, but when it comes time to birth, there is no bringing forth of life without letting go of one’s identity.  Virgin Mary to Holy Mother of Jesus.  Can you imagine what Mary experienced alone in that stable?  Do you think she found in herself the capacity to pity poor Joseph standing helplessly by?  Could there have been a woman from the Inn who had mercy?  Such details are left unaccounted.

Next thing we know is that there’s a baby in a manger.  Mary has a child, a dependent.  This child’s existence depends upon her care and attention.  She knows this.  With her surrender, though, she knows this child she cares for is not hers alone.  She cares for this precious child not only as her own but as one of God’s . . . as God.  Did she know this?

Could she truly sense this from the beginning?  Could she know the heartache that would come?

From the very beginning, this would be beyond her comprehension.  She might never fully understand.  She could only do her best to do what was required of her in every moment.  She would live fully into each moment, keeping her heart as open as possible to live into the will of God.  This would be the best she could do.  It’s the best any of us can do.

Oh, that I have the humility to live into every moment with awareness and true surrender.  May I raise my children so that they will grow into the beings they are meant to be, not what or how I want them to be.  May I have the strength to be a mother of strength, love, and acceptance.

My children are blessings to me.  I am surrounded by abundance, and I understand this mother role . . . more or less.