Unexpected: A Sermon Not Preached

Due to the nasty cold, I didn't get to preach at my appointed time on Christmas Eve.  If I had, this is what I would have said.  I'm indebted to Ann Weems for the inspiration.  

"Unexpected"

The Rev. Lauren McDonald

Christmas Eve, 2019

Unexpected

by Ann Weems

Even now we simply do not expect 

         to find a deity in a stable.

Somehow the setting is all wrong:

         the swaddling clothes too plain,

         the manger too common for the likes of a Savior,

         the straw inelegant,

         the animals, reeking and noisy,

         the whole scene too ordinary for our taste.

And the cast of characters is no better.

With the possible exception of the kings,

         who among them is fit for this night?

         the shepherds?  certainly too crude,

         the carpenter too rough,

         the girl too young.

And the baby!

Whoever expected a baby?

Whoever expected the advent of God in a helpless child?

Had the Messiah arrived in the blazing light of the glory 

of a legion of angels wielding golden swords,

the whole world could have been conquered for Christ

right then and there

and we in the church – to say nothing of the world!– 

wouldn’t have so much trouble today.

Even now we simply do not expect 

to face the world armed with love.

This poem by Ann Weems captures the unexpectedness and the scandal of the Incarnation.

Whoever expected a baby?

A savior with power and might?  Yes. 

A conquering Messiah?  Sure.

A victorious king or ruler?  You bet.

A poor helpless baby dependent on parents for everything?  Uh…

A vulnerable Messiah in a diaper?  Well…

A savior who doesn’t even save himself?  Definitely not.

No one expected him in the way that he came.  

And even knowing how he came, we still don’t expect him.

When I first read this poem earlier in Advent, it was the last line that caught me like a punch in the gut:

         Even now we simply do not expect 

to face the world armed with love.

We arm ourselves with many things in an attempt to protect ourselves and our loved ones.  And it’s understandable.  It’s a dangerous world out there.  

So we arm ourselves with guns and weapons, with alarm systems, fences, and walls, trying to keep the danger out.  

We arm ourselves with money and things, staving off the fear that there will not be enough.

We arm ourselves with hostile words, with our sense of self-righteousness.  The other side is wrong, and we are right. 

We arm ourselves with sarcasm and cynicism; no one’s going to get one over on us or see how much we care.

We arm ourselves with false smiles so that no one can see how we’re hurting.

We arm ourselves with our intellects so that no one will know how vulnerable our hearts are.  

Much as we try, the armor does not protect us, nor does it keep us safe. Not from physical harm.  Not from emotional harm.  It may give that illusion for a while, but ultimately it will fail.  

Sisters and brothers, the goal isn’t to be safe.  If it were, God would have stayed put and never come to live among us, never come to be God with us.

The way of God is the way of love.

When we are armed with love, we are not safe.  People can and will hurt us.  We will be vulnerable.  

When we are armed with love, we will go places we never expected to go, meet people we never dreamed we’d meet.  

When we are armed with love, our hearts are soft and our arms are open.  We embrace the other, we admit when we’re wrong, we accept that we are not in control.

God came as an infant.  It’s completely crazy.  Absolutely unexpected.  Can you imagine anyone less in control than a baby?

But when you look in the child’s eyes, you see the love.  

You know yourself to be loved.  You know the world to be loved.  You know God’s love.

This Christmas my prayer for each of us is that we will discard the weapons and armor that no longer serve us and that we will instead wrap ourselves in the cloak of God’s love. 

When we do, we will find ourselves singing joyfully with the angels, Glory to God in the highest heaven.  O come let us adore him.

New Year's Eves

We're in the final hours before Advent starts.  New Year's Eve for Christians!  Tomorrow is the first Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the season in which we wait and prepare for the coming of the Christ child and the 2nd coming of Christ.  Unlike New Year's Eve for the calendar year, this eve starts quietly in the dark without fireworks or champagne toasts, without parties and countdowns, without rockin' TV shows or celebrity concerts.  In this season we don't join gyms and make weight loss goals, and most of us don't make resolutions.  In this season we wait.  We journey with John in the wilderness.  We repent.  We listen with wonder to the angel's news.  We prepare.  We anticipate.  We get ready.

I actually celebrate three New Year's Eves each year.  One is on December 31, the turning of the calendar year.  The second is the eve of my birthday, my own personal New Year's Day.  And the third is the evening before the first Sunday of Advent.  It is the third that I love the most - as we walk in darkness we await the great light.  What do I need to do to be ready for its coming?  Tomorrow we will light a single candle on the Advent wreath, and the new season will begin.

Tonight I am preparing to preach tomorrow.  I'm finishing up Thanksgiving pie and listening to the purrs of my kitties as they keep me company while I type.  It's been a gloomy, dismal day outside, one that makes it easier to sit on the couch and ponder the season ahead.  The calm before the holiday storm.  My Advent wreath is ready and waiting though I have forgotten to purchase my candles.  After church tomorrow I will remedy this.

While preparing my sermon I read a quote from David Lose about tomorrow's Gospel reading, "We end up preparing for Christmas rather than for Christ and thereby more easily miss the presence of our Lord in the face of those in need..."  

My prayer for all of us is that we will not be so distracted by preparing for Christmas that we neglect to prepare for Christ.  May Christ be born in us again this new year and always.

God Rests, but God Don't Coast

At the end of my sermon a couple of Sundays ago, as I was exchanging the Peace with my colleague, Josh, he laughed and said, "God don't coast!"  I cracked up.  In my sermon I had preached about how God is always doing a new thing.  Jan frequently reminds me that people and organizations can hit a plateau after they've accomplished a big goal or celebrated an important life event.  If we don't have something on the other side, we just hit a wall.  As an example, I mentioned the installation of Bruton's new organ and how we have to be careful not to get stuck now that this huge project has been accomplished.  

"Whew! We think. Got that down. Now we can just coast for awhile.
But no, God is always doing something new, and we get to do that, too."

Josh summarized the sermon as "God don't coast!"  (And neither should we!)  If I'm not careful, I could hit a plateau or get stuck.  Having pushed myself hard as Acting Rector, I could easily just hit cruise control and stop paying much attention.  As I've been considering how to manage this transition, I've also been thinking about Sabbath.  God might not coast, but God does rest.  God created the world and then rested on the 7th day.  God instituted Sabbath and commanded us to keep it.

As I encouraged the congregation to look to what new thing God is doing at Bruton, I was also thinking about my own life.  For more than four months this year, I have served as Acting Rector of Bruton Parish while our rector has been on sabbatical.  On Monday I turn the helm back over to him and breathe a sigh of relief.  Whew!  Job well done.  I'm grateful that's over!  Now I can just coast for awhile.

If I'm not careful, I could hit a plateau or get stuck.  Having pushed myself hard as Acting Rector, I could easily just hit cruise control and stop paying much attention.  As I've been considering how to manage this transition, I've also been thinking about Sabbath.  God might not coast, but God does rest.  God created the world and then rested on the 7th day.  God instituted Sabbath and commanded us to keep it.

So the trick for me in the coming weeks is to balance the need for rest (I'm weary to the bone!) and the desire to stay awake as Advent begins and we wait once more for the coming of Christ.  I want to be alert and present to the new thing that God is doing (God IS doing something new all the time) AND I want to rest so that I will have the energy to participate.

It will be a challenge for me to hold the tension.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to do so.  

What are you doing next, God?  I'm ready to be a part of it, after I catch a nap!

Learning from the Labyrinth - There's No Right Way

Every time I lead a labyrinth walk, I always begin by saying, "There's no right way to walk the labyrinth.  There's no wrong way to walk the labyrinth.  There is only the way that you walk it today."  I say this as much to remind myself as to instruct others.  For years I didn't "get" the point of walking a labyrinth.  It was pleasant enough, but I was sure I wasn't doing it the right way. That's been true with many a spiritual practice for me.  If I don't have a powerful, tangible experience of God - and by that I mean healing occurs or a vision or an inner voice or a spiritual euphoria - then I must be doing it wrong.  Because other people have those powerful experiences and I don't.  They're right and I am wrong.  Even now, after years of walking the labyrinth and finding it to be a transforming, though often subtle practice, I still fall into the trap of thinking that if a particular walk doesn't yield definable fruit, then I haven't done it quite right.

The other day Jan Brown and I were talking about labyrinths with some other folks.  We discussed how the subtle ways of labyrinths and how they often speak through symbol and metaphor.  Everything that happens on the labyrinth can be useful.  Jan mentioned that some people can't wait to get to the center and get frustrated when the path goes near the center and then turns away.  Someone else mentioned that she didn't think she'd ever get to the center so she just gave up.  Jan asked, "And how do you see that playing out in your life?"

I've heard her ask that question many times before - I even ask that question when I'm facilitating walks.  This time, as I pondered it, I had an epiphany.  When I walk the labyrinth I'm rarely frustrated by the twisting and turning of the path. I don't worry about how long it takes to get to the center; I'm happy to be on the path. My downfall is thinking about what's supposed to be happening. Am I getting the insights I'd hoped for?  Am I listening well enough?  Did I choose the right intention or ask the right question?  Am I paying close enough attention to my breathing?  In other words, am I doing it right?  I know that when I let go and am open to the process and the walk, sometimes insights do come.  Or I'm more aware of what God is doing in creation.  Or I sink into myself more deeply and become clear on some matter simply because I'm not worrying about external factors.  I can hear my inner wisdom and sometimes I'm pretty sure I hear God.  If those things are not happening, then I'm not doing it right. Right?

How do I see that playing out in my life?  Oh, the stories I could tell.  I'm convinced that if I do everything right, then all the outcomes will be what I desire.  And when things don't turn out the way I'd hoped, then I must have done something wrong.  It can be paralyzing when trying to make decisions.  It's not like there's some clear, objective way to know how things will turn out or even if the way they turn out is the right way.  

In the past couple of weeks I've returned to a practice that I have a love/hate relationship with:  centering prayer.  As often as I've tried centering prayer and meditation, I've never been able to get it to work for me.  I'm frustrated by my clamoring thoughts and end the time feeling discouraged that I haven't found the peace that other people experience from these practices.  I've been convinced that I'm not doing it the right way, even though I know THERE IS NO RIGHT WAY.  This time, though, it's working.  I don't know how.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's finally the right time.  (But there is no right time, right? There's only now.) Maybe God has called me to it.  Maybe I'm just in a different place or I have different expectations.  What I know is that I'm showing up, consenting to God's presence in my life, returning to my sacred word when I notice my thoughts, and then going on my way when the time is up.  This time I do feel calmer in my daily life.  I do feel happier.  I'm able to laugh more at all the challenges arising around me.  I'm able to handle my stress better - just as they say will happen when we engage such practices.  

There is no right way.  There is no wrong way.  There is only the way I engage the practice today.  Tomorrow it may be different.  For today, I am grateful.

18 Years Later

I first saw the twin towers just before Christmas in the year, 2000, when I was in NYC for a couple of weeks stage managing a production of Art off-off-off Broadway at a theatre near Shea Stadium. I had tea in the Winter Garden one afternoon with a friend of mine before heading uptown with one of my college roommates for a visit.

On September 11, 2001, I was working at a temp job in Virginia Beach at some kind of computer company where I answered the phone that rarely rang.  On that day I answered more phone calls than most - wives calling their husbands to tell them the news.  I didn't have a cell phone then, so on my lunch break I ran to a pay phone in a nearby parking lot to call my friends at Virginia Stage Company to see if they were okay. They'd been evacuated because the theatre was next door to the Norfolk Federal Building.  I tried to call my parents, but I had forgotten they were on a tour for the day.  I could reach no one, so I headed back in and searched the internet for news.  I emailed everyone I could think of to see if they were okay.  I learned that my church would be holding a service that evening.

Earlier that year I had begun discerning a call to ordination, and I longed to be at the church.  Where I could pray with people, comfort people, be comforted myself.  I longed to be out of the temp job.  It never occurred to the men at the company that it might be a good day to go home.  It didn't occur to me to ask if I could leave.

That night at the prayer service at Christ and St. Luke's, we prayed Psalm 46 and the Prayer for Quiet Confidence.  "Be still and know that I am God."  To this day, I often use that phrase in contemplative prayer.

Eighteen years later, I watched the minute of silence on one of the TV morning shows, and I remembered that day again.  Hard to believe it was 18 years ago.  So much has changed.

After packing my lunch and gathering my work things, I drove to the hospital, where I climbed the stairs to the second floor - maternity ward.  Wearing clericals and carrying my battered travel prayer book with me, I entered the room where a new tiny human slept in a hospital crib beside his mother's bed.  Alexander William, born September 10, 2019.  One of the greatest joys of ministry is getting to bless babies.  For me, today, the experience of leaving the news program detailing the timeline of that terrible morning in order to hold and then bless one of earth's newest inhabitants was a microcosm of the paschal mystery:  life, death, new birth.

At 11am, I presided over the healing Eucharist at Bruton.  In my 11 years as a priest, I have never celebrated the Eucharist on September 11.  We commemorated those who died in the plane crashes and building destruction as well as the first responders who gave their lives to try to save others.  We remembered those who worked so long at Ground Zero digging out, those who ministered to the workers, those who lost their loved ones, those whose lives have been lost to cancers and other diseases that the dust and smoke carried inside their bodies.  We asked God to help us love one another, to love our enemies, and to pray for those who persecute us.  We prayed for healing.

On that day and in the days afterward, so many people asked how God could let this happen.  Where was God?  Then and now I have always thought - God didn't do this.  Human beings did this.  God was with us in it and through it, weeping as we wept, and rejoicing when the good overcame the evil.  

I wonder if God is weeping again today, remembering the destruction caused by those made in God's image.
I wonder if God is weeping over the division and hostility that are devouring our country - a country that had pulled together for a sweet moment after the tragedy.
I wonder if God is weeping that America is turning its back on the people from the Bahamas in their time of tragedy when so many Americans received welcome when we were in the midst of ours.
I wonder if God is weeping because we still can't figure out how to love one another.

"Be still and know that I am God."  We prayed these words in the service today, in Psalm 46, and in the Prayer for Quiet Confidence:
O God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and
rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be
our strength: By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray,
to your presence, where we may be still and know that you
are God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Eighteen years later, I had a much better day.  I blessed a baby and celebrated the Eucharist and attended a delightful Women of Bruton meeting and offered resources to a woman with addiction and had dinner with Jan Brown.  I turned off the news and snuggled with my kitties and wept for how far we have to go and prayed that one day the good won't have to be a small light shining in the midst of darkness.    

First Half Century

On Sunday I will complete the first half century of my life.  Doesn't it sound cool?  A half century. Jan likes to say "half a hundred," and I like the alliteration of it, but half a century just sounds so solid.  I'm very excited.  It's the start of a new half century, a new decade, a new year.  50.  I don't know why I'm so excited, but I am.  I bumped into a former parishioner at the grocery store today who said she'd been weighing whether to send me a card that included the number 50.
"Of course," I said, laughing.  "I think it's cool."

My adult life has seemed to be organized in decades, and each time I enter a new one, I wonder, "What life changing thing will happen in the next ten years.?"

The 20s were my theatre years.  I finished college, interned at the Berkshire Theatre Festival and Actors' Theatre of Louisville, taught a year of high school drama, spent five summers at Interlochen, and moved to Virginia to work at Virginia Stage Company for twelve year, with summer stints in PA and RI.  I attended church, mostly as a stealth parishioner, traveled some during spells of in-between-employment, and suffered through a variety of temp jobs and substitute teaching.  I bought a house toward the end of that decade and started to grow restless.

The year I turned 30, I went to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage with my church and began exploring a call to ordination.  The rest of that decade was spent discerning my call, jumping through hoops, three years of seminary, ordination as deacon and then priest, and my first year of ministry.  When I told people in the theatre that I was going to seminary, many laughed, thinking I was pulling their leg.  "I'm serious," I would tell them.  They couldn't imagine such a dramatic shift, so many of them refugees from the religion that had hurt them or cast them out.  Everything had to change, and it did, and yet, it seemed to be the fulfillment of the longing I had felt all my life to serve God.  The first time I celebrated the Eucharist, I thought this is what I was born for.

Turning 40 was the first time a birthday was hard for me.  It signaled that I most likely wouldn't be having any biological children.  Not impossible, but not likely.  I had a lot of grieving to do for a life that I had imagined.  Even when we choose the road less traveled and it makes all the difference, and we're leading a good life, there is still grief for other roads not taken, and it's important to feel the loss so that it can move on through.  This has been a decade of inner work as well as outer work. Much healing has happened, as I've experienced my first 10 years of ordained life: Hickory Neck Church and CNU campus ministry, SpiritWorks and Bruton Parish.  Jan.  I realized in a conversation with my spiritual director that the pool of sadness which lurked deep inside me is no longer there - or no longer as large.  How grateful I am.

Sunday I begin the 50s.  I've decided that 50 will be fun.  I don't have big plans for my birthday.  It falls on a Sunday, so I will be in church - no place I'd rather be than doing what I was born to do.  Planning a nice lunch and maybe a little kayaking and a nap.  We'll see.  My retreat was a present to myself.  I think I'm going to start tap class on Wednesday.  And maybe Jan and I will go to Greece with our little bear in the coming year.  Hopefully I'll finish my book.  Perhaps I'll even get something published.
Who knows what's next?  Here am I, God.  Your servant is listening.

One of my favorite lines from Sunday in the Park with George, "A blank page or canvas. His favorite.  So many possibilities."

The next half century:  So many possibilities...

Re-entry

Grandfather Mountain from Valle Crucis

One of the most challenging parts about a retreat is ending it and re-entering – the proverbial "coming down from the mountaintop."  In my case literally coming down from the mountains.  This is the first time I've made a personal retreat that lasted 5 full days plus a travel day on each side.  Although I could have stayed longer, this felt like the right length.  Usually I'm longing for at least another day if not more.  But I had done the things I had intended except for one.  I hadn't hiked.  I was saving it as a treat for my last day if I got my writing work done.  Forecast for the day was low 80's and sunshine.

Lavender House

On the afternoon of Day 5, Friday, after getting my book manuscript in as good an order as I could, I left the hermitage for the first time and drove down into the valley to visit the Lavender House and to get a sandwich from the Ham Shoppe.  I was running out of salad, and ready for some meat!  When I got down to the shops, I was overwhelmed by the people and cars.  Aplace as small as Valle Crucis doesn't have real traffic, but there were almost no parking places at the Mast General Store or the sandwich place.  I waited long stretches of time to be able to turn onto the main road.  All around, people were starting their summer weekend in the mountains.  After a week of quiet, I couldn't wait to drive back up the mountain and slip back into the quiet safety of my hermitage porch to eat.  As I ate and rocked, I felt peace creeping in and gently replacing the anxiety of my foray back to civilization.

After a late lunch, I grabbed one of the cabin walking sticks and went for a hike, down the mountain through the woods to a waterfall I have visited before, but never from this direction.  I had always climbed up from the conference center.  This time I climbed down from the hermitages, a much longer journey.  Rhododendrons greeted me along the way, and my walking stick served for removing spider webs from the path.  As I approached the waterfall, I could hear the water rushing over the rocks.  Once down among the rocks, I turned my face to the sunlight streaming through the leafy bower overhead and soaked up the warmth.  With help from my trusty staff, I clambered out onto a flat rock in the center of the river and sat in a beam of sunshine facing upstream.  A fine mist blew above the water, droplets not even heavy enough to wet my skin.  I sang, as I often do when I'm out in nature alone.
"Rivers belong where they can ramble.  Eagles belong where they can fly."

Of course, she who hikes down must also hike back up.  The climb back to the hermitages earned me 14 peak cardio minutes on my Fitbit.  The entire journey took less than two hours, and despite the cool temperatures, I was breathing and sweating heavily when I had returned to the top.  I spent some time in the wooden swing below my cabin before heading to the shower and my last evening of retreat.
I had intended to go to bed early, thinking my hike would guarantee me a good night's sleep, and I would have time to write in the morning.  But the 3/4 moon illuminated the sky so it seemed like perpetual twilight, and the fireflies flashed brilliantly and the stars called me to gaze at their light.  I sat on the porch wrapped in a shawl in the cool, still air and felt deep peace in my soul.

The last morning, mostly packed, I took time to journal and to ask God to help me with re-entry.  I had decided to take an alternate route home, up 81 and over to the Blue Ridge Parkway so that I could visit a favorite "God spot" at Yankee Horse Ridge.  In my journaling, I prayed that I could tap back into the peace that I had felt so deeply at the Valle Crucis retreat.  That I wouldn't rush, that I would stay strong and centered and not be buffeted by ALL THE THINGS that would engulf me upon return.  That I would be able to endure the 95 plus degrees and thick humidity that I had so blessedly escaped for a week.  That I would remember the moonlit sky and stars the bird song and the stillness the serenity and tranquility of my hermitage stay.

Yankee Ridge - waterfall above me to the right

I did take my time, but I almost lost my peace when I got to my spot at the Yankee Horse Ridge Overlook.  It was barricaded due to construction on the Parkway and machinery they were storing in the parking area.  I couldn't figure out how to park and I kept going, fuming and discouraged because it was quite out of my way and there had been a number of slow downs on 81.  I was starting to get worked up when I remembered my journaling.  "You can't lose your peace that quickly," I told myself, and I said a little prayer, asking God to help me find a solution.  Finally, I saw a side road that allowed me to turn around and head back.  Someone had already pulled down the yellow tape and coming from that direction, I was able to slip in between two orange barrels and park.  I took my lunch, climbed up on my favorite rock, and completed my retreat gazing at the much slimmer waterfall above me.  I have had many conversations with God there, and it seemed like a perfect way to bring my retreat to a close and look toward my birthday in a couple of weeks.

Re-entry was still hard.  My disposal wasn't working, and Williamsburg was a sauna, but the most difficult was having my computer stop working the day I returned.  I've spent the week erasing my computer, rebooting the Operating System, and restoring all my files.  I still don't have it all back, but I'm functional again.  And the peace hasn't evaporated yet, either, though there were a few challenging moments.  How grateful I am for the gift of retreat, of Sabbath rest, of renewal.

Rhythm of Retreat

From the day after Easter until July 1, I served as Acting Rector of Bruton Parish while our Rector was on sabbatical.  What an experience of having to think about ALL THE THINGS!  It was my job to keep the ship on course, and I did.  When Chris returned, I happily turned the wheel back over to him, and after a week of overlap drove away for my annual retreat.

Mountains are my favorite place to be, and after discovering the hermitages at the Valle Crucis Conference Center near Boone, NC last year, I had decided to return.  Perfect little cozy wooden cabins each with its own porch and rocking chairs, a jewel of a tiny chapel, mountains, cool nights with windows open to the mountain air, quiet, no mosquitos.

I have now been on enough retreats that I have discovered they have a rhythm.  And my rhythm is not necessarily like anyone else's - if only I could remember that!

First day = sleep.  Lots of it.  Usually sleeping late and falling back asleep and sometimes even going to bed early.  It's also a good day to take care of details like paying for the retreat, making sure I have food, getting unpacked and organized, and if there's something pulling at me like shopping in the local town or hiking, then it's a good day for that, too. Being gentle is important.  If I want to sit and stare, then I need to do that.  If I want to shop and hike, best to get it out of my system.  This time I knew that sleep would be the order of the first day.  Plus a trip to the Mast General Store and a walk on the labyrinth in the field below the main conference center.  Since I often intend to write on my retreats, it's important to remember that I'm not going to write on that first day.  Maybe a journal entry, but most of my time is spent settling in.  I am full of gratitude to be away.

Second day = more sleep.  This is where I fall into the trap of thinking that I have rested enough and it's time to Get To Work.  Whether that work is writing or hanging out with God or whatever, I feel the need to be productive at retreating.  This time I gave it a name - 2nd Day Low.  I'm no longer generous and gentle.  My inner critic starts expounding upon how I'm already failing at retreat - time's a ticking, and I'm wasting all this precious time that I've set aside to do nothing.  I start looking around for snacks, preferably of the chocolate variety.  I organize the books, notebooks, and I start reading.  Surely reading counts as productivity.  This time I read about Valle Crucis, Julian of Norwich, the enneagram - particularly type 9 which is me, and writing as a spiritual practice.  I also worked on The Recovering and the memoir that I've been assigned in my writing class.  And a cute little pocket edition of Monk in the Marketplace which led to a necessary internet search to see how much it would cost to order the full edition.  I wish I were one of those people who would take a technology sabbatical while on retreat, but I'm not.  Frequently I get pulled to the Internet to look up some important detail which CANNOT WAIT.  Late in the afternoon I was able to convince myself to start laying out the notecards for my book project and putting them in order while reading through old journals to get my chronology right.  With notecards spread across the floor and no writing done, at the end of the day, I'm still full of gratitude, but frustrated that I'm not better at retreat.

By the third day, I'm starting to be less tired.  More settled in.  I can usually cajole myself into getting up a little earlier and sitting down to write something.  Progress at last.  I stop reading about Valle Crucis and Julian and start focusing on writing or reading that pertains to what I'm writing.  I get my cards done and start transferring the scene and chapter titles into the material I've already written.  Bring order to the whole.  My writing class about creating a blueprint for the memoir is helping me with structure, and once I get all these headings in, I'll know what else I need to write, what I need to cut, and where this whole thing is headed.  There are discrete sections now that need to be written, and I can start anywhere I like.  It's just that there are so many of them; it's overwhelming.  Still, I've started, and that's progress.  Plus I removed about 15,000 words that don't fit in the current structure.  I'll keep them elsewhere for something else.  I get a short walk in and am happy to move my body. On this night I finish reading the memoir for my writing class - homework done, I can concentrate more fully on my own writing for day 4.

Day Four - Usually this is the last day, the most productive day, the day when I'm motivated because it's the last day, and sometimes the day for a hike or nice dinner.  But on this retreat I have given myself an extra day.  I'm still motivated, wanting to write, but I'm also restless.  It storms all day, but I'm no longer so tired that I want to curl up and sleep.  I can't get away from myself by taking a walk. I'm stuck in the cabin with me and my book, and suddenly I hate my book.  I know I'm a terrible writer.  Everything I'm putting down is boring.  It's not like I'm going to get published anyway.  I might as well trash the whole thing.  I finally convince myself to journal and I beg God, "Help me!"  Then I text my writer priest friend Elizabeth who helps me get unstuck and writing again, and I spend several hours typing steadily. The rain stops for sunset, so I take a longer walk to enjoy the beauty all around me, I pray Compline in St. Anthony's tiny chapel,  and then write and read more before bed. Sleep comes slowly, but I'm still so grateful for this time and that I have one more full day.

Day 5 is today.  I don't think I've ever allowed myself this many days, so this is a new one. Unfortunately my inability to get to sleep last night wrecked my attempt to start getting back to a more normal schedule - when left to my own devices, I will always migrate toward staying up late and sleeping late.  So I slept later than intended and have gotten off to a slower start.  It wasn't supposed to be raining today, but it is off and on.  My reward for work today is a hike down to the waterfall this afternoon.  It may seem like I'm avoiding by writing this post, but another goal for the retreat was to make a blog post, and so I'm getting that done now.  Then I'll turn back to the book.

It has been such a good time of rest and renewal.  Porch sitting, gazing at clouds and rainbows and birds and flowers and bunnies and trees.  Eating vegetarian all week with salads and fruit and whole wheat pasta.  Sinking into books.  Still getting distracted plenty, but having enough time to be distracted and then return to my purpose.  There is no right way to take a retreat.  No single right observance of Sabbath.  The only right way is doing it at all.  Finding the rhythm that works and not worrying about what gets accomplished.  Letting go of the need to produce and paying attention to what I need.  Listening to God.  Getting restless and distracted.  Returning to listening.  The rhythm speeds up and slows down.  All a part of the whole.  Thanks be to God.

Goose Peek-a-boo

In the past ten days I have been blessed with an abundance of meaningful work.  It started on Ash Wednesday when I preached and celebrated the early morning service, spent some time at SpiritWorks, imposed ashes for a couple of hours in the Bruton Chapel, and assisted with the evening service.  The next morning I helped make a presentation on behalf of SpiritWorks and made several pastoral care visits.  That weekend I co-facilitated the Bruton Women's Lenten Retreat.  Tuesday I had the early morning service and the nursing home service and more pastoral visits plus the afternoon at SpiritWorks.  Wednesday was a relatively normal work day except for a visit to court to support a friend.  Thursday saw pastoral care visits and planning and presenting the evening Lent forum talk on Contemplative Prayer.  Yesterday I led a Women's Retreat in Norfolk on story telling.

Whew!  By yesterday afternoon, when I had made the drive back to Williamsburg, I was a walking zombie.  I laid down on the couch for "just a few minutes" before heading to dinner with Jan, and conked out for a half hour.  Following a rich dinner with homemade coconut chocolate chip pecan ice cream for dessert, I decided to walk the labyrinth just to stretch my legs a bit and to wrap up the intense few days.

Once at the labyrinth, I started slowly onto the path, trying to release the work I had done, and thanking God for all the things going well.  About a quarter of the way through the walk in, I felt agitated with exhaustion.  I don't want to do this, I thought.  I just want to go home.  I also had to pee.  You can't quit before you get to the center.  If you want to stop then, fine, but you need to go at least that far.

So I kept walking, wondering if I could keep putting one foot in front of the other when all I wanted to do was lie down.  When I got to the center, I stood there.  Okay God.  My well is dry.  I need you to fill me back up, to restore me.  I've got nothing left.  As I stood there in the heart of the labyrinth, I heard some squawking and saw two Canadian geese flying west.  When they got close to the labyrinth, they turned and started heading straight toward me.  I ducked, though they probably wouldn't have hit me, but it looked like their flight path was lined up with my head.  As I ducked they veered slightly upward and flapped over to the grass on the north side of the labyrinth where they landed.

You're not funny, God.

My mood lightened, and I decided to take the path all the way back out, instead of crossing over the lines.  I knew it would take another ten to fifteen minutes, but I thought I could make it before I keeled over or my bladder burst.  My step was a little lighter on the way out, and my shoulders felt less slumped.  The sun was heading for the horizon, while streaks of clouds began to pinked.  Golden light illuminated the upper bare branches of the sycamore tree on the south side of the labyrinth.  I hunched a bit inside my coat as the chill air started me shivering.

Squawking began again, and I noticed the two geese had approached the labyrinth.  They waddled to the other side of the eighteen inch cinder block wall between the street and the labyrinth.  The wall obstructed the lower half of their bodies, but I could see their black heads with the white neck stripes above the wall.  As I made a turn in the path, I looked over and the geese were gone!  Where did they go?  Then their heads popped back up.  I giggled.  After the next turn, I only saw one head.  I stopped to watch.  As if they were participating in some synchronized goose choreography, their heads bobbed up and down in time.  I guessed they were looking for dinner but the black and white heads disappearing and reappearing from behind the low wall tickled me until I laughed out loud.  The geese stopped squawking and both turned their heads to look right at me.

"Yes, I'm laughing at you," I replied to their curious looks.  "But it's the gentlest, kindest sort of laughter."

As I walked, they continued their funny game of peek-a-boo until I saw only one head for some minutes.  When I left the labyrinth, I had to check to make sure the other one was still there.  I kept breaking out into laughter as I walked.  When I emerged, I felt refreshed and renewed from my laughter and the delight of the bobbing geese.

Climbing into my car, I lingered, looking west at the sky that had begun to burn orange above the small herd of deer munching their evening meal of grass.  The two geese remained between the labyrinth wall and the street, no longer interested in me but curiously searching the ground for whatever geese eat.

It was only later that I thought about the bobbing goose heads and wished I'd caught them on my camera.  On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't even think of it, too present in the moment to worry about capturing it for later.

Star Words for Epiphany

I have never been big on making New Year's resolutions.  Sure, I always want to be kinder, lose 10 pounds, and grow closer to God.  But I have not found that making resolutions helps me do any of those things.  In the past few years, I have adopted a word for the new year.  Usually it comes to me. One year my word was listen.  Another year it was courage.  I think last year it was time.  I wanted to live into the idea that there is enough time.  Not sure that one was very successful.  Basically I ponder that word through the year and seek ways to live into it more fully.

This year I hadn't considered resolutions or words until last week.  I was preparing to preach for two baptisms at First Fridays, and I came across a post about star words.  Now maybe I'd heard of them in passing, but I didn't remember them.  From what I can tell, Presbyterian clergy seem to have started them.  Star Words are given out on Epiphany.  They are words written on a cut out star.  Just as the magi followed a star to find Jesus and brought him gifts, so, too, we seek a closer relationship with the divine.  Our word can be a guiding star during the year, a word to ponder in our hearts as Mary did with all that she saw and heard about Jesus.  It can be a word we live into, that we use to connect us with God, to lead us deeper on our spiritual journey, to guide us into the new year ahead.

As I was journaling about star words, the word endurance popped into my head.  So I wrote it down, thinking that was a good star word.  Sometimes I can get worn out and give up, and it seemed that endurance might be good for me.  Except that it made me a little tired just thinking about it.  Then I moved into a listening to God exercise and the word I got then was gentle.  Seemed at odds with the first word until I spoke with my spiritual director, and we put them together - gentle endurance.

On Friday night I created star words for the First Fridays congregation. We passed them out at the end of my sermon, but I had to wait until after the service to draw mine.  Harmony.  I like that word.  Perhaps gentle + endurance = harmony.  Looking forward to how these words will work on my life in the coming year.

Happy Epiphany, everyone!

What word is choosing you in this new year full of possibility?