Path. . . .

Some people always have to have a path. They just have to know where they're going-- and how they're going to get there. I think these are the folks who created MapQuest and GPS. And that's fine, I suppose, sometimes.

If you have someplace you have to be, and a time you have to get there-- best know where you're going.

But every now and then, I believe it's important to ditch the path and wander. Why not?

What's the worst that can happen? You get lost. (And you may even have to ask someone for directions. Gasp!)

Years ago when I first moved to a new town, I had a mission: I started at our apartment-- and I just drove. I paid little attention to the ways I was turning or the streets I was on.

I set out to get lost.

And then-- I set out to find my way home again. And I made it home to write about it.

I think life's like that. Once in awhile, just stop. Put it down, whatever it is you are carrying, and go away. Try to get lost.

Because you just might find that in getting lost, you find part of yourself you didn't know was missing.

Forty days Jesus was in the desert, and wild beasts cared for him. Angels hovered over him.

Where will you go today?  Leave the path behind. . . .

Covenant.

Covenant is definitely a "church word," or once in awhile, a legal beagle term. Its origins come from Latin, and mean "to come together in agreement." Kind of a handshake and a promise.

But when God makes a covenant, suddenly it becomes more.

God made a covenant with Abraham, and he becomes the father of nations, offspring too numerous to count, like the stars in the sky-- and he gets a late start in the game.

And even when Abraham and his wife Sarah aren't completely faithful to God's plan-- God remains faithful.

No matter what.

And so it is with each of us. We may not be capable of unwavering faithfulness, but the God who created us is always faithful.

Remember that the next time things in life seem to be sliding south.

All the peoples of the earth will be blessed through you.

Think about that for a minute-- and believe.

Celebrate?

(During Lent, I will be following the photo prompt words from Rethink Church, but using them to create word pictures. Discipline, discipline, discipline.)

Celebrate. Celebrate? Seriously?

It's Lent, after all. And even if we are allowed to "take Sundays off," still. Celebrate?

Absolutely.

This is the day the LORD has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!

The sun came up, we all woke up-- hopefully on time for worship if that's your Sunday thing.

I have a roof over my head, food in the refrigerator, a car that takes me where I need to go.

I have eyes to see the beauty of the snow sparkling like diamonds in the rough (okay, really rough where the plows came through).

I have ears to hear the intricate melodies and harmonies of Beethoven as it streams from my radio.

I have a voice to proclaim the goodness of the God I serve.

And-- I have two strong legs to walk across town, shuffle through the snow, dance with joy. (But it's a little cold yet, so unlike David-- I think I will keep my clothes on!)

Praise the Lord in his temple! praise him with timbrel and dance!

It's Lent. Celebrate anyway! Or celebrate-- because!

JOY!!!

(During Lent, I will be following the photo prompt words from Rethink Church, but using them to create word pictures.                                                                        Discipline, discipline, discipline.)

Joy.

That deep sense of well-being and effervescence, it seems, that pervades our being and fills us and carries us in unexpected ways. There are a lot of joy-filled people in Scripture.

Sarah, who embarrassed herself a bit by laughing at the angel's promise-- but when that child Isaac was born, I imagine her heart was filled to overflowing.

Noah's family, upon realizing the waters were receding, finally-- whew! Relief and joy-- and a fresh start.

The psalmist, over and over again, realizing how great the LORD was whom he served-- and his awestruck joy fills so many pages of our holy book.

Peter, realizing it was the risen Christ preparing breakfast on the beach-- so overjoyed he splashed his way through the shallow waters, completely oblivious to any sense of decorum at all. That's joy!

But for all the joy-filled moments and stories in the Bible, in my opinion none tops the very first story.

You know-- the one where God looks around at all that God has created: the land and seas, the creatures, the sun, moon and stars. And surveying the beauty and bounty of Creation, God declares it all good.

And I believe, even today, through all the darkness and brokenness, still-- it is good. And it makes my heart sing with joy.

Weeping and mourning may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Where in your life have you found joy? Look again. . . .

ALONE. . . .

(During Lent, I will be following the photo prompt words from Rethink Church, but using them to create word pictures. Discipline, discipline, discipline.)

There he stood, hood up over his head, cloak pulled tightly around him. He had laughed at lesser gods, taunted and murdered the prophets and really, really ticked off the queen. 

He was running for his life, sleeping in a cave, shivering in fear.

The prophet Elijah had never felt so alone in his life. The few he had loved, he had left behind in his mad rush to flee to safety.

Too terrified even to realize: these were angels of the LORD caring for him, providing him rest and solace. No, he was convinced: there was no one whom he could trust. He prayed to the LORD to die, to join his ancestors. At least then he wouldn't be alone.

But now Elijah is waiting. The LORD has promised to pass by, and Elijah waits in uncertainty and expectation. 

After all, this is the LORD! How will the LORD arrive? With a fanfare of angels and trumpets? In fire and glory? A demonstration of might and power?

Not at all.

As Elijah waited, there was fire and wind and earthquake-- but the Lord was not in any of those things. (Good to remember, eh? Destruction is not God's preferred modus operandi.)

Then, when Elijah's heart grew still, he heard it: a still, small whisper that was the voice of the LORD. A whisper asking a simple question: What are you doing here, all alone? 

The LORD's presence and comfort come not from the world around us, but from within. And we are never as alone as we might feel at any moment.

The LORD was not in the wind . . . or the earthquake . . . or the fire.

Stop. Look. Listen with the ears of your heart.

LOOK!

(During Lent, I will be following the photo prompt words from Rethink Church, but using them to create word pictures. Discipline, discipline, discipline.)

It started early in the morning, on the first day of spring. Those cramps somehow felt different, not the usual stuff. I wondered, could this be it-- finally? Was this labor-- for real?

In due time, we headed to the hospital, taking an alternate route because the city was in the midst of a hundred-year flood. The hospital admitted me, and the games began. (It wasn't always pretty-- I remember quite clearly having moments of wanting to throttle that man who had done this to me!) After what seemed like forever, there was one big push-- and our son entered the world.

The nurse swaddled him up and handed him to my husband, who brought him to where I could see him. Ten tiny toes, ten perfect little fingers.

And those eyes! Those eyes, big as could be, slowly taking in this world that he had been hearing for so long-- now opening up before him. 

As I gingerly stroked my son's hand, his eyes met mine. They were wide with wonder, as if he was aware that these people he was seeing now, for the first time, he somehow already knew! 

I looked. He looked. And in the silence and wonder, we truly saw one another for the very first time.

And it was very good. Thirty-two years later, it is still very good.

God saw all that God had made, and it was very good.

Open your eyes today. Look-- and see your world through the fresh eyes of a child of God.

ANNOUNCE.

(During Lent, I will be following the photo prompt words from Rethink Church, but using them to create word pictures. Discipline, discipline, discipline.)

And so it begins: with an announcement. 

"We're getting married!" "It's a BOY!" Pizza for dinner! Oh goodie!"

That word, announce comes from the same Latin root that brings us message. And messenger. And angel.

You will be with child, and give birth to a son, and you shall give him the name . . . Jesus.

It all began with an announcement from the angel Gabriel, to a young girl no one had even heard of-- until then. And suddenly, the whole world began to change.

Throughout his ministry, Jesus lived a life of announcement, of angelic message. 

Your faith has made you well. She's not dead, but merely asleep. I give you a new name: Peter.

Woman, here is your son. Man, here is your mother.

Words. Redefining family, redefining wholeness, redefining what it means to follow God-- and sometimes, pi**ing people off. Important people who didn't much cotton to being told they were seriously wrong.

As we begin wandering towards the Cross, pretend you don't know how we believe the story ends. Truly focus in the moment and ponder the ways Jesus' announcements and proclamations were heard-- right then.

And imagine. Imagine the shouting, the rage. The confusion and broken dreams.

After all, not all news is good news. At least, not at first.

Behold! I am making all things new!

Blessings on this journey we will make together. Peace.

Hungry?

 Jesus replied, “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.” --Matthew 14:16

So, what's for dinner? 

How often does the typical mother or caregiver hear that question, or think it to herself (or himself) in the course of a week? Simple enough question-- as long as you have resources to answer it.

This past Sunday my beloved and I served as hosts for our church's Neighborhood Lunch. I haven't helped very often, because there are usually plenty of folks willing to cook, to serve and to clean up. 

But this time, we specifically volunteered-- to host.

To actually mingle in the Great Hall with our guests, to serve up some love and respect along with that bowl of chili. And to help us remember: those who come in for a meal are people, just like you and just like me. They have families, many of them. And they have stories.

It was an odd juxtaposition, actually. We went from the parlor, where I helped serve punch and cookies for the 90th birthday of a beloved congregant, to the basement hall, set up with round tables and red-and-green plastic tablecloths. 

The menu changes every month: this month we served chili, cornbread, fruit and cupcakes/ cookies. Oh-- and coffee. Lots of coffee with lots of cream and LOTS of sugar, as our guests like it. Look out, Starbucks.

Lunch was to be served at 1:00; folks began arriving before then. My beloved immediately made his way to a table where two bald men were already sitting. When I wandered past after a few minutes, they were engaged in conversations about razors and shave cream, whether to shave in the shower or over the sink. (I chose not to add much to that conversation.)

At J's invitation, our guests filed through cafeteria-style, receiving generous servings and settling down to the business of eating. Latecomers straggled in and were also served before the offer of second helpings was made.

I helped with coffee. I fetched napkins. I smiled. I listened to stories of God's grace in the lives of these who seemingly have so little. And my beloved-- he really listened. And got an earful.

It turned out, on this first Sunday he ever came to help, there was a man walking a path very similar to his. The loss, the pain, the desire not to go on-- all there. And because he had truly been there in so many ways, he could offer the words of hope this tired soul so desperately needed to hear.

Imagine that.

Many who volunteer choose to stay in the kitchen (where it's "safe"?), but Life happens in the hall. A hot bowl of chili fills the belly; a warm conversation lasts long after the hall is dark and the doors closed and locked for the day.

We never know where or how or when another Child of the Most High will cross our paths in an unexpected way, calling us to be vulnerable, to let our hearts be touched.

Because it's not "us" versus "them." It's just US. Brothers and sisters of every size, shape, color and income, all hungry for  that which fills and feeds our souls.

Almighty One, help me to see with your eyes and love as you would love. Amen

So proud.

 And the Lord added to their number daily 
those who were being saved. 

--Acts 2:47

I did something yesterday I have never done before. It was a last-minute decision. I wasn't really sure I wanted to do it, but it wouldn't let go of me. It got stuck in my mind and then in my heart-- and I just had to do it.

Curious, now, aren't you? 

My church, University Circle UMC, is part of the Reconciling Ministries Network (RMN). We are also strong supporters of the Human Rights Campaign (HRC) and the Gay Straight Alliance. We profess and believe (and behave as if) all are welcome.

About a week ago, I received an email telling me that the RMN was participating in the 2014 Pride Parade in downtown Cleveland on June 28. They were extending an invitation for member churches to join them. I also learned that the Grand Marshal this year was a member of our congregation.

So as the social network person for the church, I put out the word. The event went up on Facebook. I sent out an email on the prayer chain seconding the invitation. Come, I said. Come and walk the walk.

But in my own mind, I wasn't sure I was going to do so.

The day got closer, and still I waffled. Should I go? I wouldn't be walking all alone or anything. Oh, but it was going to be so hot. Oh, I don't know. . . .

I emailed someone whom I thought would be going, to ask for a ride. Turns out they weren't going to attend or walk. Off the hook, I thought.

Pfft. Right. The Parade would not leave my mind.

So I Googled for directions. I hemmed. I hawed. Then I spoke with my beloved, and guess what he says, from two thousand miles away in Montana.

You should go, he says. You should go. For your brother and brother-in-law, if for no other reason.

So . . . I went. 

And I am so glad I did. I truly am. For a number of reasons.

There were over 40 groups there, I am guessing, but I never did find RMN. I found HRC and decided to walk with them. It was a great bunch. Like most of the Parade participants, I believe most of the HRC group were members of the LGBT community rather than allies like me. (Is this the point where I confess to having returned my wedding rings to my left hand? True story. Sad, perhaps, but true.) We carried a huge banner, 30' x 55'.

 We were lining up next to a very . . . umm . . . interesting group of mostly men wearing mostly leather and chains, and very little of either one. One of the younger male members of HRC confided to me, "They make me a little scared. Definitely not my thing!" Much laughter, much love.

As we waited to step off, a beautiful transgender person dressed in gold lame walked past-- in six-inch heels. And she walked the whole parade in those heels (although she did take off the gold lame jacket after about a half mile).

At one point, just before the final corner and the home stretch, there was a group we lovingly called the Haters. 

The Haters come every year. They have to have a permit, and they have to stand in a particular location. This bunch was pretty tame, actually. I will not dignify their messages by repeating any of them here, but I must tell you about the Guardian Angels.

The Guardian Angels come out every year, as well. When the Haters show up, so do they. Dressed in white tunics, constructed to look as though they have enormous spread wings, wearing rainbow ribbons draped around their necks, these beautiful souls arrive early and stand, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the Haters, between them and those who march. They don't say a word. 

One look at their faces tells you they are praying for every person in front of them and behind them. They. Were. Beautiful. Truly the image of God's love in the world.

So we cheered as we passed, and when we got to the final corner we made a full circle, banner and all, and the crowd went wild. We walked the final blocks and said goodbye, and called it a day.

It was hot. It was different than anything I had ever experienced. At times it was way outside my comfort zone.

And I am so glad I went.

Because there were not a lot of allies there, and we need to walk the walk.

If the beautiful soul in gold lame showed up this morning in her six-inch heels, would we really, truly know how to welcome her? I hope so. But I am not completely sure. 

But I hope so.

Because this, friends, is how the Church is called to act. This unconditional love is what draws people, lures the broken-hearted and disillusioned. It's not the building or the music, or even the best sermon ever preached from a pulpit.

It's the Love. Because in that Love lies the Hope and Promise of the future. Amen.

Circle of Life

There is a time for everything,

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

 

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

 

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

 

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

 

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

 

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

--Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

(Want the audio version? Here it is! To Everything There Is a Season)

Sometimes I get so busy, so caught up in life, that I stop really seeing what is going on around me. But over the past month, I have had the pleasure of watching a family of robins go from couple to family to empty nest, in the course of a few weeks. And I have been amazed.

Back in early May, when it was still quite chilly, especially at night, I was gone one day and when I came home in the evening, there it was on my front porch, high under the peak: a beautiful robin's nest, woven, sturdily constructed and decorated with a sprig from a money plant. I was so excited!

And the next morning, under the back awning, another surprise: a finch's nest. Not nearly the work of art the robins built, this nest looked more like a handful of grass and twigs thrown up with a prayer that it would stick and stay together. But a house is a house when it's built on love.

One Sunday when the kids were over, we were saddened to find a broken robin egg on the porch. The nest was too high to see if there were more, so we waited.

Pretty soon Mama began spending more and more time in that nest so perfectly tailored to her shape.

And on the back porch? I would peek out the door and see a red little head atop the disheveled pile of grass. Every time I would open the door to go out, she would fly away. But she always came back, and she, too, spent a lot of time on the nest. Waiting.

Soon the robins hatched: One, two, three-- four? I began to see wobbly heads perched atop spindly necks, wide open mouths silently asking for more. I remembered Jack Kent's great line in Round Robin. 

"Most of him was head, and the rest of him was hungry!" 

Man, oh man, were they ever! Mama made endless flights, pulled dozens of worms from my lawn, fed her babies all day long, it seemed-- and then hopped into that nest and sat right down on top of them. From inside the house, my cats and I enjoyed watching her teach and train those babies.

And meanwhile, out back-- still waiting.

The baby robins began looking less like aliens and more like birds. They began to stretch their wings a bit, and the peeping! So much noise from such tiny little heads. Soon I realized I was only seeing three heads. Somebody didn't make it. My heart caught a little.

Two Sundays ago I went out the back door and Papa Finch was visiting Mama Finch on the nest. As I came out, he flew, but she stayed put. My heart grew hopeful. 

But that was the last time I saw any finch on that nest. Apparently it was not their time.

Oh, but those robins! The kept growing, practically right before my eyes! Their feeble peeps became robust cheeps. Their wings spread and flapped at the air, and once, while I was watching, Mama hopped in the nest and gave one of her babies a firm nudge-- and suddenly he found himself out of the nest and perched wobbling on the porch beam. (That was the first time I had any robin poop on my porch, too. . . . lol)

Then it happened.

I got up Sunday morning, opened the front door-- and the nest was empty. I looked down to see a fuzzy little guy flapping and hopping like crazy, and Mama standing nearby keeping watch. The nest was strangely quiet. And so it goes. . . .

* * * * *

For a time, I am now blessed with a houseguest, a young lady beginning to make her own way in the world. As her parents dropped her off in the evening, I watched as yet another nest began to empty. Even as perhaps they couldn't name it yet, there would be quiet where there had been singing, a bed no longer rumpled with sleep. I could see this was harder on Mom and Dad than it was on their beautiful daughter.

Life goes on. In the face of loss, new life appears. This, friends, is what the Resurrection is all about. Yes, it's about a risen Lord-- but it's also about the renewal of life, not just at life's end, but every single season. Weeping and mourning may last for the night, but joy-- and peeping and stretching one's wings for flight-- will come in the morning. 

(Need another one? Circle of Life)

Star of the show

“To whom will you compare me?

    Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One.

 

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:

    Who created all these?

He who brings out the starry host one by one

    and calls forth each of them by name.

Because of his great power and mighty strength,

    not one of them is missing. --Isaiah 40:25-26

There was a meteor shower last night, did you see it? The Camelopardalids, results of a newly-discovered comet trail, made their debut over North America last night, and will continue overnight for a few days. Meteorologists predicted it would be a spectacular show, maybe as many as a hundred shooting stars per hour, and most active after midnight. 

Now, if you know me at all, I am definitely a morning person-- and not a stay-up-till-midnight-for-a-meteor-shower kind of girl. But I had had a nap. And-- I had had iced tea for dinner. So I decided I would go for it.

I grabbed a jacket, wished I had taken a blanket, as well. I headed out the back door, and Mama Finch didn't even bother flying off her nest as I went. 

I have an automatic porch light that comes on to be sure the burglars can see their way to my door all right-- and it came on right on cue. I went to the back of my yard, found the Big Dipper and the North Star to orient myself, dragged my Adirondack chair to a good spot, and sat down to wait for the light to go off. It was a gorgeous evening. Just gorgeous.

As I sat, I realized how deep the quiet had become. The only sounds I was hearing were human sounds: voices next door, a radio recapping the Indians game from the house behind-- cars and motorcycles whizzing down the Interstate a mile away.

No chirps, no buzzes-- not even a dog barking in the neighborhood. 

Everything was bedded down for the night, accepting of the darkness-- except us. People. God's most favored creation just can't find comfort in the night, it seems.

I sat, listening to my own deep breathing, feeling the heaviness of the dark (even in my citified setting). My phone buzzed softly, bringing a text from Montana and a smile to my face. Waiting. 

Then it happened: the first shooting star to cross my path of vision. It moved more slowly than I expected-- a wonderful benefit for these inexperienced eyes. 

I made a wish (as I had been told to do), smiled and settled back to watch for the next one.

I saw nowhere near a hundred shooting stars, but I did see a handful.

But the best part, for me, was having found an excuse simply to sit outside, late at night, alone under the great canopy of heaven. 

To realize, once again, just how tiny I am in the Grand Scheme of Things. I am but a speck, my life a glimmer (if even that). 

And yet. 

And yet in the eyes of the Creator, I am as important, as beloved as anything. And I am distinctly different, unique among all God's handiwork.

Never before and never again will there be another Heidi. Or-- another you.

Each of us was carefully, deliberately created to perfection. And while we may have mucked that part up a bit . . . still we are created in the image of the Divine. We are called by name, beloved of God.

And not a one of us is missing, for when we are absent God desires us and invites us to return. Time after time after time, no matter how badly we behave, still the Almighty One awaits our return, wooing us and pursuing us across time and eternity to bring us Home.

One might think that sitting in the dark under the vast expanse of the night sky would lead one to feel less significant. 

Imagine my surprise and delight to come inside feeling more aware of my place at the Table.

Come. Sit over here by me at the Children's Table. Enjoy the view.

In memory

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. --1 Corinthians 13:12

I lost a friend today, someone I did not know well. Someone who came into my world through the miracle of the Internet, as we exchanged snappy, sometimes irreverent comments on the Upper Room Reflections devotional site. 

He called himself Buzz, told me this nickname came about because he had "buzzard breath." I never met him, so I can't attest to that, one way or another. But here is what I do know about my online buddy Buzz:

He had a deep, deep love for Jesus. Like me, Buzz was part of the Emmaus community-- in Missouri, where he lived. And he was on fire for the Lord! We didn't always see eye-to-eye on the way to express this, but when someone was in pain, Buzz had a gift for writing what needed to be heard-- and what needed to be said.

Buzz had another deep, deep love in his life: his wife, Linda. She emailed me to tell me of Buzz's sudden death, and I am grateful. They were together for over 25 years, and he loved her as much on his last day on earth as he did the day they married. I am certain her heart is broken. She will be in our prayers.

And then there was their dog, Bocce. Sometimes it felt like Bocce was the "glue" that held things together when they were struggling. Ironically, it was while walking Bocce that Buzz fell, struck his head and died. Bocce is mourning today, as well. They know, don't they. Those friends we call "dumb" know when they have lost a loved one, a part of their lives.

So, Buzz-- I know, without a doubt, that you are now nestled eternally in the arms of the Almighty. And I bet you're not asking a single one of those questions that were on the tip of your tongue in life, because now, in this time beyond time, you have found the answers you sought.

You can see, fully and clearly in the reflection of Life, that you were, indeed, created in the image of the Divine.

It's a good look, friend.

And you know so much more, now, don't you.

Rest in peace, Buzz. Well done, good and faithful one.