A 97% Solution

He who walks with the wise grows wise. --Proverbs 13:20a

This morning, one of my devotionals talked about the need for discipline in our spiritual lives. The author, named Muriel (my mother's name), focused on walking. She observed that for her, walking becomes her time of contemplative prayer, a time when she and God "find each other" in the midst of everything else. Muriel is a "nature walker."

I live fairly close-- about a mile and a half-- to the tremendous Cleveland Metroparks System.  By the time I would walk to the park entrance, even to turn around and go home right away, that's already three miles and almost an hour of my morning. But I cannot mentally justify driving-- to go take a walk. So I have become a city walker.

Muriel points out that Jesus was a walker. (Of course, he had little choice, but I digress.) Jesus spends a great deal of time walking: to Jerusalem, to Galilee-- and back again. It is easy to conclude, as Muriel suggests, that Jesus spent much of this walking time in prayer, conversing with the Almighty.

So I believe I am in good company.

It's not always easy getting up and getting going. Some mornings, the bedclothes seem to draw themselves tighter around me and beg me to stay. Maizie will join the entreaty, snuggling up closer beside and softly (or loudly) purring. Nothing, she says, is more important than that itchy spot right behind my ear. R-i-i-i-i-g-h-t there.

But most days, it's worth it to shake off the sleep, get dressed and head out the door just as the sun is beginning to rise over Cleveland. This morning-- definitely.

It's humid these days, typical late August in Ohio. There wasn't much breeze. Clouds hung low and heavy, as though debating whether or not it was worth the effort to gather together and rain.

The clouds in the east seemed even less organized, stretching themselves thin until they parted, like so much cotton candy on the sticky fingers of a four-year-old. And through those thin clouds, playing hide-and-seek between and among the treetops and the rooftops, peeked the sun. Not the brilliant, shining sun of summer, but an uncertain sun.

The seasons are changing, it seemed to say, and it's time. Time for the next thing, familiar yet new. Time-- for a change.

I remember another season of change, a time when the sun looked different, yet familiar. My life was headed in a new direction. I was on my own now. So three years ago, I made a trip Down Under.

Each morning I would spend some quiet time sitting in the window seat at the beautiful home of my gracious hosts, watching the sun begin its daily course.

It was almost fall when I left Ohio, but when I arrived in Oz, it was nearly springtime. Amazing. The sun that had been losing strength in Ohio-- was gaining strength here.

And then there were these trees along the horizon behind their house. I don't remember what kind they were, if I ever knew-- but this one tree-- well, look for yourself and tell me what you see.

Or this one, over the Abbey of the Genesee early on an August morning a year later:

(I know, I know-- some people see Jesus on a piece of toast; I see elephants-- everywhere.)

The thing is, we can find "evidence" everywhere, if we choose to open our eyes. (For me-- the evidence is pachyderms.)

Some people need to get away from the city grind; others find the face of the Creator on every busy corner in the middle of a busy urban life. Or in a bank of trees, half a world away from home.

St. Augustine put it this way: Solvitur Ambulando. It is solved-- by walking.

An African proverb suggests, "When you pray, move your feet." But have you tried it the other way around?

When you move your feet, pray.

If sitting quietly is challenging, if you want to try something new or extra in your walk with God, actually make it a walk. God is already there, waiting to show you something.

Approach life in expectation of the holy. You will not be disappointed.

Thank you, ever-present God, for eyes that see, for ears that hear-- and for feet that move in step with you. Amen

Master Gardener

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
    which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers. -Psalm 1:3

If you have read many of my ramblings here, you know how I feel about gardening. You know that in the three-plus years since my husband died and left me to care for his beautiful plants, the gardens and I have struck a truce. And part of that truce, on occasion, has included my redefining what is "weed" and what is not.

I am not a gardener. I think it's genetic for me, way, way back to the original Garden. 

You know. Eve said, "Adam, you go ahead and name 'em and tend 'em, and when they bear fruit, I will prepare a delicious dish from these plants. I am sure you will find it tempting and yummy." 

That was how Rich and I did it, too (minus the serpent). He grew 'em, I would put 'em up. And applaud. When the flowers were in bloom, I would oooh and aaah with the best of them. But the gardening itself was not my thing.

There was one gardening task, however, that I have always enjoyed. 

Dead-heading.

I have two beautiful butterfly bushes, one by my step and the other, a volunteer, around on the side of the house. During the season, they grow to a solid six or seven feet in height, loaded with beautiful purple clusters that droop and hang like grapes from each branch.

A week ago, I was going down the steps and stopped for a moment, just to listen. The bush was alive with the hum of bumbles and honey bees, working at extracting the pollen and nectar from each bloomlet. Giant tiger swallowtails silently doing their part, as well. 

And each day, as summer moves toward fall, some of those clusters die. They become brown and dry and no longer appealing or filled with nectar. They reach the end of their usefulness. 

But if I am fairly diligent about removing those brown clusters (dead-heading), the bush continues to offer more purple bliss to those bees and butterflies, at least for a season.

So I do. I go out there with my scissors and I snip and snip and pitch the dead heads under the bush, and pretty soon the plants are looking better again, more alive without all that junk they no longer needed.

And over the course of a few days, sure enough-- fresh blooms appear. Until finally, fall arrives and it's finished. 

I was out dead-heading this morning. It took a long time. But like many tasks, it became a time for me to think, to enjoy the quiet and focus on the task. Listen to the snip-snip-snip of the scissors, smell the heavy perfume that attracts the bees. 

Step back when one of those bees reminds me whose bush it really is. 

And then I started thinking about my own life and the need for dead-heading when "stuff" has outlived its usefulness.

Sometimes I recognize it-- and sometimes I don't. And sometimes-- the last thing I want is for that dried up, out-of-date thing, or idea, to go away.

But it has to. If those parts of me that are growing and lively are to continue to grow-- guess what. Snip, snip.

That's where the Master Gardener comes in, the One who holds the Divine blueprint that shows what's good and what's shriveled and sapping extra energy that could go in a more life-giving direction.

Believe me, dead-heading the butterfly bushes is so much easier than allowing God to chisel me. Letting go of old ways of thinking and acting? Ugh. Do I have to? 

Well-- no. I suppose not. If I don't mind becoming stagnant and filled with useless "stuff" that saps my energy and takes away from the good "stuff"? 

Nah. No modifications needed.

I know how my butterfly bushes look when I let them go untended. Do I really want my life to continue as is, with no attention paid to what the Gardener knows is best-- for me?

It's always our choice. 

God's Chisel

(Aside: There is a hymn about coming to the Garden alone, and the joys shared when it's just-me-and-Jesus time. But I have to tell you. Sometimes those me-and-Jesus moments can be a little painful. Necessary and good-- but painful.)

Lord God, show us your love, and help us to accept it, freely and willingly. One step at a time. Amen

How did he know???

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, 

“plans to prosper you and not to harm you, 

plans to give you hope and a future." --Jeremiah 29:11

Tonight I just want to share a story. I needed this. You might, too.

A couple weeks ago, I had something happen that left me puzzled. In the middle of the day, as I was going about my life, I had this sense. God seemed to pull me aside and place a name on my heart, someone I had not seen in a couple of years. I didn't understand why, out of the blue, this man's name was in my mind. I will call him Cedric. After puzzling over that for longer than I care to admit, I did the only thing that made any sense. 

I prayed for him. (And even that didn't exactly make sense at the time.) 

A couple days later, I received word that Cedric had been hospitalized. Needless to say, that led me, again, to prayer. 

A few days ago, I managed to go pay Cedric a visit at the hospital, and I am so glad I did.

He was in a common space when I arrived, and I am not sure I would have recognized him if I hadn't known it was him. He seemed even more slight than the last time I had seen him. His hair was longer and more scraggly, more grey than I remembered.

But when he saw me, he recognized me right away, called me by name, and his face lit up, smile spreading from ear to ear.

We spoke for a little while about him and his family, how he was feeling-- you know. The usual pastoral conversation. It was good to catch up. He seemed so very glad for the visit.

And we prayed. Cedric held my one hand between his two hands, and I rested my other hand on his shoulder. His hands felt dry and weathered, hands that had worked very, very hard in life. 

"Amen." "Amen . . . mmm-hmm . . . amen."

But it didn't end there.

Cedric kept my hand between his two workman's hands, looked up at me and said, "You know, when your husband . . . when Rich left us . . . you really started to find yourself. You are a very strong person, and you are really following what God wants you to do. And it's so good to see you. So good."

Did you see how that happened?

I went to visit Cedric. I went to offer hope, encouragement and love.

And in the blink of an eye, the blessing rained down on me instead.

The prophetic word of hope I needed. The affirmation that I was following faithfully.

Imagine that. 

How often that happens, that in blessing another, we are blessed ourselves.

You just never know, do you. Never ever ever.

The Lord Bless You

Amen. 

JUST what I needed

The Lord will guide you always;

    he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

    and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden,

    like a spring whose waters never fail. --Isaiah 58:11

(Have I mentioned lately how much I love the prophet/ poet Isaiah?)

Sometimes, the desert can seem particularly arid. The dust kicks up and stifles my breath, fills my eyes till they water. (Yeah, that's the ticket. It's the dust making me tear up.)

There are days-- and there are days. And sometimes, those days become weeks. Days and weeks when it just seems as though God has taken me to the curb, gone back inside, locked the door and turned out the lights. 

Places or activities that have brought solace in the past-- time spent in prayer or reading, hanging around the usual friends-- serve to mark time, but don't even begin to quench the thirst in my soul. It seems as if the harder I look, the less I see. Like straining to see in a really dark room, or trying to drive in a dense, heavy fog.

It feels cold and dark-- and very lonely. Even in August in Ohio. (Ever been here? I imagine you have.)

Then this amazing thing starts to happen. 

Suddenly, in the midst of life, new friends start appearing. Old friends emerge in a new light, or a new context, offering a fresh perspective (or a smack upside the head).

Those folks whom you've known forever, even though you just met-- or never met-- show up at your doorstep . . . or on the telephone . . . or across a crowded street. Their words wash over, refreshing, cooling, rejuvenating a parched soul. God is so good that way.

And yes, it's been that kind of week. Until today.

The climate had become a bit dry. Cactuses and camels were part of my spiritual landscape. I felt like I just wanted to pull away, take a break for me, but couldn't manage to do so. I needed to write. 

This morning, relief was in the air, the scent of long-sought moisture on the breeze. ("They" say that smell is ozone. To me, it smells more like hope.) A phone conversation with a wonderful Brother whom I have known, it seems, forever-- but just met, face-to-face, about ten days ago-- washed away some self-doubts that had been clinging to my heart like so much filth, helped me remember what this journey is really about. That was awesome. The prickly cactus began to bloom. I began again to glimpse the beauty of the desert.

And then, a scant few hours later, an encounter with someone I hadn't seen in months (or longer), and almost the first words from his mouth were, "I read your stuff sometimes. Keep it up. It helps. Keep stickin' it to 'em." (I admit: I am not completely sure what that means. But it sounds like a good thing, wouldn't you agree?) 

More conversation. More discussion of what's broken, not just in the church, but in education. In the world. Cool, cool rain on my parched soul. Arms open wide, head tilted back in gratitude.

And suddenly, that sermon I am writing for next week has a direction. The "stuff" that was clouding my mind has mostly cleared. Oh, sure, I still have an extra furry granddaughter who doesn't want to hang around me or go home with her human mama-- but it's okay. She won't stay forever. (Seriously. She won't. lol)

So the moral of the story is . . . hang in there. Jesus went willingly into the desert, knowing the Spirit was with him, guiding and comforting him in the dark and difficult days. 

All forty of them. Hang in there. Or maybe-- let go. Just let it go. Let Love reign (and rain).

Cool Cool Rain