where to begin. this day. this monday. this start of the week. this another day of beautiful sky and warmth, another day of feeding hungry mouths and admiring lego ships and drawings and answering questions like 'how many seconds i have been alive?' another day of trying desperately to be the person i want to be for the people i love and the world around me, another day of trying, of messing it up, and trying again, and being gentle.
these are our days. as they are. full and tiring and how we look at them matters. am i seeing the small blessings? am i choosing to feel God's love? and i being thankful for the abundance in my life- am i being thankful for the deserts too?
today during our time of prayer, mike and i returned to the celtic book of prayer. i had missed it. i love the blessing at the end.
may the peace of the Lord go with you, where ever He may send you
may He guide your through the wilderness,
protect you through the storm,
may He bring you home rejoicing at the wonders He has shown you,
may He bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.
the internal wilderness can be real. a place with out clear path or direction. a place even in our homes, in our everydayness, where our hearts maybe dry or lost or confused. a place where we need guidance and light and hand holding.
i need those things-guidance and light and hand holding- i crave them- but i'm pretty good at forgetting that God wants to give them to me. i'm pretty good at plodding along alone.
but.
when i remember, when i stop and listen and look for the light and open my clenched fist- i can breathe. and i can see the beauty of the desert place i'm in- even it it's just a little, even if it's just the flower of a cactus, or the sparkle of mica in the sand, even it it's just the shade of a rock from the hot sun- i can see that goodness and it can be enough. enough to let me say thank you and then not feel alone. enough to make me open my eyes wider, and look for other blessings where i am. enough to have me pause longer, and listen, and maybe even hear a word that i would have missed if i'd stayed in my solitary forgetting place.
this day. this gift of a day. a day given to me because i am breathing and even well. a day that holds mysteries and choices and promise. a day that i don't enter alone- a day with peace, and guidance, and protection, and even rejoicing and wonder.
this day.
these are our days. as they are. full and tiring and how we look at them matters. am i seeing the small blessings? am i choosing to feel God's love? and i being thankful for the abundance in my life- am i being thankful for the deserts too?
today during our time of prayer, mike and i returned to the celtic book of prayer. i had missed it. i love the blessing at the end.
may the peace of the Lord go with you, where ever He may send you
may He guide your through the wilderness,
protect you through the storm,
may He bring you home rejoicing at the wonders He has shown you,
may He bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.
the internal wilderness can be real. a place with out clear path or direction. a place even in our homes, in our everydayness, where our hearts maybe dry or lost or confused. a place where we need guidance and light and hand holding.
i need those things-guidance and light and hand holding- i crave them- but i'm pretty good at forgetting that God wants to give them to me. i'm pretty good at plodding along alone.
but.
when i remember, when i stop and listen and look for the light and open my clenched fist- i can breathe. and i can see the beauty of the desert place i'm in- even it it's just a little, even if it's just the flower of a cactus, or the sparkle of mica in the sand, even it it's just the shade of a rock from the hot sun- i can see that goodness and it can be enough. enough to let me say thank you and then not feel alone. enough to make me open my eyes wider, and look for other blessings where i am. enough to have me pause longer, and listen, and maybe even hear a word that i would have missed if i'd stayed in my solitary forgetting place.
this day. this gift of a day. a day given to me because i am breathing and even well. a day that holds mysteries and choices and promise. a day that i don't enter alone- a day with peace, and guidance, and protection, and even rejoicing and wonder.
this day.
4 comments:
Kris,
I just received a Facebook notice about a book that Cathy George is going to publish: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0819228532/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_k.thrb05PEG5C. I do not know 100% that this is the Prof. George at Gordon, but I have my suspicions. I do know that this rec. comes from a woman I have long admired, Rev. Dr. Cynthia Kitteredge (I babysat for her after college, she was a Harvard THD student, and was a rector at St. John's in Beverly Farms..). I think you would like it. Can I send it to you or is there some way to get it to you on Kindle.
Ugh...brain fart. I was confusing Ivy George with Cathy George. I knew Cathy from her amazing sermons at Trinity Church in Boston. She was/is wonderful. I learned so much from her. I think you have an amazing voice and I'd like to do what little I can to nurture it--hence this offer. Let me know. All best, Amy.
Kris, I am currently sitting in an ICU room watching over my sister-in-law who was put on a vent. I've had very little time on the internet lately, but decided to check on your blog today. I'm so glad that I did. Your words so often just "hit the spot". Thank you again for sharing your experiences, so different from my own daily life yet somehow not that different at all.
Susan so sorry! Am praying for your family- glad to kind of be there with you
Hang in
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