Saturday, March 31, 2007

Dearest God,

I sit before my new computer, waiting for God. What shall we talk about today? Clothes washing, Holy Week, two visitors coming to our home this week, painting the bedroom, avoiding a phone call, Harold's dinner last night, cleaning up the papers on the floor, visiting a grandchild? Any one of these can be a topic for our conversation. And why? Because God is in all of them. From the simplest to the most profound, none are exempt from a discussion with God.

Someone said to me a long time ago, "When are you going to stop writing? You're going to run out of things to write about." I quickly remarked, "It's not about how many things you can write about. It's about just talking with God, seeing God in the ordinary, searching for God daily." My writing is a spiritual adventure, an exploration into the sacred deep, a spiritual Sherlock Holmes with a magnifying glass, looking for clues. And I am never disappointed.

Perhaps the writing is not so much down below reaching up as it is up reaching down. God reaching me, rather than the other way around. Is it possible God reaches me every day? Of course, why do I exist if not to converse with my Creator, who takes the greatest care with me? What is life truly if not a life with God? I simply continue the conversation begun at my conception. Was God in my mother's womb? Of course. Not a difficult theory.

But life is not about me. Life is about God at the center. I am one, just one that comes to the center to relate, to share, to be. Every day is like a first year college student who returns home to visit the first time. "I missed you so much! I'm so glad to be home!" Isn't that what most of them say? And what happens next? The college kid rambles on about college life, classes, friends, food, staying up all night, exams, dates, fears, all sorts of stuff. Isn't it God?

We can say anything to one another. I am reminded this is not an equal relationship. God and I do not equate equally. God is God and I am a child. I need constant challenges from on high. And who can better do it? Who do I trust more? And who can love me more than God? My discipline comes from God's own hand.

When I live an intentional life with You, my life is made new every day. I start fresh each new dawn and I let go of the crud at the end of the day. I get many new chances to live in the light, to trade a day's darkness for God's light. What can be better?

We will talk today
about all the earlier things,
laundry, visitors, painting,
sermons, Holy Week,
and more.
I delight in our talk
as you engage me
in every area
of my life.
Take all my spaces,
my time increments,
and make them yours.
Let our conversation
be the topic of your choice,
not mine.
Lead me,
guide me
always to the same place
with You.
My heart will
always sing
the song of gratitude.

Always, Andrea

Friday, March 30, 2007

Dearest God,

I exploded! I fired off a missile in my study!

I had been with people all week. The papers on my desk were growing higher and higher. I planned to work on them Thursday afternoon. I would shut my door and focus on filing, filling out forms, reading, making a few calls, straightening things up, then leaving for the day. Aah.

I had put off until Thursday making a simple phone call to my local phone service. I had some questions about my bill. Last December the company called me. They were merging with another company and things were changing. They offered me services and products at a bundling cost. Since I wanted high speed Internet, I agreed. In February they called to tell me they didn't have high speed in my area. My bill showed I was paying for it. And I continued to receive bills from two different accounts. So confusing which is why I put it off. But they would disconnect my service in 24 hours if I didn't take care of it. With A plus credit I needed to handle the small nuisance.

Two hours! Two hours! I was on the phone nearly two hours! Six persons! It is not yet resolved. It will require two more calls. The outburst occurred at 90 minutes into the conversation when they transferred me to the sixth person. I was so frustrated! I never swore; I never said ugly things (well, that might not be completely true); I did raise my voice. I did say they weren't running a very efficient office. I did tell them this was a simple problem requiring a simple answer. But each person told me they didn't handle a particular part. I was put on hold several times. I listened to some kind of pop music for a while, then classical while I was waiting. They should have put on some kind of meditative sound; it could have been helpful. The marketing people have some work to do (along with everybody else)!

I felt my body temperature surging during the call. I felt the heat rising. My pulse quickened. My head began to ache. And I blew! I decided (let's call that a spontaneous decision) not to have a stroke or heart attack over a phone company that couldn't get its act together. "And what are you seeing us for today?" The nurse would ask me. And I would reply, "My phone company has driven me crazy!"

Now, God, how do I handle the simple nuts and bolts of human living without blowing my top? How do I remain calm, making a witness, living peace into the world? I told the "customer care" people in the midst of my combustive behavior that I had been duped by the company. "I am a pastor." I told them. "I operate with a sense of integrity and ethics and I expect the same from their company." Can you believe it? I shared my vocation, then functioned like an angry bear. Oh, I lost that witness! Foolish woman!

So I return to my prior question. How do I live my witness daily in the torments of small irritations? Teach me.

Patience.
Pray for it
and what happens?
You go nuts.
I remember
Your son,
knocking over tables once.
For a holy reason.
Mine wasn't so holy.
I desire to follow your example
(peace, not felling tables).
Teach me,
Lord,
teach me
to follow you.
When my path leads me
to conflict,
teach me
to remember
your ways of peace.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, March 29, 2007

My dearest God,

We returned home about 10:00 p.m. following the Lenten study. As I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, I had this beautiful vision. An angel with a wide wing span was flying in the air holding all the people of our study. I'm not sure where we were headed. I just know we were all together in the arms and on the wings of this beautiful blonde-haired angel. We had a peace about us as we soared the heavens.

Our group has been an extraordinary gathering of people. Our sharing has come from a very deep place. One person said it best when she talked about gratitude. My husband concurred. I am sure we are all grateful. Not sure what we'll do when our study concludes next week.

Some groups come together, study, share, pray, then move on. But some groups gel, congeal in a way that only the Holy Spirit can bring people together. Your spirit has bonded us together. We are safe with one another. We care about one another. We trust one another.

And we haven't even been in a "fun" place, in the desert of all places. In that dry, dusty spot where past sins and disappointments blow in the wind like tumbleweed, we bellied up to the watering hole together and found true refreshment. Sharing our cup with one another, passing it around for all to drink.

What is it about the glue that bonds us together? Why us, why not someone else? What makes us unique, more ready to attach ourselves than some others? Why are we able to spill our guts to one another while some never go beyond sharing their name? What is this power that sweeps across us as our capable leader guides us deeper into desert sharing?

Today was the first day in years that I have talked about Madeline, a bag lady from New Jersey who appeared in an abbey in Kentucky during the most painful time in my life. I was leading a retreat, but my heart was broken, crushed, shattered, the pieces so far apart that they could hardly recognize each other. Madeline became Christ to me. A one-way ticket, a blue duffle bag with all her worldly belongings, she was sent to me. She noisily shuffled in the room carrying a black trash bag that she carefully placed on her chair in the dining hall. She could have sat anywhere but she sat next to me. I didn't recognize her at first, but then I heard "his" voice, your voice, and I knew that you had come to pick me up and rock me like a wailing baby who desperately needs to be held. He came to mend my broken heart, but not before cradling me in his arms. When I dropped her off at the Jewish Center four days later, she hugged me, then walked away. My heart found its pieces and began the very long healing process. She/he saved me.

It was the second time in less than 12 hours that I shared this story. I had lunch with a young woman who I will be marrying to her fiance next week. Missy was a part of my story, but she had forgotten the bigger pieces. You see her mother had wanted to go on that retreat but she was in the final stages of ALS and could not go. When I returned to visit her following the retreat, I shared my story of Madeline. She told Missy to retrieve a doll she had bought several years before. She had named her. When Missy handed me the doll, Sue her mother told me her name was Madeline. She would forever remain a symbol of God's presence for me. The little rag doll with a straw hat sits on a shelf in my "memory" bedroom. You came as a bag lady and now permanently sit in my room where I remember children, grandparents, grandchildren, and parents.

I have never told the story to my grandchildren. But I will very soon. I want them to know how you came to me, caring about my injured heart, how you show up when we are hurt, disappointed, broken. How a visit from an unexpected stranger can be the beginning of a life of faith. I want them to know the agape that comes from God's own self.

An angel soaring in the heavens with my friends and me reminded me of the glory of it all...

An angel,
a study group,
a doll,
treats on a table,
a young woman about to be married,
brought me to You today.
Soaring.

Love always and forever, Andrea

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Dearest God,

When the horrors of life o'er take you, how far can you expect to rise up when the light finally penetrates the seal, cracking it, the darkness escaping, the warmth of the light invading? To the highest heights? Is it possible to crawl out of the darkness into the light forevermore?

In counselling I hear some of life's greatest tragedies. I ask you, "How can people empty themselves of such pain, hatred, bitterness, loss, sorrow?" With what do you replace this gunk from the past? Can we ever be truly free? Will the images pass away completely?

I don't regard myself as a counselor. I do counseling, but I think I do it differently. From the moment a person steps foot into my study, I recognize they are often treading water, ready to drown. I can "see" the darkness.

I believe the ground upon which my office stands is holy ground. This is not a counseling session, I tell myself, this is holy ground. This person has come here because they're looking for holy ground, not an answer. My responsibility is not to "cure" someone but to introduce them to One who stands ready to take hold of them, to walk with them, to embrace them at the deepest level of light.

I try to be light until the True Light enters. I can only offer a safe, holy environment until the individual discovers this Holy Light, who steps inside an injured, wounded soul. And when it happens, oh my God in heaven, something magnificent takes place. First, in the eyes, the wide-eyed realization of Truth that comes, soothing the soul. Second, the breath of labor eases, for giving birth to a new reality is hard work. Third, the love that laps up the soul is the love of God, the loneliness no longer having a hold. And finally a peace enters the room because it is what God who loves us brings as a sign of his coming.

I have witnessed the dispelling of darkness. I have seen the powerful Light shine. I have observed with my own eyes a lightening of the burden. I have known God's presence to enter the weary soul.

But I still come back to you, how high can you rise? And is it possible to rise at a speed that transforms everything around you? Is it possible to remain in the light of day, ridding one's self of darkness forever?

I know the sweetness of God. Like a perfume it scents the ugly smell of the past. God's own heavenly aroma overtakes the stench of yesterday, changing it to a kind of distinct beauty unique to the one broken soul made whole. There is a rising, a physical rising of the soul to a new height of love, forgiveness, grace, mercy, hope. This is the work of God.

Can it be contained, this newfound relief? No box is big enough. God refuses to be restrained, restricted, limited. This is the Light that when squeezed on one side will grow bigger on the other side. It is a pervasive mass that keeps spreading, little by little, coloring the ugliness all around. Redemption, this is redemption. God has redeemed God's very own. Every soul has an entry into this redemption, no matter the horror.

New life comes, making sense of the old. Saying goodbye to the past is difficult, often filled with grief and despair, yet hope drives it away in time, making space for the new to live permanently.

You have come
as the Light.
You have talked the darkness down.
You have inspired
the soul to transformation.
You have anointed with hope,
allowing the dark pieces
to leave with grace.
You show us the way,
a gentle rising with Holy light.
The angels sing,
rocking the darkness turned to light,
the songs of faith and joy.
Heights unknown,
rising.

Eternally yours, Andrea

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

My dearest God,

The changes in life are extremely painful sometimes. I got a call from a son who asked me to pick up his mother from the doctor's office. She had just learned she could never drive again. She was shocked, confused, pained. The doctor at the Institute for Aging had obviously performed a geriatric evaluation, only either she didn't know it or had forgotten it.

We talked while I drove her home. I was glad to be asked. Comfort and compassion were needed at this moment. I could give it. We tried to make sense of the doctor's visit, but it made no sense to her. I was certain I understood. Only how do you tell someone they have entered a new arena in life, one that is less certain, restricting? You embrace them; that's how. You try to offer a simple idea that life is changing and persons are concerned, especially family. You are losing some capacities that keep you safe, secure. Then all of a sudden, someone else picks up the reigns to your life and begin to steer you in another direction. A car, driving is the key to independence, freedom. Her life choices are narrowing. I wanted to wave the proverbial magic wand and transform her into a healthy, bright-eyed, clear woman who still had lots of life before her. Oh, not that life is over; it's just taken a dramatic turn.

I hugged her when I left, tears falling from her eyes. A friend was waiting for her when she got home. I am sure she will find support in this man who cares deeply for her.

As I returned to the office, I spoke with a woman who is going through one of the toughest times of her life. However, she told me that she is experiencing the presence of God moment by moment. Pain on one side, peace on the other. They can and do exist together, at least for the one who is open to a personal encounter with God.

Learning to take our painful times and turn them into opportunities to meet God afresh are plentiful. Lord, when I witness suffering and know your transformative power, I give thanks for faith. I attempt to woo persons to your side where they can cry out their pain and find solace that is deep and abiding.

While my day in no way was lived the way I planned it, I recognized the signs of God all over. This was God's day, not mine, planned with God's purpose in mind. What more can I say?

Compassionate God,
signs of your presence
are evident.
In doctor's offices,
on the phone,
on the ground
and in the air.
We do not live
in a sterile environment;
God is with us.
The one with an eye for God
will see the Divine,
every time.
Keep my own eyes focused
so I will not miss
one spectacular view
of your presence.

Love, Andrea

Monday, March 26, 2007

Dear Lord,

How do I reach to the heavens and stay there? How can my writing be a presentation of your own self to me? How can I truly listen and not write what I know?

Sometimes I veer from the path, although I am not fully aware. Sometimes I write and it "feels" different. I'm not interested in writing an article, a piece for a paper. I want to write your desire for me on paper. I want this to be a time when you are writing to me and I am writing you back. We are conversing in the spirit, connecting on a distinct level. Otherwise, I don't have time for this endeavor. I could be sleeping, making stained glass art, designing greeting cards, spending time with my husband. I want this early morning time to be our time, yours and mine. Do you?

Someone said yesterday that my writing had changed. I had felt a slight shift; but since I don't reread what I have written, I couldn't be sure. I only want to be in your presence, listening. I want to live the disciplined life. Entering into your presence in order to spend precious minutes together should evidence itself in my writing.

I am increasingly aware that the spiritual life is an intentional life of faith. It is daily connecting with God, not just for a minute or an hour, but 24 hours, walking purposefully. The spiritual life is about living uniquely, seeking, wrestling with matters of faith as it pertains to any subject in life. It is relishing life at its deepest level, first just knowing there is a deeper lodge in which to "go" for awe and wonder, to struggle with life issues, to engage in new territories of the spirit. Whether discovering God in a magnificent song sung just for you, in a blade of new grass, the laughter of a child's voice, in the arms of a spouse, or even in silent, hushed moments salvaged during the day, this is God's time and I am mindful of an awesome presence that calls me higher and higher.

I don't want to wander this world with no real purpose, to take in my own delights and pleasures, to suck in the good stuff and sidestep the difficult. I want to wade in the water of the spirit every single day and call it for what it is. I want to share it, to preach about it, to live it, to savor and humble myself in God's presence. Only then, only then can I truly have something about which to write. My pen becomes the instrument through which God has a word to say. And I listen, and I write it.

Oh Lord,
moments of illumination,
revelation
speak profoundly to my soul.
If I am not willing to listen,
how can I ever hear
your voice,
see your face,
know your will?
I am human,
fragile, vulnerable,
like any other.
But I know the capabilities
of a life with God.
I know the surprise of God,
divine mysteries unfolding.
I can't explain them;
I just know the possibilities.
I want that life
and no other.
I want to enter heaven
as a friend,
not a stranger.
Oh Lord,
guide me through this life.
Keep my feet planted
in the soil
of great mystery.
Keep me humble,
always searching.
Give me a song to sing,
a dance to dance,
a listening ear
in which to hear
the sweet melody of love.
Only you know me.
I am yours,
once again.

Eternally yours, Andrea

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Dear God,

The day dawned, shouting, "It's Spring! It's Spring!" The warm breeze coupled with sunny skies brought to mind beautiful days ahead.

But it was what was happening inside the car that drove my spirit higher and higher. My sermon would be an enfleshment of John 12:1-8. I love the story of Mary anointing Jesus out of pure devotion. As always my 15 minute drive to the church is a run-through of my morning message. Preaching without notes I need to allow the "good news" to move from my head to my heart, then to my lips. Spilling out into the car I hear the good news that made its way to my soul. Quite an interesting route!

During the week I had called to inquire about the music for Sunday. Rob told me the choir would not be singing. "Got any ideas for special music?" He asked me. And I told him about one of my favorites, Broken and Spilled Out. When I learned that he had found the music and that Lorraine would be singing it, I was thrilled. I closed my eyes as she sang and I voiced every verse in my head.

I was drawn back to 1990 when I heard the song for the first time. Steve had died at age 41. A popular school counselor and tennis coach, it was Steve's favorite song. When the soloist sang, it was all I could do to hold it together when I offered the memorial meditation to many teenagers, family and friends. I never forgot the song.

I want to be "broken and spilled out and poured at your feet" I thought as Lorraine sang. I want my life to count for something important. I want to spontaneously give gifts to God out of pure devotion. It's my heart's greatest desire.

Some Sundays are more meaningful to me than others. This was one of them, the scripture, song and baptism all called me to greater love for Christ. My heart and soul met him this morning in worship.

In the last century
some said,
"God is dead."
On my dead days
I wondered.
But a rebirth
brought the truth
to my own weary soul.
God is not dead,
never has been.
God is alive
to those open to experience it.
If a heart is closed off,
and a soul refuses to hear
the truly good news,
then God will sleep
as one of his own
wanders away.
The price of freedom.
To be fully awake to God
is to be open
to every cherished moment
that unfolds in the universe.
I will only experience
the ones close to me;
but the greater part of my life
is when I hear
God knocking at my door.
And the sight of his face
is glory itself.
Let me be broken and spilled out
for you.

Love always, Andrea

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Dearest God,

I jumped in the shower 20 minutes before the concert was scheduled to begin. I had painted all day. I had broken nails and spots of paint all over my pink nail polish. But I was not about to miss this musical presentation.

With wet hair and spots, we entered the church and took our place on the second row. I wanted to be "inside" the music, to see the eyes of the soloist, to be close to the magnificient carved organ. When the musicians walked on stage, I was back home. It's a funny thing, seeing someone and finding God standing with them.

They climbed the steps up to the organ, a very fine instrument and I remembered the whole process we went through to acquire it. I recalled how it took six weeks just to put it together. I remembered the dedication service. And I recollected Cleve, whose vision it was to have a $200,000 pipe organ replace the old electronic one.

But it was when Caroline began to sing that my reservoir of tears began to spill over. "Master, Thou callest, I gladly obey; Only direct me, and I'll find Thy way." I could not contain the tears that wanted to flow out of me. This song, Here Am I, text by Fanny Crosby, epitomizes everything I believe, everything I want to become, everything I want to say to God. Caroline was singing my life's song, the song she sang at my farewell party. I reached God and whispered my praise.

Later the musicians followed us to our home to spend the night before driving back to Bloomington. Caroline and I remained up after the guys retired for the night. Stretched out on our forest green La-Z-Boy lounges, we talked and laughed, leaving no moments for a breath in between.

Caroline has a golden voice; Larry (I love to call him Lawrence) has a rare touch and these two have the ability to help me soar into the heavens. Their faith and talent can move anyone to tears. I meet God when I enter their presence. We have woven our lives into one another, two pastors and two musicians. We honor and respect each other's gifts and recognize they come from God. We laugh easily with one another. But we also meet at the intersection of faith when we come together. What incredible gifts we are to one another, simply because God is with us.

Following the concert I found myself in the arms of the beloved. Marcia, Debbie, Bill, Frances, Beulah, Hal, Edith, Judy, Janet, and Cherie. My past. Memories flooded my soul. How we shared our lives together for 10 years. The stories I will carry to my grave. Truly, I was home.

I have learned about life through the stories of others. They trusted me, opened their heart to me. Broken moments. Grace moments. Loving moments. I breathed in the presence of these God had gathered for this beautiful moment.

Friday night was a filling night, a replenishing of the Spirit. I drew in God's presence and fell in love with Christ all over again. My precious friends had ushered me into the heavenly realm. In the arms of God I sang along with Caroline, "Living or dying, I still would be Thine, Yet I am mortal While Thou art divine. Pardon, whenever I turn from the right; Pity, and bring me again to the light. Master, Thou callest, And this I reply, 'Ready and willing, Lord, here am I, here am I."

Your grace follows me
time and time again.
I find myself in your arms.
You are the Joy
that enters the room,
invades my soul,
sings to me
the tune of gracious love.
How can I
not burst forth in song myself?
A day with you,
is like a day with no other.
I discover my true identity.
I laugh and cry all at one time.
I know when I am with you,
and my whole heart
is filled with joy.
"Ready and willing,
Lord, here am I."

Eternally yours, Andrea

Friday, March 23, 2007

My dearest God,

I called Sophie yesterday morning. Now that she was six years old, I wanted to hear about her birthday party at Jungle Java. "It was fun, Grandma." She told me. Fifteen little girlfriends had RSVP'd to join my grandchild for her birthday celebration. She rattled on all the things she had fun doing. She had been especially glad to open her presents.

Sophie was excited about sharing the same age as her cousin. "Gabrielle and I are both six now, Grandma." She proudly told me. "I know. Isn't that fun?" I asked. She and her slightly older cousin are very close. They are thrilled to be moving geographically closer together this summer.

Then she told me bad news. "Grandma, a boy hit me in the eye during my party." "What? Someone hurt my granddaughter on her birthday? Who was it? Why did he hit you?" I cried out. I wanted to know the name of this evildoer to send someone to take this boy out. (Not really, I'm not a violent woman but I was sorry to hear my Sophie spent 30 minutes crying with a swelling, sore eye while sitting on her daddy's lap during the time the other kids played.) I lapped on love to my grandchild as I talked with her on the phone. "I love you, Grandma." She told me as she handed the phone to my daughter. "It's Grandma with the Curly Hair."

Sophie and her family are moving back to Indiana, maybe to our town. We've already looked at model homes. I am overjoyed to have them back.

Sophie and her cousin Gabrielle and I are very close to one another. We love being together, doing special, fun, memorable things. Gabrielle once told me that she had announced to her other grandmother that I was her favorite grandma. Oh, dear, I thought. When I expressed concern for her announcement, she told me not to worry that her grandma was okay with that. Grief!

When these six year olds get together they will grow up within 20 minutes of each other. They will share stories that no one else will ever hear. They will laugh and cry together. They will get to know each other's friends. They will learn about life from one another. And me? Well, I have a little of the wisdom that Gabrielle often imparts. I will spend less and less time with them as they grow older. Friends will take on greater value than an "old" grandma, although the girls have both assured me that they will never be too old to sit on my lap. "Even when you're a hundred, Grandma, and I have kids, I will still sit on your lap." Gabrielle once assured me.

These moments on the phone are priceless. I love listening to little voices share their perspective on things. I love their enthusiasm, their zeal for life, their excitement when they discover something new. I see life through the eyes of a six-year-old and I know creation is still evolving. God is still presenting new life experiences. Hmm, how wonderful!

Gift-Giving God,
my grandchildren
are prized possessions
never to be contained.
I love opening up
new worlds to them.
Imagination.
Creativity.
Awe and wonder.
When I purposefully look
through the lens of their eyes,
I know the world
is in good hands.
It is lovely,
hope-filled,
fully alive.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, March 22, 2007

Dearest God,

I did not know when I donned my paint apparel that I would step inside people's hearts. I had volunteered to help members and friends who are currently dealing with a terminal illness. Instead of washing windows I was asked to paint an upstairs bedroom.

As I offered what I call my "precision" painting, we talked. The homeowner and friend who has the illness and two other volunteers. Three different conversations. One volunteer hails from Africa. I listened as he filled me in on another dear friend and member from the same nation. He expressed his concerns for this family. And although he has not held a job for nearly two years due to a dying liver and subsequent transplant, he is not worried. God will provide, he says.

Another volunteer talked about life issues, health, family, job. In the midst he shared an upcoming medical test. A bit scary. Clearly, he is on his own search for God, One who will tell him the right way of living.

And the family member who has the deadly disease, he is very open. Honest. He said he has decided to use his sense of humor as a weapon against the disease. He suffers from memory loss, a debilitating part of the illness. A tall, lanky man, he is wise, knowledgeable, and strong, even as he stands, constantly moving to keep his body from growing numb.

Yesterday God was in the bedroom that I was painting green. He visited in many forms. He was black and he was white. He was male and he was female. He was tall and he was shorter. God smiled, reflecting a love and devotion.

Rarely do I know the moment when another person will allow me to peek inside their heart. I am not always aware until suddenly I find myself standing in an intimate place inside a human soul. It is a sacred, holy place, soul space is. It is quiet, vulnerable, beautiful no matter what is being said. And it has to be treated as sacred. I have to take off my shoes because I know when I am on holy ground. And soul space is holy ground.

Conversations in this space are like no other. It is a sacred plain, close to a great reservoir of living water. When people wander in this space, they are not in themselves. They are spiritual beings, living in the realm of God. We wander together, talking, sharing, living in the light. Here we travel in a world made safe by the only One who can make it that way. We share a part of ourself that is hidden most of the time. And when we leave, we carry a new form of peace, just simply because we pilgrimed together.

I didn't know God would appear in this volunteer opportunity, although, I shouldn't have been surprised. God is forever becoming visible when people come together to help one another. I'm going back this morning to finish my "job." Who knows who I will meet.

Thank you
for the holy moments
of yesterday.
Thank you
for the constant reminders
of your holy presence.
Thank you
for people
willing to be open, honest, vulnerable.
For it is in
such sacred, hallowed moments
that you come into view.
Deep gratitude.

Love always, Andrea

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Dearest God,

Pruned Russian Sage and Butterfly Bush branches littered the Contemplative Garden. Sunday had been a beautiful, sunny day, a perfect day to cut back plants. But Monday had brought rain. So the debris remained on Tuesday morning.

I sat at the kitchen table eating my Raisin Bran when something caught my eye. A brown and reddish orange bird perched on the broken limbs. She looked around, as if to seek approval for her presence. She hopped from branch to branch, her beak searching for nesting materials. She pulled and pulled, until at last she found just the right twig. Locked in her tiny jaws, she flew away, to begin building.

What a meaningful site, an indication that Spring had arrived. It had not been a particularly bad winter, but the view of a female robin preparing to build her soon-to-be birthed birds a home was a breathtakingly scene. I felt Spring emerge in my own soul.

How lovely are the seasons, designed by God. One seems to move effortlessly into the other. Wasn't it just winter? And before that Fall? One fabric, unfolding, revealing the next spectacular color?

I love each season, always have. I get excited about the trees budding in spring, the flowers in the summer, the colorful leaves in the Fall, the first snow flakes of winter. And my soul is refreshed when I step into the next season. There is always a newness on the planet somewhere. And my garden follows suit.

The view of my garden as I ate my breakfast inspired me. I felt a sudden physical gesture welcoming in the new season of Spring. My mind still carries the vision of the mother bird preparing for the next chapter in her own life.

Soon the garden will fully come to life. Nasturium, roses, lilacs, peonies, hostas and iris will bud, blossom, and beautify the landscape. I will gaze upon my garden beauty and know that God is so very present. I will pray, meditate, give thanks, and maybe even dance to the tune of God's loveliness. I will experience hope, a reminder that nothing remains the same. God is ever evolving, reminding human creatures that there is a sacfred design for all that there is. A vision of paradise.

Everlasting God,
visions of your presence
keep me watchful.
In a bird,
a budding flower,
a counsellee
who suddenly grows
in insight, joy, hope and peace.
It is Spring,
the sudden awareness
of new life
bursting forth.
A salute to the majesty
of an ever-creating God.
My heart sings a new song.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Dearest God,

In uncovering some of my seminary papers, I came across my "Spirituality in Ministry" paper written in December, 1986. I hung on to it because I wanted to reread what I wrote twenty years ago. Has it been twenty years? Seems like yesterday when all my days ran together, living as a single parent with three daughters, working, attending school full time, writing A/B papers, trying to keep my head (and my children's) above water. I really failed sometimes.

Spirituality in ministry? Is it supposed to be? I loved Dr. Bradshaw, my professor. He had a sweet spirit about him. He seemed to daily wear his Christian faith. Faith was to be lived, not just learned.

But there was a split in the seminary, at least there appeared to be a division between the academicians and the mystics. There wasn't always a deep respect for the other. Sometimes I caught wind of mocking words toward the mystics.

Dr. Ashanin was a true mystic. His spirituality emanated from the inside. He lectured with his eyes closed, as if reading the Word from the inner recesses of the soul. He was vitally interested in the spiritual/academic pursuit. Perhaps one could not be a true Christian minister without both. He valued the academic struggle for truth, but for him, the truth also set one free. The heart and the head were connected. They informed one another.

While it is difficult to clearly define "spirituality", it implies that one has a belief in God and lives the belief daily, that God in human living is the core of all that is. That there is a relationship, a living relationship between God and the human individual. They walk together, not as equals, but rather as a parent/child, creator/creature, divine/human. If life is to have supreme meaning, then an intentional life together will promote living in a particular way.

Spirituality is to ministry like fish is to water. They are part and parcel of one another. A fish cannot live without water. Ministry can be dead without spirituality.

Do I exhibit my own spirituality? Is it apparent that God and I have a relationship, a living one? Do I come across as one who believes? Am I a cynic? Do I live a model worthy of emulation?

If a pastor is worth their own salt, then it seems we must be about what we preach. Either we believe in God, trust God's grace, live a Christian example, and offer ministry in God's name or we do not. I am not talking about perfection here; I will never be perfect, not even close. I cannot do what I do if I do not believe in God's presence in the world, a living reality that connects people together.

I think we as pastors dry up very quickly if we do not rely on the livingness of the relationship we hold with God. We give out, again and again. If we do not intentionally live by the well of living water, then at some point we get lost, and can't find our way back. We are thirsty, so thirsty but we can't find the path to what will quench that thirst once again.

Today I think of the relationship God started with me, since I do believe God is the initiator of such relationships. I am grateful, deeply grateful for those who lead the way, my grandmother, my Sunday School teachers, friends of my parents, neighbors, simple people with a profound faith that allowed their own spirituality to give root in me.

I will read my paper once again, through the lens of a pastor who has been involved in ministry for 19 years. I will ask the questions of myself, or rather I will listen to the questions of God. In my Lenten desert experience, it is a good time to be interviewed, by God.

You know my insides.
You know how I was put together.
You know who I am.
You know what I am about.
The psalmist cried out to you,
asking you to search his heart,
to look for evil from within,
to cleanse him from all unrighteousness.
Let it be so with me.
Let this Lenten time
be an experience of salvation.
Open me to your light,
that I may enter the joy
of your delight.

Expectantly, Andrea

Monday, March 19, 2007

Dearest God,

Last week I received a letter from Sarah, a college student who plans to participate in an international mission trip this summer. I watched Sarah grow up. As a member of my former church, my husband and I shared in her life. Harold was her pastor when she was born. We observed her early days in our preschool. A sweet smile and loving way is Sarah's trademark.

She plans to travel to South Africa, to Johannesburg and Zimbabwe to work with destitute children. Sarah will be wonderful. They will love her. She will offer them all she has.

I plan to send a check to support her trip. But more than that I will pray and ask God to bless Sarah's work as she offers herself out of her commitment to Christ as a Peace Studies and Religion major. She will make a difference in the world.

This is not the first time we have been invited to affirm and support the ministry of a young person traveling to some far off destination. Many of our youth have written us, giving us opportunity to journey with them as part of their faith promise to God. Every prayer and dollar has reminded me how important it is to teach our children about God, about caring for our neighbor. To be part, albeit a small part, of a child's life of faith is a rich heritage we carry as pastors. This is evidence that something we may have said or did contributed to a heart warming to God's ministry of love. We are humbled by God's gracious grace.

Sarah is at the beginning of her life as an adult. She will live many years contributing to peace in the world. She will offer the love of Christ to all with whom she comes in contact. All around her people will be touched, inspired by God's spirit. Her life counts for much.

Perhaps it pays to be in the autumn of my life. For one's perspective is an interesting one. At 60 I have enough time behind me now to look back, to reflect, to ponder my relationships, my work, my love, my commitments. I can see fruit in the wake of my life. Oh, not that I did anything big. Only God does big things. We just get to create the setting whereby God acts, lives, loves, transforms, and does miracles. And I am provided the opportunity to set on the back stoop, giving thanks. How grateful I am.

Generous Spirit,
how I marvel at your work.
I give thanks
again and again and again
for the majesty of it all.
How wonderful you are
to touch our lives
in beautiful ways.
We are simple human beings
loving a Compassionate God,
full of grace and mercy
for all God's children.
I am honored
to participate in your life
and the lives of others.
I love you.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Dear God,

During Lent I am renewing. I am painting rooms in my house, getting ready for new carpet. I am cutting the plants back in the garden, preparing for new growth. I am spending more time with my husband, savoring moments until he leaves. I am cleaning out old papers, making more room for empty space.

Either I am in the mode of spring cleaning or I am laying the foundation for renewal in myself. Perhaps both. I think what we often do externally is a sign of what is happening internally. I am cleaning up my internal life, ridding myself of unwanted behaviors, attitudes, giving myself space and time to greet God properly on Easter morning.

Lent has always been a sacramental time for me. Holy Week has traditionally been the most meaningful week of my personal year. And Easter, the birds sing harmony on this day. I rise up early on Easter morning and the first thing I do is open the door to listen. The birds somehow know it is a sacred day and they do their part in ushering in the season of Easter, the resurrection.

I am shaping myself up for the great resurrection day with God. I cannot live life as usual during Lent. I have to make myself ready for God. This season is intended for a soul cleanup. Imagine God greeting new "converts" on Easter morning. I want my soul to be as pure as possible on this great faith renewal morning.

Sometimes renewal is difficult, examining my inner life, too many changes. A life gone a little haywire. At other times it feels natural, like the way winter turns to springtime. I know what I am moving toward and I know the implications of a life turned toward God in an intentional way. Joy.

What seems to be unique in my endeavors this year is that I am not frenzied, panicked trying to make everything happen. I am not getting up at 3:00 a.m. to put in as many hours as possible to get all things done. I take one thing at a time. And I enjoy. In fact as I paint inside or trim outside, my thoughts turn toward the Creator. A simple task keeps me focused. My temperament is being cleared of cobwebs, moments when my life is lived without a conscious intention toward God. At times of the year I gathered spiritual cobwebs from a lack of refreshing spiritual activities that keep me sharp, alert, and watchful. These mundane tasks allow for a cleansing time.

I'm getting ready for God, trying to put on my best face, heart, soul and spirit.

Does all this activity
mean something for you, God?
Does the Lenten clean up
account for a necessary change?
Does a soul need sprucing up,
at a time when it has been neglected?
Your presence urges me on.
As I encounter you daily,
I think of your call
to be attentive to soul living.
I think of your loving way
and my need to become more loving.
I think of your kindness
and my need to become more kindly.
I think of how blessed I am
in your presence
and how I want to be a greater blessing.
Open the doors and windows
to my heart and soul.
Let your spirit wind blow
throughout my spiritual home.
Cleanse me from within.
Let the sweet scent of your love
fill me to capacity
so I may be a vessel of love
bursting forth with Christ.
Easter joy.

I will love you always, Andrea

Saturday, March 17, 2007

My dearest God,

A love rekindled. Is it possible that love ebbs and flows? Does it grow to some level, then plateaus? Can love die out, then bloom and blossom again miraculously, like the last flower of spring?

I frequently use the word "love". I love life. I love family. I love spoony fudge (my sister and mine's own concoction). I tell people I love them. Always have. I speak love to my children, my grandchildren, to friends and to my husband.

But do I mean it? And what do I really express when I offer love? Is it for someone else or do I say it for me? Is there some hook in love? Do I give love in order to receive it back?

I overuse the word I am sure. But what word can better be used to describe what I feel in the depths of my being?

Love is a connection. I have a link or I want to have a link to this one or that. I join myself to creation because creation's landscape births new love in me. Something comes to life inside me as I stand on a mountain top and view the earth from my tiny place. But not only from a high place, but also in low valleys of sorrow or pain, in refugee camps, garbage dumps where people are stranded, on the streets. I have entered each of these scenes.

I have visted refugee camps in Palestine. I have entered their homes, listened to their stories, seen pictures of their children who have died in the war of animosity and hate. I have stood in a garbage dump miles and miles long and have witnessed children living in cardboard boxes with their parents. I have seen their filthy bodies; yet, when they offered their small hand to me in friendship, I have taken that hand in mine. Love was sparked as I looked into the dark brown eyes of people who live half way around the world, strangers. But are they? Does love make us friends?

My heart has been broken by love, a love misplaced, love withheld or withdrawn, love rejected. An open, vulnerable, loving heart will always bear the scrapes and scratches of hurt, disappointment, sorrow, and grief. One who abides by the law of love will always show wear and tear. I think it is the nature of love to have its share of injury.

Is the old adage true, "Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved before"? )Something like that.) Does love initiate something within us that gives us courage to survive in a world where people murder one another? Does love, surging through our veins, give us cause to believe in ourselves and others? Is love the reason to live, to make a difference, to give ourselves away, at least some portion of ourselves?

Is love the junction to the rest of life and if it is, how do we teach it, in schools, churches, families and societies? How do we make love apparent to all, every person, none left out? How do we let love's tenacles wrap us up, making us feel wanted, giving us a place of belonging, purpose and value? I can only believe that love is meant for all of us, not just some of us.

I could write my life's story through the lens of love. I could share where love has brought light, joy, and comfort. And I could equally yield my stories of pain and darkness, where love has been absent or hidden.

Yesterday I found my X-815 paper, my master dissertation if you will. Written and presented on December 8, 1987, it is 21 pages, entitled "Christian Ministry: The Divine Embrace." This divine embrace is none other than the love of God.

I defended my seminary paper at Christmas time in 1987. At the same time of the celebration of Jesus' birth. Is this the love letter of God to the world, to each and every tiny soul ever born? Does this love make sense of all the chaos in the universe? Can this love reverse our craziness?

I included in my paper a quote by Grady Hardin, "Christian worship begins with God's love in Jesus Christ, through whom God offers life to us, and makes possible our offering of our lives in him." This is love, the divine embrace. This is a perpetual love, never ending. It extends to all. It is in all. Do we offer love to awaken this seed in one another?

I am a first born. I am told that I was much loved by many when I was birthed. Until my sister was born, I was the "apple" of the eye of my parents, aunts, uncles, friends of my folks. My grandparents watered the seed of love within me. I was nurtured, nourished by others around me. I knew love from the beginning. I have not been afraid to share it, even when my leadership style of love was criticized. Love has always been part of me, at the center, in my core.

I told my husband last night that I fell in love with him a long time ago and that I'm falling in love with him again. The light of our love is being rekindled, like stoking a fire that has grown cold. One tiny burning ember can make for a roaring blaze.

To those who have not known the kind of love I have experienced, I can only be a seed awakener. I have learned from the best. That dirty little hand in Garbage City in the heart of Cairo, Egypt taught me a world of lessons about love.

You are Love,
the essence,
the leaven
of life.
You are the
Divine Embrace.
Without you
love does not exist.
We cannot know its intention,
its passion,
its power
without you.
Love is always
being rekindled.
It never goes out.
We may not see it,
or know it,
but it is there for all.
God has put it there
in each of us.
Henri Nouwen,
one of the great theologians
of the last century
did his final work
with severely handicapped persons
before his death.
It was in their midst
that he discovered love
of the highest order.
The love within me
is not my own;
it is owned, possessed by God.
And I am enabled, empowered
to share it with others.
My seed has grown
into mighty oaks
of love.
May I always walk with you,
dearest God,
that others may know the love I share
is yours.

Eternally yours, Andrea

Friday, March 16, 2007

Dear God,

I am throwing things away. I opened a red two-drawer file to find some of my writings. What I found instead were cards I had saved following the death of my mother. How do you toss loving thoughts, prayers, words of hope and comfort? Then I discovered old papers I had written in seminary. The Theology of Evangelism. Spirituality in Ministry. Theology on the Religions. Hours and hours of hard work! How do I get rid of my own process in theological thinking? Then I unearthed notes and cards from my children, Mother's Day, anniversaries, birthday, heart-felt words for a mother's heart. Throw away my own children's writings?

Why did I save all these? I held onto messages about my mother's death because I somehow felt closer to her. If I kept them close at hand, I might not feel such loss. I'm not sure why I kept my seminary work. They are not particularly outstanding. My first paper was a C. I was devastated. "Do you think God is glorified in this work?" My first professor wrote on my paper. I wanted to fall into the abyss. I failed to glorify God! It got better. Most were A's with some B's. And my children's words? What mother can part with them?

When I had cancer, I received hundreds of notes, cards, and letters. Each one warmed my heart, encouraged my spirit. I kept them in a special basket for months. Then I moved them in the basket downstairs. A couple years ago (eight years following my diagnosis) I reread them, then let them go. Parting was such sweet sorrow, as the saying goes.

Sometimes I need loving messages to keep me going, especially when I feel down, insecure, unsafe, or just blue. But is it necessary to hold in my hand a card that says I love you? I suspect at times I have forgotten the message or imagined no one cared. I probably held my own pity party. The messages perked me up.

Now that I am downsizing, trying to de-clutter my home for retirement in little more than two years, I have to make a decision. Do I keep it or let it go? And if I choose to keep it, then I must understand if my husband wants to keep his 70+ boxes of ministry papers, books, artifacts, drawings, etc. Good grief!

As I sat on the cold concrete floor, I leaned over to pull the pink waste basket closer. One by one, I said thanks and put them in the can. Goodbye, Theology of Evangelism. Of course, I saved the most precious ones. But most I had to release. It seems unfair to expect our children to have to go through everything someday. I figure I'm doing them a favor.

As I walk from room to room, I ask myself, "Is this necessary? Do I really need this?" My home is a museum of memory. Pictures of family, gifts given, special items, family heirlooms, each one telling their own unique story. Do I have to hold on to each thing in order to have the memory? Probably not.

I'm grateful to all those who blessed me during difficult times. In fact several who wrote me beautiful notes have since died themselves. Precious people from former churches. I loved them all. I give thanks to God for inspiration that lead people to write me. I am blessed.

Dear God,
will you throw away my letters?
Or are they etched
upon your heart?
Is it okay to let go
of such wonderful gifts
of love?
I know I hold
the memory of love.
And I am grateful.
But how do I unclutter,
yet hold near and dear
all those
who have remembered me
in the trials of my life?
I'm not the first
to downsize.
I could use
a little help here.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Dearest God,

"What is silence?" Someone asked me during the Lenten study. "More than the absence of words." I told them. "Silence is a vast place, a darkness that leads to the light. It is the quieting of the voice in order to hear God speak." I should have told them it is also the soul's resting place. Silence is the meeting place of God. In silence, everything is hushed so the soul can awaken.

I remember growing up being terrified of a space without sound. Why, I can't really say. I don't know. While some are afraid of the dark, I was afraid of silence.

But life's experiences have prompted me to take another look at silence. In moments of deepest despair or desperation, I have been offered a new realm to visit. The gentle voice of God, like that of a loving mother, called out to me. With no where else to turn, I stepped inside this great unknown. Not sure what I would find and less sure I would survive the movement, I made the leap. What awaited me was a grand surprise.

It was the deepest darkness I had ever known. I was blind, unable to see. In the midst of this mysterious "place" I stood perfectly still. I became aware that silence may simply be darkness alone. I breathed in slowly, psychologically trying to take it all in. I seemed to be offered a choice of resignation or contentment. Because I believed I entered the silence with God, I chose contentment. If this is all there is, then I am alone with God here, I thought to myself. I am contented.

A peace gently came over me. I recognized a life force in the darkness, a movement, not the scary kind like someone hiding, waiting to jump out and scare me, but rather a loving kindness that lulled me into a new state of peace. I truly was contented. I was finally ready to move. I looked around, studying my new environment. My eyes seemed to adjust, making me one with the silent darkness. I began to walk around, not even sure if there was a floor upon which to stand. In the beginning this prospect scared me to death. But now this contented peace gave me courage to move. If I would begin falling, so be it.

It was then that I saw a pencil lead-size light. This tiny radiance opened a pathway and I followed it. I stepped out into the glorious light. I knew I was safe. Somehow, some way, some mysterious something had drawn me. The fear that I initially had disappeared and the dark door through which I had entered the darkness was gone forever. My knowledge of the door is all that remains. I knew as I pushed the heavy, monastery-like door open and passed over the threshold, I could never again return. When the door slammed shut, it was closed permanently.

"Silence is a friend." I told the group last night. And it is. It followed me on my pilgrimage toward God during my renewal leave, until we met up and I carried the silence within me. I remember the very moment my eyes caught a peek at the "Silence" sign at Taize, France. Instead of taking a picture of the worship center, I photographed the sign. Silence was at the heart of my quest for God.

"There are some things over which we have no control." Someone said during the study. "It's true, but instead of reacting or overreacting to a situation we cannot change, we can enter silence and find hope waiting for us." I said. In my darkest moments I head for silence as a mother, a woman, a seeker, a pastor, a friend, a grandmother, a creature in search for God. And I am never disappointed.

The search for God
is never ending.
My soul longs
to be in the presence
of the Holy One.
One more time,
I say to myself,
one more time
I want to lay eyes
on this One
who gives my life
value, purpose and meaning.
I wear the image of God,
not because I am deserving,
but because God has put
God's own self into me.
And into everyone else.
I am a look-alike
when I bare my soul to God
and find that God and I
are one.
Silence is
my best friend,
for this best friend
leads me to God
every time.

I will never forget your love, Andrea

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Dearest God,

She is fragile, 75 years old, about 80 lbs, battling with cancer. For eleven years she has fought ovarian cancer. Her cancer indicators reveal a high level of 400. Anything over 35 is considered cancer.

She wants to be baptized. A member of her family told her years ago that she thought she had been baptized as a child. But she is the last of her family line now and no one is alive to confirm it. No baptism certificate. The church is long gone. She really wants to be baptized.

I went to her home, really to her daughter's home with whom she lives. I hugged her frail body as I was introduced to her. I asked about her cancer experience, when she was first diagnosed. I listened as she informed me of the battlefield where she has been fighting since 1996. Her voice was weak. It was day number five since chemo, a bad day.

I asked her what baptism meant for her. She talked about her faith, how she had trusted in the Lord for a long, long time. "Religion's not so hard," she told me she had shared with a friend, "just follow the ten commandments. Jesus was baptized and I think he wants me to be too."

"I want to tell you a story," she said. "When I was a young mother, I learned about a twenty six year old mother who had died of cancer. Her husband wasn't much to talk about. And she had a couple of kids. I watched from the screen door when the procession went by. I said right then, "Oh God, let me live long enough to raise my kids. I won't ask for anything more. Anything you give me, I'll take." She pleaded with the Almighty.

Her kids are all raised now and doing well. She seems proud of their accomplishments. When she looked over at her daughter, she smiled. She's doing as much as she can to fight this latest battle. She's got two or three more treatments to endure. Then it's up to God.

I studied this lovely lady. You can tell something about a person by looking into their eyes. Although her skin is darkened by the serious bout and her eyes are deep set and she is very weary, I could see a sweet spirit. I think she's the real deal. Her faith appears to rise out of her core. She's one of God's own.

I told her I would be honored to baptize her. And although our denomination adheres to the theology of "one body, one baptism," I told her I believe God looks at the intention of the heart. There's nothing in this woman to argue with. Her deepest desire is baptism. Who am I or a denomination to say "no." She hopes to make it to a church service. The date is set. She wondered about her headscarf, since she has lost her hair. She thought maybe she could make some kind of lace thing to wear when she was sprinkled. I told her not to worry. "I can baptize your forehead. And if you grow sicker and you can't get to church, I'll come to you. I'll bring a representative of the church to assist me. We'll get you baptized one way of the other."
Tears trickled down her face as I promised to make it easy for her. I remember the slogan a few years ago. What would Jesus do? Baptize her, of course.

I watched with great interest the relationship between mother and daughter. As I looked at this mother as she spoke, I saw her daughter in my peripheral vision. My, how she loves her mother. This woman has faith, due in part to a mother's faith. What a beautiful scene before me.

I thought about the church, our rules, committees and structure. We need organizational order out of which to operate the church. But when it comes to the tender heart of love for a Savior, we need to release the "law" and allow the heart and spirit space. God is there in those prized moments. As a pastor I offer freedom to those who need it to make a decision for Christ. Freedom will release a person from unwanted burdens so they can rise up to see the eyes of salvation.

A pastor has many tasks, responsibilities. We wear many hats and we need to keep each one close by so we can shift when the need arises. We hear many stories. We carry many endeared secrets. We walk with people in the muddy trenches of life. And when we get heavy, God carries us.

I'm on stand by at any moment to baptize this faith-filled woman if the need presents itself before our scheduled date. But frankly, I think she's already been baptized in the heart by the Savior himself.

Glorious God,
Wednesday is a good day
to meet Jesus.
He has many faces;
today he wore a blue scarf.

Eternally yours, Andrea

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Dear God,

The warm breezes blew today, eliciting images of walking on a South Carolina beach. Spring is springing. Yesterday I found purple and yellow blooms in my daughter's front yard. Have I forgotten the exquisite beauty of spring?

I live in the present. I am captured by the seasons. When it is winter, I live for snowy, cold, wintry, blustry days. In the Fall, I love the first hidden colors of Autumn, the golds, oranges, yellows, reds and browns. In the summer I watch with great interest for the first sign of vegetables popping through the ground, then observing daily growth until they are full, beautiful and dripping with flavor. But spring, spring may be the best of all. "What once was dead is now alive." The scripture says somewhere. New life comes out of dead vines. Amazing! Buds suddenly form on the trees and before I know it, the tree is full of green. My flowers poke their heads up, as if to see if the time is right, then pushing, pushing, pushing, rise up through the packed soil to display their rare allurement. Spring cries out across the land and suddenly we are charmed by life all around us.

How does all this magic happen? Scientists reveal that all living things are programmed; they simply follow instructions. Life has cycles. We just happen to be at the edge of the "spring" cycle. As a woman in the autumn of my life, I thrill in this spring time revelation. I stand quietly outdoors, close my eyes, and breathe in the scents of spring. That's where the scientists and I part company (at least with part of them). You see, I smell God, the sweet scent of heaven. My whole being feels the presence of goodness. God is in this magnificent unfolding paradise and I am in the middle of it.

I do not hesitate to acknowledge God's presence. If pushed to the wall for evidence, I would cry out, "Mystery! Mystery! Mystery! Divine mystery!" Who can force a flower to bloom? Who can make a tree grow? An orange to form? A conception to occur? None other than the Great Creator.

I blossom too in the spring time. New life comes to me even out of the desert. Ever see a cactus flower? Impossible? Not with God. I am rejuvenated. My lungs once again fill with the air of spring expanding fully to make room for fresh, clean oxygen. I want to sing, "In the bulb there is a flower, in the seed an apple tree, in cocoons a hidden promise butterflies will soon be free..." Written by Natalie Sleeth, it is a song of promise (actually called the Hymn of Promise). More valuable because she wrote it as her husband lay dying and before it was published she and her husband had both perished with cancer. I love this hymn because I can forsee the treasure of spring in the snow-covered ground. I know what lay ahead and I love living with the promise even before there is the first sign of new life.

What wonder is this
that God provides such
fine elegance?
Who can compete?
Death and life,
go hand in hand.
A flower dies,
only to live again.
May every sin
die in me
so that I too
will bud and blossom
for my God.

Love always, Andrea

Monday, March 12, 2007

Dearest God,

Can God be found in holy laughter? Can teasing one another in a meeting be an act of God?

I was weary from several straight days of work. I had worked on the women's retreat morning, noon and night literally for three and a half days. I had a meeting, then worked on my sermon the rest of the half day. Then came Sunday.

On Monday I left home at 6:30 a.m. for a day of caring for my ailing, pregnant daughter and her daughters, her laundry and bathroom. I picked up my six year old granddaughter and we made our way to McDonald's for breakfast, just the two of us. As we climbed out of the car, Gabrielle said, "Grandma, no one is here. Just you and me." "Let's pretend the restaurant is ours. We can sit anywhere we want." I responded back. We ordered our meal and picked the best seat by the window overlooking the parking lot.

As we finished our McGriddles and McMuffins, we smiled at an old man sitting by himself. By the time we walked to our car, we were dancing on the asphalt. And singing. Turning and twisting, our laughter permeated the air. "Better get you to school before you're late!" I told her. So we jumped into the car and raced for school. When we arrived, she asked me to walk her into school where several children were waiting for the bell to ring, releasing them to their classes. This soon-to-be-seven-in-May girl asked me to hold her hand until we walked into her classroom. We talked and laughed until she disappeared into the first grade classroom.

I left my granddaughter to retrace my steps to the front door. After passing seven rest rooms, I realized I was traveling in a circle. I had to ask for help getting me out of the maze.

My eighteen-month-old was awakening by the time I got to my daughter's house. I picked her up and she clinged to me. Having been sick last week, she was a little cranky. Several times I tried to change her diaper but she started screaming and I didn't want her waking her mother so I held her and we played with the Care Bear. Finally she released her grip on my neck and I fixed her a late breakfast.

The day went something like this: Put in a load of laundry. Play with the little one. Put in another load of laundry. Play with the little one. Put in a load of laundry. Put the little one down for a nap. Fold two loads of laundry. Put another one in. Clean the trap underneath. I had my hand down under the trap scraping a clogged vent. I nearly got it stuck, my hand, not the vent. Write e-mails for church. Put in yet another load of laundry. Wake the little one. Pick up the older one from school. Drive around town, looking for possible home purchases for the family. Return home to fold laundry, play with the children. Scrub the old shower. I smelled to high heaven with Soft Scrub. Couldn't get the smell off my hands. Showered. Still smelled. Put on lotion. No good! Dinner was in there somewhere with my daughter and family.

Then I drove to church. Should have known when I looked around it was going to be a crazy meeting. Three hours later I drove out of the parking lot. We laughed and teased through the whole meeting. I talked about bringing a student pastor on board and each time a volunteer was needed to help do something, the student got more work, from leading the children's ministry, to fixing the roof, and serving as the resident carpenter. We poked fun at one another while we gave litanies of ministries we plan to do this year. Overwhelming! And fun.

When I climbed into bed at 11:00 p.m. I was bone weary. But I reflected back upon the day from laughing in McDonald's parking lot to being on my hands and knees smelling like disinfectant to a hilarious meeting at the church. And I realized God had accompanied me all day long. He may have been the old man at McDonald's or the little girlfriend waving at school. God may have been the early morning sky, the dark rolled back by the light or the ultrasound picture of a teeny, growing grandson in the belly of my daughter. Or maybe my own voice when a brother-in-law asked me on the phone how long I wanted my husband to stay away from home and I said, "no more than a minute or two."

It's not hard to find God. Blink and before you will stand the Almighty, laughing, playing, dancing, singing, teasing, guiding. Glorious!

Surprises fill my day.
My weariness does not
get in the way
of sacred discoveries.
God is in the air,
in the sound of a child's voice,
in hope expressed.
The veil
sometimes leads us to believe
God is far away.
But not so.
Look closely.
On the inner side
of the veil
God waits to be seen.
A day with God
is like no other.
A day in heaven,
holding hands,
in praise.

Love always, Andrea

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Dearest God,

The first hint of Spring. Sunshine, blue skies, warm breeze, flower bulbs poking up through the ground. The planet is poised, ready to burst into color.

My husband hearkened back to days of long ago when a Sunday afternoon drive was the joy of the week. He wanted to take me out to eat so we drove out of the church parking lot and made our way to a local restaurant.

As we were greeted at the door, I asked for a booth. I wanted to be in our own little area, with no distractions. At Ted's we both ordered turkey dinner specials. Harold ordered a sasparilla. I put my hand across the table and patted his hand. What a pleasure it was to be with him.

When we got home, we began to laugh. All afternoon we laughed and laughed about the silliest things. Like little children everything tickled our funny bone.

We each took a short nap, having been up later than expected the night before. Then Harold did a first - decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I was writing a letter to God when he came downstairs with four orange Tupperware measuring spoons. "Which one of these is a tablespoon?" He queried me. "What do you need?" I asked him. "A tablespoon of baking soda." He replied. "Not for chocolate chip cookies." I told him. He brought me down the recipe and I pointed out that tsp is teaspoon, not tablespoon. I winced when I thought about eating a cookie with double the amount of baking soda.

In the evening we sat in the living room eating cookies and watching Mission Impossible. I looked over at this man I fell in love with more than 20 years ago. He is the craziest man I have ever known. His strange antics, playful way and inquisitive mind nearly drive me crazy at times. But overall I was drawn to him by these unique characteristics. He makes me laugh, grounds me when I'm flying too high, and thrusts me into the arms of a loving God when he has difficulty coping with a bout of my health problems.

By the time I crawled into bed to sleep, I reflected back on my day beginning with worship. What a beautiful day it had been. God had been present from the moment I had awakened. I had sensed him in the air as I put the final touches on my sermon early in the morning. And throughout the day his presence was as evident as the scent of Spring. As I closed my eyes, I gave thanks.

Precious Lord,
a gift,
this day has been a gift.
Your blessing
was all about me.
I did not have to call out your name.
You were with me.
From the moment
my feet touches the ground
in the dark hours of the morning,
I knew you were nearby.
We would spend
March 10 together.
How blessed I am
to be in the arms
of both my God
and my husband,
all in the same day.
I offer you
my thanksgivings,
deep and abiding love.

Eternally yours, Andrea

Saturday, March 10, 2007

My dear God,

My meeting was scheduled for 1:45 p.m. A leader-in-training and I worked on the retreat until 11:00 a.m. Then I jumped into the shower, got ready, packed my bags. We carried everything back downstairs, then ate some tuna helper, a little salad and a couple of twizzlers.

We got back on the road. My daughter called to wish me luck and prayers. About 20 minutes before we were to arrive, my heart skipped a beat. I was nervous. A breath prayer brought me back.

I walked into Panera Bread carrying my yellow tablet, pen and a bottle of water. We would watch for each other. We're both 60, wear glasses and have gray hair. That's how we would find one another. The place was packed. I stood near the glass door. "Andrea?" He asked me. "Barry?" I called out. We shook hands, then took seats in an out-of the way spot.

Barry is the owner of a publishing company. I am a writer. He contacted me about publishing my letters to God. We talked for nearly two hours. I learned about the company and the man. He found out about me. Pastor. Wife. Mother. Grandmother. Retreat leader. Zany woman. Spiritual pilgrim. We traded information, he about the process of publishing, me about my writing endeavors. A cancer journal. Retreat materials. Children's books. A collection of 50 stories about my family. Advent and Holy Land 30 day devotionals.

We parted friends. The next step is a meeting with three colleagues in his company to discuss my book project. One has already read my year-long blog. Barry has read excerpts. "We are very impressed." He told me. "You write well." They will work together to make some observations and recommendations, sending it to me by the middle of April.

I left the restaurant and climbed into my car. My friend was asleep, having waited on me to take her downtown to retrieve her car. She awakened and we talked about the meeting. She told me it was exciting. It is exciting, I thought to myself, but it's more than that.

I thought back to the early days of putting together my application for a renewal leave grant. An idea popped into my head, just like that. Every day write a letter to God on a blog. It would be a personal account of my daily journey, my quest for God, an intimate letter baring my soul, becoming vulnerable and learning to trust. No comments, none desired. God and I would find one another. Sounded like a good idea but I knew nothing about a blog. God placed the concept in my mind and I was faithful to put the idea on paper.

When I was awarded the grant, I began my search, and wrote my first letter. My very own blog, thanks to Jason, a church member. Faithfully, I penned my words, thoughts, hopes, fears and prayers. I didn't stop when the leave was over. God made it clear my renewal would continue.

More than a handful of people have suggested that I write a book containing my personal letters to God. I thanked them, but this was between God and me. If God wanted this, I would know it. When there were additional monies left over on my side of the grant budget, the idea came to publish the book. I inquired of Lilly for permission. Jean was quick to say yes. I contacted a couple of people. A friend had a friend who had worked with a publisher for several years, having written a number of books. Before I could call them, they had already contacted me. The visit with the publisher was yet another request of God to be faithful, to follow through.

I have followed the leading of God in this endeavor. It was never mine to begin with. God owned the idea from the beginning. My only desire is to be faithful to the call of God. If my heart-felt journey with God leads to a book, so be it. If not, my desire to be faithful to the God I love will be fulfilled. What more could I possibly desire?

You are the Source
of all my joy,
Great God.
My soul only longs
to be faithful
to your request.
You have delighted me
in this journey,
speaking to me,
listening to me,
dancing, singing, playing,
hoping, laughing, weeping,
together.
My heart is full.

Love to you always, Andrea

Friday, March 9, 2007

Dearest God,

A tiny seed germinates into a mighty oak. A seed, a tree. Miraculous!

An idea develops into a transforming tool for spiritual growth. A retreat manual, the how to's, prayers, songs, and activities. Participants gather as a seed, intending to grow like the oak tree. An idea, a simple idea in the hands of God can bring more than mighty oaks.

I'm amazed, intrigued, mystified by this process. Yet, I have done this for two decades. I have worked with God, a partner in joy. We hold hands, sometimes singing and dancing, other times pacing back and forth while clarity forms. The hardest part is when we labor to give birth to the idea. Phenomenal.

Women actually look forward to this seclusion, resting in a sacred sanctuary, home to nuns and retirement residents. It's true, they do want to escape from family, responsibility, and jobs. They enjoy staying in their own rooms with a view into the courtyard where a statue of Mary brings calm and peace. They revel in being pampered, meals prepared for them, hourly grazing at the snack table, special surprises planted in hand-made bags that hang on their doors, and spoony fudge toasts. They love being with friends. But more than all these, here on retreat they meet God.

I set aside three and a half days to work and write. It took two hours just to carry my computer equipment upstairs to the second floor in the Little Noddfa House plus luggage, food, stacks of books, music, coats, drinks, purse and assorted other novelty items to keep me inspired. After I redecorated my bedroom, taking furniture from other rooms and making it into my study, I sat down at the computer, looked out the window and gazed at the blue labyrinth printed on the concrete of the old tennis court. My eyes were fixed on the center, the Holy of Holies where God waits. I was ready.

I drew in a breath of Holy Spirit air. God and I would rejoin in our effort to create a safe and holy environment where women would step up, one by one, to be greeted by the Living Spirit. Sacred space. Partners in creation. Koinonia.

You surpass every expectation
by your love present.
I feel an electricity in the air,
a quiet solitude
where angels flutter,
and saints sing.
A holy trek.
A pilgrimage.
Light and shadow
travel together
speaking to one another
of things so sacred
and beautiful.
God is present.
We wait.

Love always, Andrea

Thursday, March 8, 2007

My dearest God,

"Hallowed doors. Hallowed doors." These two words ran through my mind during our time of silence in our covenant group this morning. Hallowed doors.

I've been in the desert, standing on the outside. I have welcomed this high and holy place because I know I shall find God anew. When someone asked me a question about the desert place where I currently find myself, I described it as being on the outside trying to find my way back in.

So it should not have been a surprise when I heard the words, "hallowed doors." Even as the words came to me in the darkness, I began to see images of hallowed doors. Entryways to the spirit. The monastery door. The doorway to the Judean wilderness. Grandma's door. The door to the grotto. The door to former churches. The door to the African churches. The door to the African hospital. The door to St. Peter's Cathedral. The doorway to the Sistine Chapel. The door to Russia. The door to Christ in the Desert. The door to Ojo Caliente Springs. The door to St. Joseph Retreat Center. The door to St. Bernadette. The entry to the cave of St. Francis. The door to my ordination. The entrance to my cancer. The doorway to sacred dance. The door to Michelangelo. The opening to the light. The door to my covenant group. The door to heartbreak. The door to new life. The door to sacred writing. The door to the Wadi Kelt. The door to the Sea of Galilee. The entry into Ephesus, Patmos. The entrance to retreat. The doorway to the desert. The door to St. Therese. The door to suffering. The door.

Indeed, the door. Every situation is a possible entry into the spiritual life. Any condition, be it high or low, sad or glad, spectacular or devastating can lead one through a doorway to God. A hallowed door.

My highs and lows have equally taken me to the doorway to God. In my darkest moments sometimes called a "dark night of the soul," I have found God holding a light. In my greatest moments of birth, I have discovered God at the top leading the celebration. Doors, hallowed doors, entries to the Spirit, are all over the place, in every location. Even when falling down, our head and hands, feet and heart fall near a doorway. And God stands there, inviting us in.

These are perhaps the holiest moments in our lives. Witnessing the doorway, first taking baby steps, then running at full speed, we experience God waiting for us. How long has God been standing at the hallowed door, waiting for us? Forever!

I should like to spend a long Sabbath time thinking about my hallowed doors, those entryways God has placed before me. I would like to express my gratitude for each one. I want to wander through my doorways one more time, bowing down, kneeling before my Maker. I desire to kiss the entrance, an intimate reponse to the most wondrous gift God can give.

I realized today that a trip to the desert is a valuable journey. For in the desert God gains our full attention. Where else do we have to go? God has shown me the way, the path back home. Part of me is ready to go inside. Part of me wishes to remain behind. What more does God want to say to me? What more does God want of me? What more can I do to express, offer my love and devotion?

Why do we avoid the desert?
Fear?
Lack of faith?
Heartache or heartbreak?
Arrogance or pride?
God stands in the desert,
not always in the skies.
My ability to lean
toward the wind of the Spirit
can lead me to
greater spiritual vistas.
The door is always open,
never shut.
And I can enter at any time.
My heart is most grateful.
To you,
Loving God,
I owe everything.
Even my joy
has your name on it.
I stand at the door,
celebrating with the Doorkeeper.

All my love, Andrea

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

My dearest God,

Writing an intimate letter to God, then allowing others to read it has its own set of risks. People can interpret what you write or say in many different ways. Some will react to their own conclusion.

In the last twenty four hours I have had three conversations about my last writings. One person came to visit me at the office. Another called long distance. And yet another called to say she was thinking about me. Troubling. Oh, not that I'm not grateful that people care because I know they do and I love each one for reaching out. However, I've learned something.

People are not comfortable when someone is vulnerable. People, especially loved ones, want to protect you from harm, injury. They want to make your life better. They wish to help in some way. They feel uneasy knowing someone they care about is troubled. They want the troubled person to change back quickly. And they are willing to do whatever is needed to assist in the change, the transformation.

Being in the desert is a necessary part of life. It is the "growth" place. It is the environment where the human soul can take refuge while exploring one's own insides. Revelation can come, as one determines to let God shine light on a dark or ominous place. Being vulnerable, honest about where one is, is a first step toward God. It is a recognition that something has changed. My soul has run amuck. I've stubbed my toe. I've fallen down. To admit the fallenness is to acknowledge one's own sin or brokenness. God can enter the soul on a level where both parties can talk.

The desert has few distractions. Not much to see or do. Life is lived in the raw. It's just God, me and the truth. We look at each other. Nothing is hidden. And since there is nowhere to turn and no one to run to, one can only fall into God's arms, which is precisely where one needs to be.

I need the desert experience. It teaches me about life and its pitfalls. It reminds me of my foibles and my need to turn toward God. I recognize that I am a simple human being in a vast universe created by God. I need to be reformed, reshaped, remade on a regular basis if I want to live the authentic spiritual life.

St. Francis of Assisi often found himself in the desert just like St. Bernadette and St. Therese. They wrestled with their sin, even the smallest infraction. Their longing to please God was so deep and intense that they remained in the spiritual desert for long periods of time until they regained their sense of place with God. Cleansed, refreshed, they became powerful witnesses to a whole world. Much has been written about all three. Oh, how I love their spirit.

I want the deepest relationship that is possible with God. I want nothing to stand between us. In fact on Sunday mornings before I preach, I ask God to remove anything between us so I will not be a barrier between God and God's own message. I want to be a messenger for God but I do not want to spoil the message by my own sin, pride, or arrogance. I want to know God at the deepest level, traveling as far down as possible, even if it means walking into the deepest darkness. And why? Because I know first hand that the deepest darkness has the only occasion for making the light the brightest. One tiny spark of light is magnificent in the deep dark. One is awestruck, stopped dead, breath nearly taken away by the awesomeness of God's light in our deepest trouble. And joy, joy overflows like the most beautiful waterfall. I find God here.

The desert leads me to God. Who would want to stop me? Who would tell me not to go? Who would prevent me from this amazing journey? Yes, it is scary in here, in the desert. Sometimes I fear there are ferocious enemies waiting to devour me. I suppose it is possible. But I'm willing to stand naked, all my sins, weaknesses, and failures revealed in order to meet God. And so, the desert must be available to the true seeker.

Desert fathers and mothers have written much about the desert. They found true harmony and peace in the desert of the soul. They fought their own demons here in this desolate place, but walked away a deeper believer, a more devout soul.

A true seeker must go to the desert to find their own soul. They must enter with nothing but a longing in the heart. They must be willing to tarry for however long so they are ready to engage God in a spiritual reality that is not possible apart from the desert. Good does not go to gooder and gooder to the goodest. Life is made up of ups and downs, side shifts, and falls. A fall can take us higher than ever before.

I'm grateful to be in the desert right now. I don't know what I will find or what will find me. I just know this is where God wants me right now. And Lent is the best time of all to be here. To my friends who love me, thank you for your loving care. I'm okay. I'm where I need to be, in the arms of God.

Dry soil.
Little water.
Hot sun.
Desert.
An oasis with God.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Dearest God,

Someone visited my office yesterday. Asked me a question after reading my blog. "Where are you?" "On the outside." I replied. I described the outside, what it is like, knowing what the inside looks like as well, but not being there. This morning I realize the outside is the desert, the very place I have put my congregation during Lent. My sermon series is entitled, 40 Days in the Desert. Well, guess what? That's where I am. This morning I'm looking for a cup of water.

So, I'm in the desert, searching for water. Not sure which direction to go. I know water is here somewhere but I left my divining rod behind. Not quite sure where it is either.

Recently I have been focused on putting things in order. Cleaning off my desk at home. Sorting through magazine sheets for the special garden I intend to create with a neighbor in Maine. Projecting financial costs for house projects at both homes. Selecting carpet and paint. Starting to paint four rooms before carpet installation April 9. Renovating two doors from the other house. Cleaning my home from top to bottom. Updating my memorial service to give copies to my covenant group. (No, I have no death wish; we've just been getting that in order too.) I've been compartmentalizing things.

But even as I write, I have to acknowledge that compartmentalizing is okay for some things. But you can't compartmentalize God or spiritual matters or spiritual gifts or the spiritual life. God cannot be tucked away in a little box, then brought out on special occasions. It doesn't work that way. You can't have a little God for this and a little for that. None over here and a lot for church. Doesn't work that way either. God is either in or out.

Dusting off my backpack, I guess I'll be on my own journey for a while. There's a lesson in the desert for me.

What do I know as I begin the pilgrimage? I'm giving out more than I'm taking in. I'm thirsty. I'm tired. I have too much responsibility at the moment. Too many people counting on me. I'm going to have to say no to new counselees. Members have called with friends who need help. A child has asked me to see a friend. Members have called with clients who need to talk to someone. I've said yes each time. Seemed like the thing to do. Can't do it anymore. Too much, too many. In the far off distance I see a mirage of the old me before my renewal leave. She's waving, jumping up and down. "Remember me? Remember me?" And all I want to say is, "Good Lord, quiet that woman. Send her home."

The old temptation is knocking on my door. To return to a former way of life that was damaging, destructive, exhausting, and crazy is not what I want to do. I do not want to give up my life of peace and inner joy for a whirlwind of activity that sucks the life right out of me. I'm at a crossroads, like all my friends in the spiritual life.

Aah yes. The words of Bishop Reuben Job. "When you're at a crossroads and the paths diverge, take the path where the shadow of the cross falls because at the end you will find resurrection." Okay, so the paths look the same to me, except for the cross and that shadow looks pretty ominous. But where there's a cross, Jesus is nearby. I'll be taking that path.

Help me to learn,
dear God.
Teach me.
How is it that
life becomes full
before you know
you're filling it up?
Is it seductive temptation?
Or are we wired
a particular way
so we will always return
to the same problem?
How do we overcome
for good?
And never repeat?
I have tied my shoes,
put on my backpack.
I'm ready.
For the journey.

Love, Andrea

Monday, March 5, 2007

Dearest God,

I have disappointed someone, again. When she called, she was kind, not angry, just disappointed. Her expectations and mine do not match up. Hers leads to disappointment, mine to balance. At least that's my take on the situation.

I have long struggled with varying expectations. What I expect from others. What others expect from me. And what God expects from both.

Early in my life I followed the expectations of others. I leaned this way, then that when the winds blew. I found that my center force was gone, the fulcrum of logic and balance. I wanted, needed approval of others in order to have any center at all. What I discovered is a life without a strong center will collapse in on itself.

It took years, and I do mean years, a couple, three decades to determine how to build a center, then how to read it. I had to test, then test again. Evaluate, study. How do I do it? I constantly pondered.

My earlier female models were people I admired, loved. But looking back, they were the workers, the tireless workers who cared for everyone's needs. Theirs always came up short. They were taken advantage of. At times they were like mats, people could walk on them. They carried all the responsibility although both were married. One contented herself by reading the Upper Room periodical. I'm not sure the other was happy at all. (I'm certain that's a slight exaggeration. I just didn't see much joy on her face very often.) I followed their examples and found myself disappointed most of the time.

I had to search for a new model. I went looking for clues. I finally realized that I am not like any other. There is no perfect ideal. To follow another is to remain in bondage to an idea that doesn't work.

Which leads me back to expectations. What do I expect of myself? How much do I give to myself? How much to others? How much is enough, too much, too little?

During my renewal time I had no expectations, other than to follow God. And I followed like a cloud in the sky when the winds blew. I was so willing to be whisked upward, sideways, constantly being reshaped, made larger or smaller. I was light, airy, no weight burdening me down.

I've lost my lightweight status. I feel a burden creeping into me. When I wasn't watching, on alert, my center was being jostled. I see the red flag going up. I will have to make some decisions, perhaps a change here and there. I will disappoint some others.

It's a wonderful thing to be needed. Yet, a relationship built on neediness can ultimately travel to the far country where trouble can brew. Greater needs can surface and expectations will rise. And people will get hurt. Especially in families.

I realize there is a reason why I am where I am. I had covenanted in 2006 to take a Sabbath Day or two every month for my own spiritual and emotional health. I was able to take a day a couple of times. It was grand, rejuvenating, quiet. My spirit hovered at the center with God. I was content to sit, be still and listen for God's voice.

But somewhere in the mix of things I became ill. Missed work. Was weak. And when I started recouping, I felt I couldn't take time away. So I vacillated and here I am coping with a demon from the past.

I will not go one more day without calendaring my Sabbath times. Some will understand the value of such days. Others will see it as a waste of time and believe their needs can fill the time better. I will need to weather the situation with God as my guide.

Great God,
my spirit is restless,
not calm.
I'm questioning myself
and my loyalties.
My insides are squishie.
(That's probably not a real word,
but it will do for me.)
I need to firm up
the center of my being,
while remaining
pliable in the hands
of my Maker.
I need to trust you
to lead me,
guide me,
to speak to me.
And I want to be willing
to be like the cloud
in the sky,
following your breath.
You are my true center.
In you
I find green pastures
and still water
and restoration
of my soul.
Thank you,
Most High God,
for faith,
the road that always
leads back home.

Forever yours, Andrea