Thursday, August 30, 2007

Dearest God,

Ever since I read the article on Mother Teresa's 50 year crisis of faith, I have wondered about the meaning of faith without the sense of your presence. For Mother Teresa the call to compassion was based on her great love of Jesus and his love for her. She felt this love deeply and wanted to "love Jesus like he had never been loved before."

And so she loved him by loving his poorest children. Through the expressions of children and old people dying on the streets, loved at the "last minute," she witnessed the joy of compassion, yet she did not feel the embrace of Jesus' arms around her. If that is because she so perfectly cleaved to his suffering, then was there room for joy? Did she put herself through even greater pain by expecting and being disappointed that she felt no compassionate love for herself? Was it possible to move in and out of deep suffering to touch the Savior and feel his touch for her?

I have known your loving presence as she had known it before her call to compassion for the world's poorest people. And I have known deep darkness, abandonment, but not from you. From others yes, but not from you. What am I missing?

As I watch and anticipate the movement of God in the world, I live with the assumption of your presence in all of creation. Was the suffering your presence for Mother Teresa? Could not this suffering have been the expression of God's living reality?

Today, I received a call from a stranger asking for help for her friend and colleague whose son is in the hospital for a gang-related injury. When I was alerted to the call by a staff member, I thought I was too full up with people's sorrow and that I had no more room in my heart for another. Yet, I picked up the phone, listened to the plight and said yes to providing help where I could. Is my affirmative answer the yes of God's presence to this sorrowing woman?

I want to read the book of her letters, searching for the living presence of God. I want to get inside the crisis in order to understand. Will I find this the post of God, the place of God's greatest presence? Or will I be struck by her own despairing thoughts?

I believe with all my heart that she achieved her goal of loving you the most you could be loved. By loving your saddest children, she was the epitome of God's love to those most helpless. Is it possible that your presence was so deeply embedded in the fabric of her being that she simply was not able to see it because it was so much like her own? Is it possible?

As I encounter hurting people and I offer my assistance, I have always believed it was my task to open the door to your presence for others. I am not the presence of God, but I lead people to the entrance. What happens inside is between you, Most Gracious God, and those seeking something more. I cannot transform even one human life, but I can walk "beside" those who cry out to me for help. I can take their hand, lead them to the doorway. Is this not what you have called me to do? Isn't this the heart of your intended ministry for me?

I am not leading people to an illusion, a graphic portrayal of a fictitious god. I myself am lead by this presence to the opening. I do not pretend to know what lies inside for each one. I am not capable of knowing the deepest mysteries. Yet, I am captured by them.

In my mind I wonder where this conversation will lead me.

Ancient peoples
built a shrine
to an "Unknown" God.
And this was
the God
to whom many would turn.
The Unknown God
became the
loving God Known.
To you,
I bring
my questions and fears,
and my love.
Teach me,
always teach me
I pray.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Dear God,

A colleague confided that she wanted to write a book. I was excited for her, telling her it was a great idea. Maybe she will write it in retirement, she told me. When I inquired the type of book she would write, she said she would tell her life's story.

That lead to a conversation as to why I write. It came to me simply, "I write as a contemplative response to what I see God doing in the world." Daily I am on the watch, looking around me, listening, anticipating your word, love being expressed, challenges emerging, creation unfolding. Infinite proposals from God. It's not about looking for a topic to discuss, but rather the gentle stirring of your Spirit.

Sometimes what I see is bold, earth shaking; other times it is but a whisper of creation needing to be heard, desiring to express itself. Delicate, soft, beautiful. Other times it rises up in darkness, loneliness, despair. A quiet voice, firm, promising. On some occasions it is a sound, a melodious note singing alone. Always silence has a word, a thought, an instruction, a question. Doubt will sometimes speak. And faith, well, faith has feet that walks the pilgrim path noticing how trust brings life. And love, or the absence of it, will have something to say. A look, a gesture, a setting, the monotonous sound of a fan can all speak when it wants to.

Nothing about my writing is new. It's all been said before in the past, thousands of years ago, centuries ago, yesterday. But each day is new and the fresh newness of God offers refreshment to a weary soul. I think of the line, "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..." I know the feeling. My eyes too wait, watch, wonder. My ears listen for the sound of your coming. In fear I wait for faith to respond, teaching me. Every day. Night speaks, day speaks, and people of every sort live in the "between" place. Between this moment and that one where God exists. I pray for careful embracing of that which is yours. Just yesterday I prayed for tenderness, a tenderness that holds all things gently, very gently.

I am a contemplative writer. It's the first time I have been able to describe myself.

Wise God,
you teach
sacred ways of living.
You make
holiness possible.
You lead,
inviting us
to follow.
Often
I live
intrigued,
alive in mystery.
Except
for the sad moments
when
I choose
something else,
anything else,
tarnished substitutes.
Cheap fakes
of the real thing.
Oh,
for the courage
and wisdom
to sit constantly
at your feet,
singing your praise.
I am
a
contemplative writer,
conveying
the wonders
of God.

Oh how I love you, Andrea

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

My dearest God,

I found the labyrinth today. It had been covered up with debris and lack of vision. I was actually looking for a spot where we could create a labyrinth, a beautiful walk to God. All of a sudden I found myself in a circle of trees, under a leafy canopy. "This is it." A voice said to me. "This is the labyrinth." I walked the circle. I could see it, imagine drawn to its center. Inside I knew you were directing this next meditation exercise.

Women retreatants have longed for a labyrinth and so have the youth. My renewal time in 2005 had given an idea to two pilgrims seeking expression. In a Journey with God class they had prepared a labyrinth in our Upper Room. Women had taken time to walk it, not quite sure how its power worked, yet intrigued. That was the beginning. On the women's retreat and later on the youth retreat labyrinths were created. Lighted candles shown their brilliance, allowing participants to find their way to you. And they did.

They still do. In our Sunday morning programming families walked the labyrinth together. Singles. The elderly and the young. The seeker and the skeptic.

It awaits us. Needs us to begin clearing its path. The center is loaded down with dirt, sticks, branches, leaves. A big heap. Underneath your mystery waits to be revealed to the spiritually hungry.

Who knows the direction of the spirituality in our church? Who knows the secrets yet to be revealed? The calls that will come? The challenges that will appear? The hope to be grasped? The love found?

I found the labyrinth today.

Holy God at the center,

we have heard your voice

calling out.

Come!

Draw us close,

so close.

Speak

so we will listen.

Love, Andrea

Monday, August 27, 2007

My dearest God,

I have looked sorrow in the face today. I sat in a courtroom as a man plead guilty to stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from a church. I sat in the galley with members of the church he betrayed. I sat behind the church's pastor, my colleague and friend. I watched his expression, witnessed his and their hurt. I saw sorrow on every face.

And on my way home I spoke with another person whose voice of sorrow was like those I had just left behind. Guttural sobs erupting from the deepest place.

I could only offer comfort. My hugs at the courthouse and listening to pain was the best I could do. Both by my presence and later on the phone. A promise to pray.

Even as I prepare myself for bed tonight, I feel the sorrow of all. Twenty some odd people, all hurting in a variety of ways. I am praying. It's all I can do.

I looked sorrow
in the face today.
I heard it
in voices.
The psalmist spoke,
"mourning may tarry
for a night,
but joy comes
in the morning."
I don't think
any one person
will discover joy
in the morning.
Perhaps relief,
a release,
maybe a surrender
but no joy.
Comfort
was all
I could offer today.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Dearest God,

Deep sadness was in her voice. Brokenheartedness. Deeds done in the past have clasped their tentacles around her family. She is desperately trying to stay connected to faith to lead her.

There is courage, then there is courage. She is one of the most courageous people I know. She is following her heart and her soul is trying to steady her.

If Mother Teresa could care for a world of lost, poor people all the while functioning out of darkness, I pray my friend will be able to do what she needs to do while functioning out of tremendous loss. They're both spiritual teachers.

Faith is the answer, a belief system foundational to the human experience. It remains standing although the winds of change and disbelief blow. Pain and suffering rise up in the gut sweemingly out of nowhere. Clinging to what one knows to be true while the heart is breaking weathers many storms.

Life is exceedingly difficult at times. Breathing takes on new challenges. Sometimes you want to breathe and other times you do not. But breath forces its way in to help life forces. Light fights with the darkness until the two stop fighting and realize they are companions to one another. Conflict does not have to result because God is in both. The darkness can say what the light cannot and vice versa. Darkness is not always evil; it is sometimes just darkness.

I pray my friend will know the wind that blows is friendly, reminding her of its constant presence. She is not alone in her endeavor. Her courage rises out of faith and her strength comes from the light in the darkness. And you are with her.

Master Physician,
healing broken hearts
is at the center
of your existence.
Your loving grace
is the ointment
of wholeness.
I pray for my friend.
May she cling
to all she knows
to be true.
May she be given
a glimpse
of eternity's hope
as she walks
through the valley
of the shadow
of death.

Love, Andrea

Saturday, August 25, 2007

My dear God,

I picked up the Time Magazine and started leafing through the pages. I was interested, very interested in reading the article entitled, "The Secret Life of Mother Teresa." While offering Jesus to others, her interior soul cried out for him. The dark loneliness of her own soul betrayed a 50 year crisis of faith.

The Jesus she had loved passionately before beginning her work with the Missionaries of Charity had left her and darkness plagued her soul. For sixty six years she wrote to her superiors and confessors, sharing her dark plunge and loss. Yet, devoutly she continued her work, driven to reach the poorest of the poor. Thousands of nuns joined her, scattering in the streets to retrieve the dying, the youngest to the oldest, giving dignity to death.

I felt sadness as I read on, my finger tracing this great icon of the last century. I placed the magazine beside me as I prepared my sermon, frequently returning to the pictures, her own words of sorrow. Darkness filled her soul. But she did not abandon Jesus, the one she named, The Absent One.

A new book has been published with her letters of spiritual drought. She died, the plague never having lifted. Did she find relief at the last moment? Did Jesus himself come to retrieve her? Did she experience the union she could only imagine as a child? Did this great woman's faith come to life in her final moment? I want this book. I want to sit with it, to listen to her words, her soul speaking.

I can only pray that her anguish will lead me to Jesus rather than to Mother Mary Teresa herself. Why? Because she wanted her letters destroyed. She was afraid people would be more focused on her and less on Jesus. "I want the work to remain only His." She said.

Doubt remains as part of the pilgrim walk. In doubt we seek truth. And the truth sets us free. At least some of us.

This tiny woman's revelation
gnaws at me,
dear God.
My heart aches
for her loss
of your presence.
For I enjoy daily
the heavenly presence
of God.
Why would I
be so blessed
with presence
while this great missionary
experienced so profound
a pain?
I can never achieve
her greatness,
never reach so many,
never offer Christ
to the masses.
She received his darkness
and I received his light.
Kneeling in prayer,
reading her bible,
head bowed,
my finger continues
to trace her form.
Sadness laced with joy.

Love, Andrea

Friday, August 24, 2007

Dearest God,

Death and life hold hands, tugging for expression. Each attempt to take control, to achieve its end. Yet, to pull one is to tug at the other. They live together, each have their say.

Life's light shines bright, brilliantly, until the darkness of death spreads its shadow, snuffing out life. Eternity is different.

I sat in the Newborn Intensive Care Nursery holding my week old grandson in my arms for the first time. Cooing and praising simultaneously, we gave birth to joy in our little cubicle area. Our grandchild appears saved from the brink of death. Life was too strong in him. The victory is ours. His mama, papa and grandma smiled, chirping away.

But within my eye's view sat another family with their baby who will most assuredly die. Born with a chromosone problem he cannot be saved. As we breathed prayers of thanksgiving they shed tears of sorrow.

Some receive a miracle; others do not. I felt this keenly as I looked at the other grandmother who had described her grandson's dilemma. She asked if I would say something to the baby's parents. I did. I also prayed.

I remember a time about 23 years ago. Our Sunday School class had prayed for a couple who could not conceive. When she was told she was pregnant with triplets, we could hardly believe it. We were all so excited. When she was told she would have to spend her last three months in bed, it was difficult but the mom-to-be was willing to do whatever she needed to do in order to deliver her babies safely.

I remember when she went into labor. I followed them to the hospital. The doctor gave them a 90% chance of survival. In the days to follow I visited the hospital and was present when little Jennifer died. Two days later I stood in the same nursery when Amanda and Heather died within minutes of each other. Their father wailed over the loss of his babies.

Some receive a miracle and others do not. While my heart rejoices in the "rebirth" of our baby, my heart aches for the family who will say goodbye to their son.

I do not understand
why some receive joy
and others stumble
in pain and grief.
A trip
to the NICU
is bittersweet,
my own joy
tainted by the pain
of other families.
We rejoice,
O Lord
for baby Rylan.
May he remember
the gift
of this day.
May he be responsible
to give thanks and praise
for the gift of his life.
May he know
that while we received joy,
others got news
that brought pain.
May he know
the gift of life
and give thanks
to the Almighty,
to you Heavenly Father.

Celebrating with a heavy heart, Andrea

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Dearest God,

Sometimes I utterly fail to trust you, taking control into my own hands. I emote frustrations, pain, and sorrow. At times I can't seem to let go of the reigns, placing them in your hands. I carry burdens that you came to carry. I don't want a heart of stone that feels nothing. I do want a heart that so meaningfully beats in rhythm with you. One that leans in, trusts. One that knows you know best. One that has great confidence in trust in you. One that acts courageously, appropriately, in line with your will.

My hearts falls into disrepair when I fail to stand in your light. That damn shadow of darkness slowly covers me like the sun's movement during dusk and setting. My own heart's rhythm becomes irregular when I move away rather staying in line beating, beating, beating with you. And sorrow fills me when I know I have failed again.

My one comfort is that I know you welcome me home again and the light strikes the heart of my darkness. Grace. I know what it is. I have benefited so many times from this lavish love. Undeserving. I am so undeserving. Yet, a child always gets a way back home. How many times, Lord, how many times will you allow me to come back home? Of course, I know the answer already. Always. Always I can come back home.

But I want, O Lord, to trust you always. To never turn my back from your light. I want only to shine my teeny light beside the brilliant light that is yours. Do you weep when I turn? When others turn? Do you ever weary of such behavior? Do you ever want to say, "No more!"

I am human; I don't expect to be anything else. But that image of you that shines in and through me? Well, I want it to remain unsmudged. I want it to be beautiful for you, my Savior. I want the beauty of you that is within me to shine for light years. You are the light of my life. I love all others around me, but you are the light of my life.

Teach me. Mould me. Make me again. Scrub the ugliness from your image in me. Make me new...for you.

I am your child,
and no other.
I play,
and cry,
and dance,
and sing,
and scream,
and do
so much other.
Make me an instrument
of your grace,
all the time.
Allow me
to be worthy
of all the goodness
you give me.
I am so blessed,
yet I behave poorly
when I leave trust
on the road
of life's experiences.
Lead me
to renewal.
Place in my backpack
a child's trust
in God.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Dearest God,

Fear, unfettered fear can wrap its tentacles around any mind, soul and heart. I allowed my mind to be filled with fear as I tried to sleep. Then at 4:00 a.m. I awakened, returning to my fear in the darkness.

I will take my daughter to the hospital this morning. So sick, I tried to urge her to let me take her before she went to bed. But she wasn't ready.

I remember the day she called me with news from a blood test. She didn't understand the numbers. I did. I understood them all too well. I knew at 34 she had cancer. I tried to be very calming, urging her to get some extra tests that very day, to get into a specialist post haste. She agreed. When I hung the phone up on its cradle, my shattered heart exploded in tears, gut wrenching tears, mother's tears. "Not my daughter, me, yes, but not my daughter." I cried out.

The days that followed are clear to me. I remember them well. Doctors visits. Tests. Ultrasounds. Diagnosis. Bedrest for her pregnancy to give baby a few more days. Then the pain and the projectile vomiting. Surgery. I will never forget.

That moment in my office when Jen first called me, I realized I would spend days, weeks, months on my knees at your feet. A mother's pleading prayers. In the night I remembered.
I'm afraid.

"Mom, I've never been more sick." She told me last night. "Something's really wrong." That sent my head spinning to earlier days and I felt myself afraid. I knew I could only pray for her; I did not have the power to change her mind, to seek help now. As a mother I have to stand with, but not push.

Trusting, faithing (an act of faith being lived out) is called for. Because to hide behind fear allows no room for faith. To be sucked into a dark shadow where the light is hidden can hold me captive. I do not want to hide.

My speculations may not prove to be true. And I will have lost important time in the light.

Holy God,
allow me
to remain
hidden in your bosom.
May I hear
your sacred heartbeat.
May I remember
that nothing
is hidden
from your eyes.
May I trust
in faith,
rise up
in courage.
Teach me, Lord,
teach me
your ways.
Remind me
that nothing
is beyond your care.
Teach me
your ways.
My daughter
is yours.
I pray
persistently
for her healing.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Dearest God,

I got the call. Just a few words. "Mom, I got to hold him." Sweet words. Rylan was taken off the second ventilator. On some other kind of breathing appartatus, he is nearing wholeness. Tears filled my eyes. My grandson had lain in the arms of his mother for the first time.

They texted me a picture on my cell phone. There he was with just a plastic tube in his nose. How beautiful he is. The picture of God. I recognized the likeness. The sweet hint of the divine growing within this baby.

Made in your image. I see his possibilities. I know his parents will sing your praises. We know prayer has saved him. He still has a ways to go but he appears to have turned the corner. Reunited with his mom and dad, he responded well to their lingering touch.

A long time ago my daughter was intrinsically tied to me. I was worried about her. But yesterday when I observed her standing with her husband, the two of them leaning down gazing at their baby son, I knew that you had healed her heart, strengthened her with faith, lead her in courage to tense moments. Transformation. Complete.

These two have come a long way in their marriage and family. And frankly she has grown in so many ways. She's no longer dependent, clingy, needy. This woman has risen up out of the ashes. She is strong, robust in faith. She has returned to you as a light for others. That's partly why her new son is drawn to her. His little life in the darkness here at the beginning has reached for the light. And the light has shone.

As I write a few miles away from them, I feel a sense of peace, knowing you are with them. You have been the unseen presence in the labor room, the hospital room, the intensive care nursery. As a mother I have seen courage growing, trust taking root, deep.

I step back and marvel at your ways. A mother gives life to her child so she can lead the child to the light. Jill will daily shine light on her son. She will whisper your goodness to him. She will tell him about light overcoming darkness. She will model light to him. In prayer she will lift him to you, honoring your light in him. Light will shine overhead in their home.

Glorious Light
shining,
shimmering in the darkness,
You are
the God
to be praised,
to be honored,
to be revered.
Jesus said it well,
"the light shined..."
Your warm light
encapsulates
those hungry
for the light.
And for those
already standing in the light
their praise
rises up like incense
to give worthily
to you.
Your light
has shined
upon our family
one more time.
And this mother,
grandmother
stands ready
to offer her praise
and prayers of thanksgiving.
God be glorified
again and again.

Most grateful, Andrea

Monday, August 20, 2007

My dear God,

I was sitting with my colleague having lunch. That was when I saw her come to the table behind us. Ordering from a menu, the server brought her a glass of wine. When she handed the menu to him, she spotted me. I excused myself, stepping over to her table. I leaned down to give her a hug. Tears formed in her eyes. "How are you doing?" I asked her. "A hug always helps." She responded.

I met her a couple years ago when she wanted to borrow a table from the church for her garage sale. A little crusty around the edges, she is single, a retired UPS driver. She recently showed up for prayer before she put down her beloved dog Storm. Tears streamed from her eyes. He was her only family member. I put my arms around her and prayed.

Today she opened up. "God is very distant. We're been apart for a long time." She confided. "You know where I am if you decide you want to make your way back." I told her. Then we hugged as she carried out her food, not comfortable eating out just yet. A grieving mother.

She came to worship a couple weeks ago but slipped out as we sang the final hymn. I invited her back, but she says she's not ready yet. I know where she is on the path. Those short treks to the hinterland can be painful dead ends.

Bring her back
to you, Lord.
Let your compassion
call out
as a child
calls her mother.
Let hope
be the path
that drives her back.
Let peace
be her guide.
Let love
embrace her.
Bring the lost
home.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Dearest God,

She finally put her hand in the tiny isolette and took hold of his small hand. His perfectly formed little fingers grabbed hold and held on. He knows his mother. I captured the scene on film.

I see the longing in my daughter's eyes, wanting desperately to hold her sick three day old son. She sits beside him in her wheelchair in the NICU, gazing upon her baby boy, uttering prayers and her love for him.

I watch as parents and grandparents come and go to visit their very sick babies. Visiting just a few moments, they stand aside so nurses, doctors and technicians can do their work. Heartwrenching.

Our grandson was not planned, but he was loved from the beginning. My daughter is a wonderful mother. She carried him the best she could with a body not made well to carry babies. She determined to carry him from the beginning although her doctor had told her not to become pregnant again. She took the risk.

Love forms even when we're sleeping I think. That intangible emotion that bonds one with another is a miraculous act. Why would we want to bond with others when hurt is bound to come with it at one time or another? We do so because we're made to love.

I see the baby in the isolette. I know he is my grandson. But I do not yet have the bond that my daughter has. He's so much a part of her. She naturally gravitates to him. Her love for him draws her to the busy nursery. Her love follows her back to her room until the next time.

I watch like a distant observer. I know when she is thinking about him, praying for him, loving him. I see her pained look when she wonders if he will make it. I witness her guilt when she feels she failed him, giving birth early. But what could she do? Her body said it was time and so did he.

I tell her that she gave him life early so the doctors could do for him what her body could not do. She's not convinced. I believe it though.

I stand watching, waiting for the anguish to pass, hoping our story will be one of those where the baby lives and thrives and the family tells its story again and again.

God of mystery,
some will live
and some will die.
I pray
for our baby.
But I also pray
for all the rest.
How can you pray
for one
and not
for all the others?
Dear God,
all things
are in your hands.
This little one
rests easy
in your hands.
Cradle my daughter
in your arms,
will you?
Comfort her heart
until her baby
sings out
his cry for her.
Let your compassion
be as anointing oil
that heals and hopes,
restoring life
to its rightful balance
once again.
We shall always remember
you in the heart
of our story.

Love, Andrea

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Dearest God,

Baby Rylan was born today, five weeks early. His mother's womb simply could not hold him any longer. And he seemed ready to enter the world.

From his birth he had breathing problems so he and his mama were transported to a downtown hospital with a Newborn Intensive Care Unit. He was extremely ill by the time he arrived at the hospital. Whisked away by nurses and doctors working at the same time to save him, he was put on a ventilator.

I only got to see him for one minute, just long enough to touch his perfectly formed curly head. I love you, I told him and I sang a song just so he could hear. Then I was asked to leave.

His mother couldn't see him for 12 hours. She had to wait for the epidural to wear off so she could get into a wheelchair for the ride down to the NICU. So hard not to see your baby, then not be able to touch him for fear of agitating him, wearing him out.

It was a stress-filled time. A sad time. A time to celebrate his birth, but his poor condition didn't really allow for much celebration. Perhaps we'll celebrate later.

We pray
for our baby,
Lord.
He is so beautiful;
you've shaped
his little five pound body.
He wears signs
of you.
Prints,
your handprint
is all over him.
And if your print
is there,
then so is
your likeness.
He is your child too.
Please
make him well.

Love, Andrea

Friday, August 17, 2007

Dear God,

Sometimes unholy moments come when in fact I am trying to live in holy moments as a way of life.

My daughter had gone back into the hospital with labor contractions again, the eighth time in the last four weeks. She's had pre-term labor for two and a half months. Early in the afternoon the nurses talked with her about a C-section today. They began prepping her, monitoring her and the baby but they had to wait until she had not eaten or drunk anything for six hours. So at 8:00 p.m. we expected the blessed event to take place. But instead the doctor came in and did an evaluation, telling us the nurses had made a mistake. Rather than having a baby minutes later they were sending her home again.

That little news set forth a chain of events. Two excited granddaughters who thought they would be spending the night together were told that would not happen. The one would have to go to school after all rather than spend the day with her family celebrating her new baby brother. An explosion of tears occurred as I tried to explain to the girls. Needless to say, the pregnant mom and dad were not happy. No baby, no hospital stay, home again! My other daughter's husband was disappointed because his wife was with all of us at the hospital instead of with him on the planned anniversary night when I would take care of the children.

It was determined that I would take the baby's older sister home and stay the night, taking her to school the next morning. When I arrived at 9:15 p.m. the house was dark and locked. I spent some time trying to break in with a credit card so I could get my granddaughter to bed. No
luck. I even kicked the back door in frustration. Grief!

I tried to find my cell phone and realized I had left it at the hospital along with a sack containing my medicine. With minutes ticking away and a grandchild who needed to be sleeping to prepare for her first day of school, we got back in the car and drove around looking for a phone booth. I found one at a gas station that was closing. I put in 50 cents and just as I was connecting they wanted 15 more cents for three minutes. When I told them the name of the hospital, they gave me the number of a mortgage company. Really stressed, I put in 50 more cents and of course, they wanted 15 more cents. The call did not go through and the phone ate my second 65 cents. I was shouting at the phone to give me the number of the hospital. Of course, I was not talking to a human but rather a robot who is designed not to listen to a caller. I hung up the phone, well really, I jammed it into the cradle, jumped in the car, really not happy. Then I started driving again to find a place where I could phone the hospital.

Finally I found a Subway. I cried out, "Does anyone know where there is a phone I can use?" They told me I couldn't use theirs and they were sorry. But a young worker offered me her cell phone. Twice the number did not go through. I was about on my last cord when the third time was a charm. I spoke with my son in law and they had found the phone and medicine and would be bringing it home soon. But no one had a key. They had given it to the grandmother who had left it inside and had obviously locked the door when she left. I thanked the staff who had helped me at Subway, then I left.

Upon arriving at my granddaughter's home, we made a little bed for her in a sleeping bag I had brought with me. The car was hot so I turned on the air conditioning. I tried resting in the cramped front seat. She flipped and flopped in the back seat, but couldn't sleep. Finally my daughter arrived home. And there she was...very pregnant, angry and disappointed, still contracting, but not as bad...trying to break in to her own home. Her husband was at the back door trying the same thing even though it was pitch black outside, no lights.

A few minutes later my son in law discovered a partially opened window so he put his daughter through it and she unlocked the doors. By now it was past 10:00 p.m., two hours after she was to be in bed. I called my husband and friend to give them the latest news...no, there is no baby yet. But while I was talking, my seven-year-old granddaughter came in and stood at the end of the hall. "Grandma, I can't sleep until you're beside me!" I hung up the phone while she crawled into bed and I climbed into my sleeping bag on the floor. What a night!

Obviously, the evening was filled with annoying frustrations. And rightfully so. However, my battle with the phone at the gas station was no holy moment. Neither was my behavior at the dark, locked house. I really lost it. And my granddaughter had watched me. And of course, I slammed the car door when I got back in the car. I had disappointed you and myself and provided a pathetic model on how to handle life's little frustrations. I went to bed disgusted at myself while listening to some kind of crazy music that my granddaughter listens to as she falls asleep.

Forgive me,
Lord,
for failing
to model
patience.
Such moments
are perfect times
to provide
a good example
of how
to handle things
when life
takes little unexpected turns.
I failed.
It's just that simple.
I failed.
I am sorry.
Help me recoup
my dignity.
My apology
to my granddaughter
was the beginning.
But also help me
to take all things
in stride
so I can model
a life based
on trust in you,
for everything
in life.
Please take
my unholy moment
and transform it
into holiness,
a witness
for you.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, August 16, 2007

My dearest God,

We sang your songs, the music and lyrics coming together from on high. Who could have imagined? Holy words, holy music. Sacred sounds of heaven.

Holy Week, 2007, seven days...remembering. I was especially caught up in the divine fabric those days and I wrote about it. My letters to you. I felt a holy wind breathing upon me as I wrote the language of love.

And then I got a call. "I've put your poems, prayers to music." His voice told me. "What?" I asked. "I've written music for your Holy Week prayers." Rene told me. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't remember what I had written. In fact my letters to you never stick with me. They come in and flow out. They're not my own words really. Yes, I do write them. But when I sit down before the computer and draw in breath, I know whose breath breathes on me as I write my tales of sacred mystery.

Rene came with his guitar, then sat down to sing for me what he entitled "Dear God -Resurrection Psalms." I like the title! One song after another, I listened, smiled, sang. Janice did too. I was overwhelmed with inner and outer joy, even the joy coming from you, filling the room. I didn't even remember the words, I just knew the source from which they came.

A labor in divine love occurs when people come together to celebrate what you are doing in our lives. We were laboring, that's for sure, laboring in the great sacred vineyard, giving birth to more of your spirit, filling the air with sacred sound.

I remember several years ago being asked by a perfect stranger to perform a wedding in Michigan for a couple who lived in Hollywood, California and parents who lived in Ohio and Indiana. They wanted to be married in a vineyard. Loving creativity I jumped at the chance. I did say I would have to do premarital counseling here in Indiana. They agreed after we did an interview over the phone. We all clicked, creative thought sparking from an actress, and two artists. (Most days I consider myself a sacred artist)

We planned a wedding in the round in a field a few yards from the vineyard. A winding twig archway made by the groom, we participants wrote prayer notes (my idea from a friend's wedding) and tied them with ribbons, placing them on the archway. Everything from entrance to music to vows and readings, I conducted the wedding as the breezes blew, the bride's simple white dress softly billowing in the sacred wind. The emotion of the day resembled the feelings that emerged as we sang songs in my study this afternoon. Two events tied together by a simple strand of divine love.

I am enthralled by the sacred mysteries of life. I know there is more than human living. I know you are part of every living thing. I know the wind that blows is not just a physical manifestation of earth's resources. I know the sound of angels singing, of saints footsteps. I know creativity rises up from an eternal source. Today I sang with angels, walked with saints, danced with the God of the Cosmos.

This is all an appartus of faith, a pathway to the divine. Leaving an openness in one's heart and soul can allow an infinite variety of experiences with the Sacred Holy One. And once God steps inside, oh my goodness, be prepared for an explosion of Spirit. No one can predict what will happen. Ecstasy on a spiritual level is found to take place.

Great Creative God,
the prints of your hand and feet
are all around me.
I see them,
feel them,
know them.
I know
the sacred breeze
when it blows.
At least
most of the time.
When it sweeps
across me,
my soul
awakens,
giving life
to the newness
of this moment's faith.
I breathe
in and out,
out and in
and every vessel and corpuscule
draws in sacred energy.
This is life,
real life.
Not just what happens
in surface living.
This is life
lived in the deep.
My heart and soul
dance for you
today.

Love always, Andrea

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Dear God,

A thorn in the flesh, a thorn in the flesh. It never goes away; it simply repositions itself. I can feel the sting, yet I can't seem to rid myself of it. Is this an intentional annoyance needed to teach me something?

I learned a long time ago that responding to something the same way will lead to the same results every time. I also learned if you don't like the results, then stop responding the same way time after time. I try different methods but the results appear the same. What am I to do?

Surrendering everything into your hands is difficult. I can surrender many things, situations, people to you, but some things I hang on to as if to surrender them will lead to my demise. What am I failing to see? Why do I hang on so tenaciously?

I want your will, the will of God. I want to live in a daily rhythm that seeks your will in my life and ministry. I want to be guided, to follow, yet I seem not to always do it well. I really need your help, dear God. Trusting in every area to allow your perfect will to be fulfilled is what I desire. Teach me, I pray.

I run to you
the first sign
of trouble.
I speak your name.
But do I really listen?
Are you speaking
and I have blocked
your answer?
Help me,
dear Lord,
to listen,
really listen,
then obey.
You have
my attention.

Love, Andrea

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Dear God,

Facing a fear head on can lead to renewed confidence, a sense of satisfaction, and inner joy.

Tonight I spent time riding Cinnamon, the auburn colored horse I will ride to the worship service on Sunday. She is beautiful with big eyes and a gorgeous mane. Friendly, she is helping me overcome a fear of riding horses. My experience in the past was not a good one. I gave up ever riding again. But a circuit rider needs a horse. Elsewise, how would they get to the churches along the circuit?

I came up with the idea of riding a horse to our 175th anniversary but had not one hand of support. Afraid for me I guess. I am a klutz at times. Why, I'm not sure. I do find the only grapes, little rocks and pencils on the floor. They do rise up to get me and yes, I do have a problem with crosses, those that fall on me and those that burn me. So I can understand why others do not want me to take chances.

But how will I ever overcome? How will I ever conquer the fears that grip me? How will I learn to trust, to face each fear as it comes if I do not take risks? A risk is taking a chance on achieving something, of learning, understanding, of trusting in an area where trust did not reside before.

I wanted to learn to mount and dismount without a stool. I wanted to climb up and climb down without benefit of something to stand on. I wanted to trust myself to do it. I wanted to trust Cinnamon. I wanted to trust you to help me. And so I did. I put my booted foot into the stirrup and I bounced, hefting myself up onto the saddle. The owners told me I did a great job. (Filling me up with affirmation is a good thing) Greg told me some people bounce up and over, landing on the ground on the other side of the horse. I, on the other hand, landed in the saddle, right where I was supposed to wind up. I was pretty darn happy.

I rode through the woods to the cross, then back a couple of times. What fun! Of course, I kept affirming Cinnamon for being such a good horse. Originally the owners had agreed to walk beside me on both sides of the horse. But Greg stayed back at the cross while Sahara followed several feet away. Wow, how good I felt!

I could have played it safe and given up the idea. I could have remained comfortable. But no, I took the opportunity to rise up to the occasion. For some riding a horse is a small thing. But to me, well, I think it's a big thing. And the fact that you and I rode Cinnamon together makes it all the more wonderful. I am blessed!

Loving God,
you never leave me alone.
You keep on
pushing me,
shoving me
to the edge.
You show me
the way to
trust.
And trust
leads me
to greater heights.
If St. Paul said,
"I can do all things
through Christ
who strengthens me",
then why can't I?
May I never say No
to the challenges
you set before me.
Be my strength,
my courage,
my comfort.
Make me alive
with your spirit
ever reaching out
to win your approval.
I give you
deep thanks.

Love, Andrea

Monday, August 13, 2007

Dearest God,

There is a pain that is so deep, it is hard to fathom how really deep it is. An anguishing sorrow, it threatens to take over, to pull the veil of darkness over one's own soul. To succumb seems the only answer.

Many years ago this pain pierced my own heart. So deep I imagined myself in a very deep, dark well. Hemmed in by the darkness, I sat at the bottom of the pit, lost, lonely. I could hardly move, but then there was no reason to move. I was trapped in darkness. I could feel the cold sides of the well. I could not see up and even if I did it was so far away from me that it was impossible to see the light.

I cried out to you. Do you remember? A soft, agonizing cry. And I remember how you came to me. The well began to shake a little. The bottom started to give way. And suddenly I was held and carried downward where a tiny shaft of light shone. My eyes blinked and blinked again. Light? Where was the light coming from? And then I knew. Even the deepest darkness is not deeper than the light that shines deeper yet.

That moment was a lesson to me. When I believe the darkness has overtaken me, I now realize the light has the last word. It is deeper than the darkness. Eventually light will wrap itself around me and I will once again experience salvation, saved from darkness, saved from my own belief that darkness is the deepest human experience. The warm light of God, your light will shine, reclaiming its own, even me.

Whenever I feel myself falling downward, I remember the gentle light that took me further down only to lift me up. I remember how the light broke into my darkness. I remember how I was released from my captivity. Every time you showed up, spoke to me, offering me comfort and compassion. My pain was eased and I realized I could live.

There are days when the darkness and the light battle for my soul. I sometimes succumb to the darkness only to be haunted by the light that refuses to leave me. I fall to my knees, allowing the light to encapsulate me. I breathe in the warm breath of love and I know whose love I breathe. Tears flow, allowing darkness to take leave, casting its shadow in the light. I feel the light penetrating my soul, filling me to capacity. The battle over.

Sometimes
my mind plays tricks
on me.
I think
the darkness
is the deepest
human emotion.
I think
it has such power,
that I actually
give it the power.
And I feel myself
sinking, sinking downward.
Mystically, magically
I suddenly feel
the shift,
the shaft of light
breaking through,
chinking its way,
like miners
looking for gold.
Pure light
envelopes
me.
It is you,
glorious you.

Forever yours, Andrea

Sunday, August 12, 2007

My dearest God,

Years ago I was introduced to the labyrinth, a circular maze intended to open one's soul to the mysteries of God. This labyrinth was in a field where a path was cleared and a hedge grew to keep the path's movement.

My covenant group had decided to do a retreat in Ohio. We had heard about an old farmhouse retreat center. We drove there and on the last day decided to walk the labyrinth.

At breakfast a man told me about his own experience of the labyrinth. He had been walking it for years, came there regularly. "Walk it in the blind." He encouraged me. I wanted the experience. I wanted you. So I closed my eyes and entered the sacred circle. Feeling my way through with my feet, sometimes I moved too close to the hedge but it guided me back. When I opened my eyes I was only a few feet from the center. I walked the rest of the way with my eyes open. Then I sat in the center with you, listening, offering prayers, being silent as the wind blew across the country fields. I felt refreshment, especially having walked in the blind. Trusting the hedges to keep me on the path, it was an exercise in trust. The hedges served to remind me that there are things in place to keep me in line, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically. By the time I exited, my friends told me I had been in the labyrinth for nearly three hours.

Today I walked the labyrinth again, not in a field or in the blind. Rather I was invited to walk it with my two granddaughters, ages 6 and 7. "Grandma, come walk the labyrinth with us." Gabrielle said. How could I say no to an invitation like that?

The girls entered first, walking pretty rapidly. Apparently, this was their third time of the day. When they got to the middle, they stopped and read a scripture, then started back out. "Whoa." I said. "Stay there until I get there so we can pray together." They waited dutifully. When I arrived in the sacred center, Gabrielle knelt down. Sophie and I followed suit. We all knelt at the cross and prayed. Once we stood, they skipped out as I wound around and exited to join them in our journey home.

Kneeling at the cross at the insistence of my granddaughter was a true joy for me. Putting my arms around them, feeling their presence and yours, I knew I was blessed.

Daily I walk
in a trek
toward the center.
Often,
very often,
I bump up
against the hedges.
I lose my way
momentarily,
but the hedges
urge me on,
whispering to me.
Turn,
they cry out to me.
Turn.
Sometimes I listen.
Other times I do not.
Eventually
I do turn,
set my face
toward Jerusalem,
determined
to meet you
at the center.
How grateful I am
for the hedges.
Otherwise,
I could go completely
off the path,
perhaps never finding it
again.
The cry of love
calls me
to the center
where your love
is richest.
And I do kneel
and I do remain silent
and I do pray.
Keep me close,
cry out for me often,
especially
as I go astray.
Return to me,
you will say,
return to me.

For loving me unconditionally, I am yours, Andrea

Saturday, August 11, 2007

My dear God,

I arrived at 7:00 a.m. to rake and clear the land behind the church. Alone I recognized the wondrous gift this property would provide to all who would come seeking. Every vine I plucked up, every fallen limb, and brown leaves I placed in the wheelbarrow, revealed yet another area where contemplatives would walk searching and discovering the Master of the Universe. Within the hour many had gathered for breakfast, then spend the day working, cleaning and clearing.

When I left to prepare for a baby shower, I witnessed a father and daughter cleaning the woods near the site where we will worship outdoors next Sunday. I saw two men lifting huge stumps with a front end loader and a mother and sons raking and picking up limbs. I saw a husband and wife preparing to cook and yet another young father and son clearing the area where I had worked. I realized how beautiful the church is when working together for you.

An amazing transformation has taken place in us. We have allowed you to change our insides so our outsides could reveal a beauty only sacred mystery can design. A holy spirit sweeping continues to remove the darkness we sometimes create, leaving behind light that illumines the truth of who we are, the picture of Christ to the world. There are moments when I find myself filling up with awesome joy at the brilliance of your plan for us. How holy and trusting you are, finding yourself in us, giving us room to grow, think, plan, create, and love. Your hand print is all over the church.

The cleaning and clearing
reveals once again
your loving presence.
To allow us
inside you,
to travel around
seeing the sights
of love, peace, hope,
service, mission, ministry
is a ride
of a lifetime.
May we continue
to look up,
realizing the One
guiding us,
having restored us
from our decay,
giving us
a great work
to do.
Everything
bearing your name.

Love, Andrea

Friday, August 10, 2007

Dearest God,

Quiet moments alone with two of my daughters is a rare treat. Jill and I awakened early so we walked outside to sit by the lake. The sound of birds singing and the fountain spewing water, the bright orange ball rising above the foggy country ground and colorful butterflies fluttering, the scene of tranquil peace was all around us. Wrapped in spa robes, we sat at the cement picnic table, eating the breakfast we had purchased the night before.

We talked and walked on the sidewalk around the lake. No one was around so we took our time taking in the freshness of country air and the scene of fallow fields surrounding Luminere. We finally took a seat on a wooden swing by the pool and there created a gentle rhythm swinging back and forth.

We talked about the baby soon to arrive, about faith and trusting you, about returning here with our husbands. We spoke of the gift we had in being together. That was when we spotted the waterfall we had not noticed before so we went climbing, two women in robes, one very pregnant, the other just as awkward. I helped Jill climb the river stones to the top, then realized we could only see it if we climbed back down. We walked around to get a better view. Fish jumped as the water made its way down the rocks. "It's so beautiful here." We said almost simultaneously.

That was when Jenni walked out of the room. Jill decided to shower so Jen and I got to share as well. We talked about the peacefulness and how wonderful it was for just the three of us to be together. When Jen walked back into the room, I remained at the lake, saying my prayers, realizing the blessing, giving thanks.

You are to be found
in the crowded city,
and peaceful lake side.
You bring sisters
and a mother together.
You whisper joy
into us.
You sprinkle us
with blessing.
You lead us
in prayer.
You leave us
with love.

Always, Andrea

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Dearest God,

A quiet self can open doors to sacred mystery.

My daughters and I concluded my personal clergy renewal leave by spending a day and night at a spa and wellness resort out in the country. A beautiful setting, two lakes, a fountain and waterfall, a variety of colorful flowers, birds and butterflies. Peaceful, serene.

The three of us were scheduled to travel together; however, my youngest daughter wound up in the hospital due to pregnancy problems. Not sure how our time together would unfold, at the hospital we determined my middle daughter and I would go ahead together to the countryside of Lebanon and my youngest would come if her doctor would allow it. I called the resort and cancelled my pregnant daughter's spa services. I explained her situation and they were very accomodating.

When Jenni and I arrived we again talked about Jill's situation to the personnel. They were surprisingly caring and sensitive to her need. Unwilling to charge us for her services (although they had a cancellation policy) they were willing to do whatever they could to change the schedule to provide whatever she needed. As it turned out Jill was released a bit stressed out and arrived at the very moment she had been scheduled for her massage. All three of us entered our massage rooms comforted by the fact that you had played a part in bringing us together for this special time apart.

My room was upstairs. Candles burning, fresh roses, soft, meditative music welcomed my own stressed out body, mind and spirit. I climbed onto the table, closed my eyes and drew in breaths of trust. The trained therapist entered the room. I had already told her that I find value in silence along with music when I am having a massage. I was already quiet.

What occurred in the next hour was quite beautiful. As I allowed the music to enter my soul and the therapist into my weary muscles, words began to rise up within me. Hope. Balance. Restoration. Peace. Trust. Faith. They would gently appear, then rise up, higher and higher. As the words began to disappear, I saw flowers blossom and rise up through the earth, beautiful pink petals forming. A quiet breeze began to blow and each flower released its petals, one by one until just the stems stood, moving, dancing with the wind. I fell asleep, at peace with you, myself and the world.

The images that formed in my mind were but a portent of the sacred beauty I find in you, my Sacred, Divine Comforter. I allowed my body, mind and spirit to come together as one. And we danced, quietly, slowly to your heavenly tune. And I found my rest.

Such beauty
lies on the other side
of quiet.
The noise
of the day
acts as an obstacle
to the divine.
But when
quiet is allowed space,
a door opens
to the sacred dimension
of human, divine living.
Here one
can meet God.
A union of spirit
can take place,
a coming together.
The powerful images
spoke peace
to my soul
and I rested
in your shepherd care.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, August 8, 2007

My dearest God,

I dined with Marion today. We had set up this lunch several weeks ago, not knowing one another. However, I had invited her to preach at our church while I was on vacation. She came highly recommended.

Shortly after I spoke with Marion about preaching, she arrived at my church on Sunday for a visit. The moment we met, there was a spiritual kinship. I could feel it inside my bones. Marion? What special visitation of God would Marion bring news?

Today I learned all about her, firing one question after another. Bright. Accomplished. Did extremely well in business, winning awards. A wife, mother, stepmother. Disciples of Christ. I learned about her call to ministry and how through a very circuitous route you had gotten her attention.

When I talked about my covenant group, she leaned toward me, listening, excited to hear of the blessing of my spiritual friendship. She talked about her own longing for such an experience, persons of trust, love, challenge. She knows of one person who carries that kind of trust and faith within her. She recognizes the awesome value of a trusted group who will carry you through thick and thin, yet hold you accountable when growth needs to take place.

Thoughts went through my mind. Is she the one God has been opening the door to? Is she the person God may have chosen as another member of our group? Is there something she brings that you will use to move and inspire our group toward yet a deeper relationship with you? Having had earlier ties to the monastery, is she being brought back full circle? You have been known to take great steps toward bringing people together. What have you in mind, dear God?

Pauses in history,
pregnant moments,
awaiting birth,
you stir
in human hearts.
Open souls
perk up,
hear and see
something new.
They make themselves ready
to greet you anew.
What do you have
in mind?

Trusting, Andrea

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Dearest God,

A few people have expressed interest in joining me at Christ in the Desert Monastery. I have decided to return to the place that literally knocked my socks off two years ago. I had faced fear before but being trapped on that mountain with no way to get down was terrifying. Especially in the setting where time is to be spent in silence, contemplation and reflection.

My first great challenge was getting up the mountain by the 13 mile dirt road. One lane. No rails. A few pot holes. That was scary enough. Especially as you drive up. It looks like you will just drive off the side.

The second was learning that my daughter had to take the rental car to return to the airport, leaving me stranded. When Brother Andre told me they offered no services to get me off the mountain and that I had to pray for an angel to retrieve me, my heart nearly beat out of my chest. With no phone that I could use to get help, I felt so frightened, so full of fear that I was convinced that I could die up there.

After I walked back to the guesthouse, the warm tears surfaced, a lot of them. I prayed so hard, remember? I asked for an angel, with no idea how one might appear, then be willing to drive me to Sante Fe. I still cried, not without hope, but with a mystifying wonder how I might end up. As I prayed an amen, the answer came to me. Surrender. And trust. I drew in a breath and suddenly I was flooded with a peace from on high. A beautiful, quiet rush of calm filled my soul. I realized you had me right where you wanted me to be.

That was the beginning of my renewal. Now, two years later I carry that experience deeply embedded in my soul. A turning point. A pivotal moment. It set the stage for everything that happened after that.

I plan to return. Not for the same experience. Been there. Done that. Ever since I left there I have felt drawn back. For what? I have no idea. The setting is perfect for contemplation. You have a plan for my return.

In the midst
of daily life experiences,
I hear your call
to return.
What does it mean?
What new vista
awaits me?
What new challenges?
Insights? Revelations?
Trust in you
lures me
into greater adventures
with you.
This partnership,
our relationship,
so incredibly unequally yoked,
fills me
with so much joy.
May I learn
to be patient,
waiting,
leaning forward in love
trusting.
Glorious God,
hold my hand.

Loving you always, Andrea

Monday, August 6, 2007

Dear God,

I want to tell you about Cinnamon. She is fifteen hands high, cinnamon colored, 17 years old, a real gentle beauty. I was nervous; I have to admit it. I rode a horse just once in my life and I remember it being an unpleasant experience. But today I donned my 1840's outfit complete with bonnet and drove to the equine academy. I saw a short white horse in a ring and I asked if it was my horse. "No, we put children on ponies and adults on horses." I was told. Then when I walked past the barn and peeked inside, I saw a horse wearing a saddle. Suspicious I asked if it were my horse. Of course, it was.

That horse was the tallest horse I've ever seen! The place where I would be riding had to be several stories high. My heart started beating so fast. But Greg, the proprietor told me horses were the most beautiful, gentle, kind thing in the world. I drew in a breath hoping he was right.

"I need to pray with Cinnamon." I told Greg and Sahara. "Of course." They replied. I patted the side of her face and told the horse I believed in prayer and I hoped she did too. I thanked God for this beautiful horse and prayed we would be able to accomplish our mission together. Then with 100 degrees in the open ring, I climbed aboard. Scared to death I took hold of the horn and held on tight, white knuckles to prove it.

I learned quickly how to turn her right and left, to stop her and make her go. For thirty minutes we walked around the ring, sweat pouring down my face. Frequently I told Cinnamon how well she was doing. (Me too!) Finally I was able to let go of the horn, fairly certain I would not fall off. I liked it although I still felt like I was very high.

When I stepped down on the steps, I patted Cinnamon again thanking you for her. I felt pretty comfortable that she and I would do fine together.

I watched my fear melt in the sun. I silently prayed that I would be able to ride a horse and not be afraid. You answered my prayer as I became more and more confident.

Thank you
for Cinnamon,
my partner.
For her ministry
and mission.
Thank you mostly
for her gentleness
and her good spirit.
(I was afraid
my horse
would be named
Lightning, Speed or Storm)
Thank you most of all
for welling up
courage within me,
teaching me once again
about trust.
I have so much
to learn.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Dearest God,

Our lives hang in the balance. War is destroying lives. British children throw rocks at US children because of our role in Iraq. Bridges collapse. Mines flood. Children are murdered. Adopted children are abused, neglected. A precious humanity is prey to destruction. At any moment anywhere life can be snuffed out. All this is enough cause to live in fear. When will it happen to me? We ask ourselves.

Lord, when I pray, I never pray just for myself. I pray for all the world's peoples. How could I not? I have a responsibility to hold up the children of the world, many who are starving, suffering. They are part of me and I am part of them. Sometimes I pray for all those for whom no one prays. We are a human family taking up space on Mother Earth. This fragile home is filled with grief and sorrow. I wonder sometimes if gray, rainy days are not Mother crying for her children.

Dearest God, my hope, our hope rests in you. The way we live our lives, the attitudes we hold, the behaviors we exhibit when lived under your light are good lives, people looking out for one another. Whenever I hear a good news report, I know your light has shined, has been shared with someone else. I know your presence has touched a human soul who has acted on your behalf. I feel that inner joy that comes from light that has shined well.

I can become discouraged by world events of horror and pain. One life taken away, destroyed, ruined is one too many. Sometimes I cry when I hear yet another report of abuse. I am not a pollyanna. I know there is no eutopia. But I believe we are intended to live meaningful lives that reach out to others.

When I hear news that a person of means has started a foundation to help disadvantaged persons, I celebrate. I know you have touched someone's life in a deep way. And sometimes it isn't even a person of note. A school custodian who loved kids set up a trust so that at his death a playground would be created in his name. Now children run and play, swing, and go down slides. They laugh and run because someone had the foresight to do something for others. Such moments of love teach me again that my life is to count for something.

Hope brings the sun up in the morning and gives us rest from it at night. Hope is rain that falls on dry land. Hope is a prayer uttered. Hope is a hand reaching out. Hope is a crop that actually grows from a tiny seed. Hope is leaning on you. Hope is making another's dream come true. Hope is love in service. Hope is sharing someone's burden. Hope is... I know what it is to be hopeless and I know what it is like when hope returns. Life is restored, renewed. Hope is placing my hand in yours.

Tragedy strikes
cutting down life.
Sorrow and grief follow.
Pain
like nothing else
in life
rising up,
mincing the gut
into tiny pieces.
But you,
O Lord,
are present
to hold
each tiny piece.
None is gone;
the hand of the Master
holds them,
teeny, tiny fragments
of a life.
Hope
glues the pieces
back together,
one, then two, then three.
O God,
may I be
drawn to my knees
in prayer
for others
whose suffering
is excruciatingly painful.
Let your light
so shine
in me
that I will mirror
your hope
to the world.

Love, Andrea

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Dearest God,

The sights and sounds of women working in the kitchen is reminiscent of life on the farm in the 1950's. Working together on a project for the church. Peach jam and butter. Steam rising from boiling water where we plop the peaches in for a scald before plunging them into cold water, releasing the skin. Peeling, pitting, quartering, crushing, cooking, watching the butter transform from a white peach color to golden brown, canning, water bathing, lifting out, placing the beautiful jars on the table, listening to the lids pop. An exercise in love and patience.

Being attentive to our voices and actions leads me to you. I find you here in this cluttered kitchen of peaches and blueberries, colanders, assorted pans and lids, measuring cups and spoons, canning jars of varying sizes, sugar and spices. Ours are the voices of God sharing together.

Such times remind me that you are present in the ins and outs of our days. Whether in the kitchen preserving fruits, while showering, getting ready for church, talking with friends, doing the laundry or driving down the road, you are present. I sense your presence in all of these, never finding myself alone, without you. I glory in such moments for I know my days are divinely oriented. Whenever I fail or fall, I know you are still here.

Practicing the Presence, a book written by Brother Andrew, shares how the presence of God is with us in all situations, even in the daily ordinariness of life, as if any day is ordinary when it is lived with God. Each day is extraordinarily lived when intentionally in your presence. I smell the sweetness of life and the goodness of your loving peace and joy.

My daily exercise is to keep you front and center. Seeing through you to my life experiences rather than the other way around. Glorying in prized moments of anticipation and revelation. Every day is a new day to discover you in all things.

The women joined me in my efforts today. Not that they knew it. It's just the natural outcome of my day. Our laughter was the scent of joy, of women helping one another, sharing together in a common acitivity, reveling in silliness.

You present yourself
in various and meaningful ways,
O Lord.
I find you here
and there.
Walking with you
is my life's greatest happiness.
Eternal joy
is mine
as I hear your voice,
see your face,
feel your love.
Let your joy
well up within me.
Let it spill over
to others.
Humbly grateful.

Love always, Andrea

Friday, August 3, 2007

Dearest God,

My daughter had a garage sale planned at her house today. People started arriving early and my nearly three year old granddaughter kept walking across the street in between cars. Unaware that anything was amiss, she would look at the neighbor's toys like any other customer. The trouble was that cars lined the streets and they came and went. No one expected a small child to be in the streets. Tragedy could strike; that's when my daughter called asking for a big favor.

I left my garden, dirt on my clothes and body, hair askew, and drove to my daughter's house. When I arrived Stella was standing by her six year old sister's lemonade stand. Of course, I bought lemonade and bottled water from the young entrepreneur, hugged both of them, then put Stella in my car.

We ran errands (drive ups) then headed home. We worked outside for a few minutes where we both got overheated so we came inside. Little Stella's cheeks were beet red so I used cool cloths to wipe her down and myself too.

I looked into this little girl's eyes, big and beautiful and I remembered her birth. My daughter laboring, I remained in the room until Stella was born. With honey red hair she arrived pink and crying. We all looked at this child and gave thanks for the miracle she gave us. My daughter.

My daughter was just six weeks pregnant when she spotted. An ultrasound revealed a grapefruit-sized tumor. Ovarian cancer. Four weeks later the tumor was so heavy it turned over on itself cutting off the blood flow to the ovary. They did emergency surgery to remove it. We weren't sure the baby would survive the procedure. Seven months later Stella was born, perfect in every way. Had it not been for Stella, my daughter would have died, never having known at 34 that she had cancer. By the time she was aware, it would have been too late.

As Stella pushed the baby stroller around with her baby in it, she had no idea that my mind had turned to the miracle of her birth. Two miracles, one birth.

Stella,
honey red hair,
hazel eyes,
full of life,
this is the color
of a miracle.
Two for one.
I can't calculate
the joy that 'whelms me
when I think
of their delivery.
My granddaughter's arrival
and the birth
of my daughter's
new life.
Moments like today
stop me
dead in my tracks
pausing
to give thanks
and praise.
So incredibly thankful.

Love always, Andrea

Thursday, August 2, 2007

My dearest God,

Someone very close to me asked me to teach her how to meditate. She has some physical problems and both her traditional and non-traditional doctors suggested that meditation could help her. She was looking for a step by step method to meditation. I told her meditation didn't work that way.

"Meditation is more about trust." I said to her. "Trust?" She asked me. "Yes, trust." I responded to her. Trust is about surrender. Surrendering one's own need for control. Leaning toward God. Letting go of whatever you're holding on to. Embracing your situation rather than fighting it. Giving it to you. "Meditation is not about getting better," I told her, "but rather about trusting God, being present with God." I could tell she was perplexed.

My close friend was interested in lessening her pain, not necessarily meeting God, although she was intrigued. I told her that meditation was a way to deepen one's life, to live in your presence. "But when you had cancer didn't you ask for healing?" She asked me. "No, not once. I prayed to be with God, to be present with God, to trust in God." I answered. "You see, if you meditate as a way toward healing, then healing may be all you will receive. But if you pray to be close to God, then God's presence will present itself in many ways. Healing may come, but presence is of greater value than healing."

I'm a ceaseless worker in trust. Everything in my life requires my trust in you, everything. Anything that I take hold of, anyone, any situation, calls for my trust in you. I cannot compartmentalize some things as outside the divine arena. All things call for trust. I can do things alone if I so choose. But why? Why would I want to? Why would I choose a purely human venture? Why not consider the sacred dimensions of life situations? Trust leads me to you, every time.

My friend left with much to ponder. A very devout Christian at one time in her life, she has been blown by the winds of betrayal, grief, loss and sorrow. She has not recovered from pain she endured thirty years ago. She has lost her way, can't find the path. She wants to find her way back.

Interesting. This person helped me discover a way to God more than 50 years ago. She showed me a genuine love for God and I learned a lot from her. And now I am leading her.

Our lives
were woven together
by blood
sixty plus years ago.
You were
the thread
that bound us together.
In and out
of each other's lives
we have taken
circuitous routes
that have lead us
back to one another.
Together
we will journey once again
toward you.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Dearest God,

Like a cool breeze on a hot, muggy day I worshipped with the Carmelites. Refreshment awaited me as I stepped into the small chapel. Yes, God is here, I whispered.

I am overcome by your Spirit as I step into their presence. There is some kind of radiant joy that restores my balance, calling me back to primary intentions. Love, love is present. I return to love, Your love.

Holiness always calls out to me. Perhaps the sound of angels' voices or saints' urging, a life with you awakens me, getting my attention. "Is it you, Lord?" I might cry out with my own inner voice. "Is it you?"

As the Living Word is read, I hear your voice, the call to faithfulness, the voice of Great Love. And I am drawn in. As the word speaks, I step forward to receive the Eucharist, the holy bread and cup, the body and blood, the life-giving food of the Spirit. The holy meal of Jesus. I am taking in the person of Christ, I hear my own voice declaring. I am welcoming the Holy into myself. I am being fed with you.

Our prayers rise like incense in this sacred space, moving beyond the brick and mortar to the place of heaven. I breathe deeply the love that offers them. They scatter all over the world, taking our love with them.

And the service is over. My brother Bill and I share pleasantries with the prioress, Sister Jean Alice and then we walk out into the monastery hall, having known we have been with you.

Holy, holy, holy,
my soul cries out.
Holy are you,
Great God
who feeds
your own people
the Living Love
of your Son.
Feed me,
feed me,
Lord,
I want this
holy meal.
I have heard
your voice,
tasted of your peace.
Transforming Love,
my heart sings out
its joy.
To you.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Dear God,

Twenty minutes on the treadmill in the company of meditative music ushers me into reflection of a truly devout life. I continued my reading of an article on Rev. Billy Graham, one of my spiritual mentors. I could only decipher the words until I'm running on the treadmill, then I put it down.

I am intrigued, inspired, moved by the lives of Billy and Ruth Graham. Particularly today I was quieted in my spirit by the words of Ruth Graham as she retired to bed nightly. "In you I take refuge..." All day she takes refuge in you, Lord. Ailing, unable to do all she had done in the past, she takes refuge in you. These words she spoke night after night before her death.

I wondered in my soul. What living words are inside me? What words live in me that nightly are spoken? I do not have a regular regimented night. Every day is so different, my working hours changing from one day to the next and usually I just fall into bed really worn out, often breathing half a prayer or none at all. "Lord, I take refuge in you..." Ruth focuses her last thoughts of the day on you, placing her refuge in you.

Like Ruth I want your words to hide in me. I want them to flow out of me at nighttime. I want my day's last words to reflect my love for you. "I take refuge..." Words that come out of a deep well. Words that utter praise and thanksgiving.

My feet running faster and faster on the treadmill, I found myself in an inner sanctum, a quiet place where gentle breezes blow, a breeze of Spirit. Living words abide here, moving me to you. I do not always visit here at night, although I want to. I want to connect with you intentionally but not as some last thought at night like a p.s. I want a continuous flow of love, one that constantly, faithfully moves toward you.

In company with saints and angels, I want my whole being to lift you up, Living Lord. Whisper to me of utter devotion, God, whisper to me.

Voices of the faithful
cry out to me,
their trust in you.
The Rock of the Ages
announces strength and hope.
Peace and tranquility.
Reclaim my nighttime
so that I may be aware
of your presence.
Take my lips,
purse them with joy.
Restore in me
the balance
of life in the spirit.
I long only for you.

Love, Andrea