Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Dearest God,

I just finished my letter to Lilly thanking them for the magnificent clergy renewal grant given two years ago. I tried in some small way to let them know how deep is my gratitude. I told them that the renewal was for me one of the five most important spiritual events of my life.

One of five. And what are the five? An overnight on the century old family farm where my cousin told me about God in the sky. A Lay Witness mission where I knew God loved me. The visitation of 40-70 biblical characters who came to me in my greatest hour of distress. My death and rebirth. My clergy renewal. Gifts, tremendous gifts from you.

I define my life by these events. Everything else falls in between these. These are the moments when my life was called to greater accountability, to live more fully in the light of God, to trust more, to walk more closely, to teach the great truth of God's active presence in our lives. When I stop, which I am doing at this moment, and assess my life, examine its inner core, I see these events etched in my flesh and upon my spirit. I realize that my life is more than the sum total of purely human experience. These are actual moments where God's hand touched my flesh. And I remember, yes, I remember.

Perhaps today is the day you chose to remind me of these events. I have not thought about these events in some time. I have not been quiet in silence to remember, to recall your gracious generosity. Perhaps today is the day I give thanks. That I rejoice.

When eyes are lifted
to heaven,
a great scene
awaits us.
The face of God
aglow in light
shines outward.
You need not
say a word.
The light is enough.
More than enough.
I remember.
I remember.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

My dearest God,

Holy hands fully open to the light. Hands open with an offering. Hands open to the light. Hands open to God. Hands.

The light shone straight down into our faces and onto our outstretched hands. We were making an offering to you. Did you see our hearts, our spirits' great desire to give to you what we could no longer hold? Faith giving to the light, trusting that God, Jesus would scoop out of our hands so great an offering.

I thought about that as I went to bed tonight. Not just that offering, but my own. I thought about my own faith, my own wrestling. Is faith real or is it not? Does it work sometimes or all the time? If faith is real, it is real for all time, not just part time. It is either real for all things or no things. That's what I told myself as I was falling asleep.

Faith is just an attitude or belief when not taxed in a difficult situation. Faith is only real when lived during hard times. Faith is the action that comes out of the belief. That's what I tell myself. And I believe it.

When I struggle, I get caught up in my own humanity. At such moments I forget that I am a woman of faith. Instead of fully extending my hands to the light of God, I am tight fisted where no light can enter. I am rocked to the core. When my core is exposed, that's where my faith whispers, "I'm here. I'm here. Be not afraid. I'm here. Trust me." And my heart is sad when I think I have failed to trust. Words break out of my mouth, "I lift up my eyes where my help comes from." Just like the psalmist, "My help comes from the Lord."

"I lift up my eyes." Sometimes my eyes graze the ground. I cannot look up. Yet, faith cries out to me. "Look, look, look up!" And when I do, I look into the light and the light shines down upon me like today in the park. The light shines and the light is God. It is faith that moves my neck from its downward position up, up, and up. That slight gesture, movement changes things. "I lift up my eyes." My eyes on Jesus, on Christ, on faith, on God, on love, on trust. I breathe easier. I know the truth that can set people free, even me.

Although the experience in the park was not for me, it reminded me again that you have the power to radically change things. You can take anything we throw at you and make them new. You can reshape a life completely. You can transform the vilest into the most beautiful. What once was can become what may be. You, oh Lord, have that power and the desire to change us, even our situation, our hearts, spirits, our lives.

It's always a call to trust, to trust again and again and again. Lift up your eyes, your voice calls out. Lift up your eyes. And when I feel your hands upon my neck helping to lift me, I know faith is operating fully.

When will I ever fully trust you? When will I ever gain full trust that functions 24/7? When will I trust faith to guide me in every situation, every situation? Oh Lord, forgive this stubborn heart.

I lift up my eyes,
indeed,
and I will keep
lifting them up
to you.
Yours is the face
I long to see,
the light that shines,
the love that flows,
the food that feeds me,
the water that quenches
my thirst.
I am yours,
Oh Lord,
I am yours.

Love, Andrea

Monday, October 29, 2007

Dear God,

Some days you just have to pick up your whole body armor, put it on and fight fear. I was willing to do that in order to give my husband a nice birthday dinner at the Eagle's Nest Restaurant at the top of the Hyatt.

I have a fear of heights. I work hard not to give in to the fear, allowing it to paralyze me in place. My heart begins beating faster, my breathing changes, and my legs become rubbery. But even knowing that, I put on the whole armor of God and begin the attack.

I thought Harold might like to sit atop Indianapolis, look out over the city when the sun began to set and the night skies began to show their stars. Rotating 365 degrees during the hour meal would provide a great view.

But I had to get to the top. No easy way especially since the elevator is glass. (Why do I have to watch my way up?) Nervous I stepped into the elevator with two women and my husband. I got to the 12th floor and figured I had traveled as far as I could by glass. So I found the stairs and started climbing knowing my husband would have to wait at the top. At the 20th floor I stepped out onto the carpeted area thinking the restaurant was just around the corner. Not so. (I was making a lot of rustling noises with my armor) I found a phone and called the front desk. "You can't get to the top without getting on the elevator." They told me. They connected me to the restaurant. "There are five flights up through a service route." They told me and promised to send a man to assist me in my climb. (I know now where the plumbing is cared for and the electricity and the rotating floor) When I finally got to the top, Harold was already waiting for me. Seated by the window, I sat down, clanking like crazy. "Do you mind if we sit at the next table?" I asked the birthday boy. Generous, we moved just inches away but just enough to make it easier to breathe at such a high altitude.

All during the meal I was conscious of the moving floor and how high up we were. Yet, I wanted to give this good gift to my husband to celebrate his 72nd birthday. I held onto my armor knowing the time would come when I would be able to start my way down. Finally, after dinner I began my trek through the service entry, down, down, down, down to the first floor. A good walk. At the bottom I was tidy, removing the armor, packing it up, putting it into my purse for another time.

Courage, true courage comes
when faith enters
allowing risks to be taken.
Trusting in you
for courage
makes the shadowy path
easier to maneuver.
What would my life be like
if it were not with you?
Would fear overtake me?
Would the shadows
keep me from moving ahead?
Would I fall into a clump
forever stuck in place?
Oh Lord,
you are my refuge,
like the psalmist says,
my rock and my stay.
In you
I find strength.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Dearest God,

At times I languish in self pity. I forget who I am and my relationship to you. I lean toward feeling sorry for myself. On my knees washing the wooden floors, I make my case, justify my anger, refuse solace. My hurt, disappointment turns into anger and I tell you what I intend to do. I leave you out, sideline you like a tossed away hand wipe. I tell myself I am justified. My anger builds and I justify more and more. And I am sad.

I do not recognize this bitter woman. It is not me, just an image of me, one I do not like. She does not have solitude in her soul. She does not know where her faith resides. Perhaps tossed aside like you.

This morning I decided to attend St. Anthony’s Monastery for worship. When I pulled into the long driveway, I knew I had made the right decision. As I entered the sanctuary, St. Therese stared outward at me. I know her so well. Her picture hung on the wall, candles burning below her. Drawn to her, I sat close by allowing her love for you to pierce my soul. Tears formed and spilled down my face. The bitter woman cried. She spoke to me of loving long, sacrificially.

We stood as the priest entered. We spoke the prayers, gestured, read responsively. He spoke about the tax collector and the Pharisee. My earlier conversation with myself was so like the Pharisee. The laundry list of what I do right. So wrong. The tax collector says simply, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.” Only one walks away justified and it is not the bitter woman. Warm tears teach me that bitterness can turn to tears and be released. Bitterness can dissolve in the face of divine love. Only then do I find myself, my faith, my God.

I cannot live in the face of bitterness. I can only live in the light of love. And love must lead me, teach me, challenge and humble me. I cannot permit life’s disappointments to rob me of the purity of my love for you. And my love for you must be what leads me, moment by moment, day by day. On my knees washing the floor needs to be the prayer of the pure heart, rather than the bitter complaint.

How blessed I was as I knelt on the kneeling bench. My knees that had been on the floor washing were now the knees bent in prayer. The purity of my loving heart had returned. My self pity turned praise.

Gracious, Loving God,
my rotting flesh
steals away the purity
of my faith.
I lose my way
and I give in
to bitterness.
Holy One,
you come to me.
you cry out,
"Come home,
little lamb.
Come home
to me."
You send saints,
your church
to accompany me
on my return trip home.
As I find you,
I find myself.
So grateful.

Love, Andrea

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Dearest God,

The days in Maine are long days, not short vacation days. Each day is fully lived.

Eric, our neighbor, and I stood talking between our properties. A volunteer fire fighter, EMT and liver and kidney transplant survivor, Eric is loved in the community. Ready to face his last surgery, a hernia, we talked about ways to beautify our property by cleaning out, pruning back and planting.

A year ago he was fighting for his life just like his older brother who died. We prayed with his family. A young woman died (21 years old) and Eric received her organs. He has done very well.

I listen to Eric and realize his very being is instructive. He lives each day fully, blessed. He lives with an uncertainty, not sure how long he will be well, maybe for a few years, maybe lots of years. He looks at things differently. Two survivors sharing along the fence row (that is no longer there) we talked about life.

Eric is in his 30's, too young for a physical breakdown but the inherited kidney and liver problems threatened his life. With a surge of new energy and a grateful heart, he lives to help others.

I see him come and go, think about him and his large family (single, but comes from a family of eight children) and what a blessing they are to us. They have welcomed us in, made us part of their family. Before Elizabeth his niece went off to college, we were invited to a send off. We talk nearly every day while we are there.

I don't know whether it is Maine, the beautiful, serene state on the coast or whether it is our little neighborhood where neighbors still care about one another. But there's something different, something closer to heaven where days are full and fully lived.

Wondrous, Majestic God,
how gracious you are.
You draw people together
where life is shared
from the deepest level.
Life stuff,
like blessing, gratitude, joy,
living in the present
is such a gift
and we live in it
like children
playing contentedly in the sand.
Thank you.

Love, Andrea

Friday, October 26, 2007

Dear God,

I sit looking out my kitchen window, a gentle rain falling from the sky. The fragrance of my Yankee Christmas Berries candle wafts through the kitchen into the dining room as I write. All is quiet except the subtle purr of the refrigerator. Just the way I like it.

In little more than 30 hours I will return to my other home. I will miss Maine, my neighbors, the ocean, my home. I have given so much to this house in the last couple of years. I painted every wall and ceiling. I’ve repaired window sills (all 30 plus), added lots of plaster (can’t sand off lead paint by law) painted, and hung shades and valances. Not bad if I do say so myself. I’ve decorated, bought used furniture (mostly under $1,000 for the whole house) and organized every knife, canned good and cookbook. I look around and feel that I have loved the house back to its original condition. Yes, my husband’s hand has been in it as well working with contractors. But the finishing part of the process has been my work.

There’s something different about this house. I don’t know whether it’s because it has a long history (nearly 200 years) or it’s in Maine or what. There’s just something different. Other people have remarked that it’s a peaceful place. Maybe it’s the woods out back or the Mousam River. I don’t know.

I flourish here. I drink in spring, summer, fall, winter. Every season. I’m allowing the colorful Autumn leaves to etch their pictures in my mind. I walk, sit, dance, read, think, reflect at the beach. Yesterday, there were only three people there. I sat bundled up, leaning against the long driftwood log as I ate my lunch, read my book, talked to my daughter on the phone. Stayed for a long time. Watched the tide go out.

My contentment stems from a deep understanding of your presence. The peace I have is your peace. My hope is your hope. My joy yours. I’m in your hands and knowing that brings breath to me, long, slow deep breaths that bring warmth and comfort, compassion.

Merciful God,
I breathe in your spirit
because you are life
to me.
In the quiet stillness
I know you.
I hear your voice.
We are together,
you and I.
Solitude.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, October 25, 2007

My dearest God,

Rejection, turning one’s back on another, severing a relationship, is part of my family tree. As surely as mom, dad, and kids were planted in the tree, so has this fiendish devil slithered onto our tree. Generations of it. You’re in; you’re out. In my head I see the roots, the limbs, the branches. So many cuts off, so many of the dead lay fallen, cut off by someone for some reason or another. And not just one or two or three. Many.

I thought about drawing it out on paper, studying it. But then I did something similar a few years back. I examined our family using the family systems theory. I identified those whose lives were broken in some way. Wrote down their names and their connections and disconnections. Overwhelming.

At times sadness fills my soul to the top. For me rejection is just about the worst thing in the world. Human lives cut off from one another. There are legitimate reasons for people to cut themselves off from family, from abuse of every kind. But if abuse is not part of the picture, then why do it? An argument? A disagreement? A resentment? Is it really necessary? Is there anything so grave to give reason to chop off someone’s branch, rendering it dead?

My time with my family these last few days has been a mixed bag. We have had a great time together. We have laughed and laughed and laughed. But in between we shared hurts, disappointments, cut offs in our family. I take it so personally that I can actually feel the knife piercing my soul.

Not wanting to give in to it, yet, living with the reality of rejection is so painful, so life altering. Can stop you dead in your tracks.

I think that’s why I hug people. Don’t want anyone left out. Don’t want anyone to feel “outside”. Don’t want anyone feeling that no one cares. Want people to feel included, loved, cherished. A hug is more than the physical act of putting arms around someone and squeezing. Arms that circle round someone says, “You’re important, valuable; I recognize your worth.”

My ministry has been about hugging people, connecting with people. I hug everyone who comes through my line on Sunday mornings. It may be the only connection, the only link someone has to another human being. Being touched in a healthy sense gives wholeness and life. Makes a person feel good. Gives some people a reason to keep on going.

Not everyone wants a hug…from me. And that’s okay; but the hug is offered nonetheless. I don’t hold back, not from anyone.

And as I think about my own hugs, I think of your hugs, of your embrace. How you love your children. How you extend long arms and circle ‘round. How many times have I lay sorrowing and you came to me, embracing me, giving me value and love? How many moments have there been when I felt alone and your presence made me feel part of something, someone so great and beautiful? How many? So many, I cannot recall all of them. You filled me with love, your own divine love. You made me an integral part of your family. You welcomed me in. You told me it was a “forever” love.

I pick myself up. I stretch and lean toward the One who never fails to include me, to rescue me, to offer me agape love. I drink it in until I am overflowing. That’s when I have more than enough to give away.

Only when I trust
in you
to water my thirsty soul
do I find
the refreshment
I desperately need.
Only when I lean in
toward you
do I find
a constant support,
a rock
that will not move,
no matter
what earthquake
might threaten.
Only when I
offer you
my broken heart
can the mending begin.
Only when.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Dearest God,

This morning I lay in my bed listening to Autumn leaves falling, thinking about the goodness of it all. How each tree sprouted leaves in the springtime. How they grew and filled out in the summer. How they turned radiant colors in Fall. How they are letting go. How they will recharge their roots and center in the wintertime. Then bud and blossom once again, restarting the cycle.

Am I designed that way? Do I have this natural rhythm and flow to my life? Am I destined to live a particular way at a specific time? Does new life occur to me, then a fullness of life? Do I show my “colors”? Do I glow with special beauty? Do I let go, release that which is within me? Then start all over?

Sometimes I get caught up wondering, thinking about this rhythm, this ebb and flow. Just yesterday my sister, niece and I sat by the water in a small coffee shop drinking coffee and eating fudge. My sister looked out the window and said, “This is a pretty ugly scene.” “Oh,” I told her, “that’s because the tide is out. The water will soon come back in and this will be filled up.” “I’ll bet it is beautiful.” She responded back. The ebb and flow.

My sister and I have taken some early morning moments to talk about our past. During a recent gathering my sister learned some disconcerting news. She was troubled by what she heard. When she shared it with me, I too was troubled. We talked and talked, realizing that life long ago was not all it seemed to be.

It seems that I misjudged my mother at times. It appears now that she took some hard hits in life. And the fact that she said and did certain things makes sense now. My sister and I wish we could have one more conversation with Mom. There are some things we’d like to say to her.

As I lay in bed, darkness all around me, I think of the ebb and flow in my life, in my family's life. Like my sister's comments the ugly and the beautiful have been part of our lives as well. At times the ugly rose up taking hold. And yet, there have been priceless moments when the beautiful has been a reshaping of the ugly.

These days together perhaps are days when we are coming to grips with our life together. Perhaps we are creating a new flow uniting ourselves as sisters like never before. Perhaps we are taking the truth and allowing it to free us from old beliefs and attitudes. Perhaps we are allowing you to soften our edges, teaching us that nothing from the past can ultimately rob us of the future. Permitting you to remould us in a new way using the old clay can give us a new way of being together, even of being ourselves.

Gracious and Wise God,
I'm learning
about myself
and my family.
This moment
in time
is a learning time.
A loving time.
An accepting time.
Your time.

Love, Andrea

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Dear God,

Did you lead us to the ocean this morning? Did you clear the beach of people in order for us to find more of ourselves there? Did you bring in the tide so the water could feel so close? Did you carve out the small flat area for dancing? Did you whisper to the seagulls? Did you quiet the water toward the inlet? Did you sing songs? Carry the wind?

Awesome and Amazing God,
moments in time
can be sacred gatherings
of your people.
Tangible, intangible
seen and unseen,
your presence
creeps into our being,
depositing your spirit.
We come alive.

Grateful, Andrea

Monday, October 22, 2007

My dearest God,

I stood on the rock where my mother stood many years ago. She had come to New England with her sister-in-law and friend. She found her way to Cape Porpoise and there she looked out upon Goat Island Lighthouse. She loved it here.

My sister, niece and cousin stood there too. We watched as the seagulls soared, dancing in the sky. We walked over to the pier and watched the lobstermen raise the heavy boxes of freshly caught lobster. We sat down on the bench at the end of the pier and watched a lone seagull perch on one of the many lobster boats in the bay. Quietly, each of us were left with our own thoughts.

Captured by the beauty of the picturesque scene before us, I thought of Mother. I imagine she felt some of the same feelings we were experiencing. Awe, wonder, peaceful calm, serenity. I wonder if she thought about her children, wanting to show us the beauty of this tiny piece of earth. I know I was thinking about having Mother stand with me, with us sharing the beauty of a moment in time, a historical moment of love and awe shared between mother and daughter, grandmother and granddaughter, aunt and niece. How lovely to enjoy such a moment together.

As spectacular as the view was, how much more beautiful was the time we were spending together. Having lost touch for 50 years with my cousin, several years with my niece and a few years with my sister, it seemed a miracle that we were together. We were getting to know each other again, knitting our lives more closely together.

We asked one another questions from our past. “Were you close to your mother? Your dad? What was it like for you as a child?” Breaking the silence of lives not close for many years, we shared together. Nothing really bad, just little sadnesses along the way. Sometimes allowing the revelation to surface gave a little more breathing space, recognizing that life never has to be lived in the shadow of the past, but light can be spread in a new way. Felt good.

It’s a strange place we’re in, being together, the four of us. Yet, it seems that we are painting a new canvas together, bringing together both old and new colors, painting an old, familiar picture, yet a new one, unfinished, many new hues, combinations to be added. Part of the miracle.

Oh God,
what surprising gifts
you offer.
Teeny bits
of time
shared together
reveal
the wonders
of your love
for your children.
Can it be
that each one
of us
needed
the other
to live more deeply,
richly
and wondrously?
Has our reconnection
reestablished something more
inside us?
Left with
my own thoughts
I give thanks.

Loving you always, Andrea

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Dear God,

When I saw Annie sitting in a seat beside gate number 3, I remembered that I had not spent time with my cousin since we both lived in Tipton when we were 10 years old. We are both 61 years old.

I had invited my older aunts to join me in Maine initially because I missed my mother. They were both very close to Mom and had traveled to Maine together several years ago. I wanted to spend time with them because I love them both very much. We lived in the same towns when I was growing up. They are a very special part of my life. I had hoped to share memories of Mom and their trip here. And, of course, memories of the past.

After inviting two aunts, I invited my girl cousins, my sister and niece. (I knew my children could not come.) Reconnecting with my family could provide a wonderful time for all. But as time got closer (I planned this a year ago) my aunts told me they could not come. Aunt Jodie is taking care of her ailing husband who has Parkison's and Aunt Caroline provides for her 90+ year old mother. My cousin Lori is helping her best friend who recently lost her teenage son, her husband and a nephew all in separate tragedies.

So what that meant was that my cousin Annie, my sister Debbie and my niece Missy would join me. I have to admit I was disappointed my aunts and cousin Lori could not come. They could tell me about Mom and Maine.

When I hugged Annie at the airport, I figured you had something in store for all of us. You would resurrect old memories and teach us something new about family.

It was 9:00 p.m. by the time we all rendezvoused at my house. And before we knew it we were all wrapped up in laughter. For some reason we were all in the dining room. I was barefoot. Debbie had on just one sock. And we started talking about feet. We looked at each other's feet, toes, bunions and one of us discovered we even had a fungus. The others took off their socks and we compared toes to see if we had inherited the same toe genes. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

We were off to a good start. And I fell asleep in the knowledge that perhaps this small group was the group intended to come after all.

Wise and Generous God,
families are filled
with memories,
glad and sad.
Annie and I
covered all the sad ones
at the airports
and in the car
on the ride home.
So the toes
were the beginning
of the glad.
Thanks.

Love, Andy

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Dear God,

I saw my daughter sitting on the bleachers, little 2 year old Lucy beside her. I had come to watch my seven year old granddaughter play basketball. Jill whispered to Lucy and she scanned the auditorium trying to find me. When she spotted me, she scooted down off the bench and took off running. Like the scene from the movie, "Vacation", when Chevy Chase and his family run across the long parking lot to Wally World, Lucy and I ran toward each other. When I caught sight of her twinkling eyes, I leaned downward and scooped her up into my arms. With a jammed finger (her little body ran in to my right hand ring finger) I twirled her around as she clung to my neck. All of a sudden some of the pew sitters started clapping.

When Gabrielle saw me (she didn’t know I was coming) she too ran over and I gave her a big hug and kiss before the game. I held Lucy on my lap (when she was content to be there) and I explained the game to her. (Funny, isn’t it, what do I know about playing basketball?)

Let’s see, there are five players on each team. (Good so far) There is a referee who blows a whistle and takes away the ball, then gives it back. There is a basketball goal on each side of the half court. One team competes against each other to try to get the most goals. Everybody keeps their hands up like a command from a sheriff and posse who shouts, “Put your hands up.” They dribble the ball (that means they bounce it) and then they pass it to another team member. When they get close to the goal, they start throwing the ball upward to try to get the round ball in the hoop. When it happens, everybody claps.

While holding my granddaughter on my lap and encouraging my other granddaughter on the floor, I noticed something. When one of the girls swooped a ball into goal, they always looked out into the crowd to find someone who had brought them. Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Sister…I watched as the girl found the loved one who must have smiled at them because a big smile spread across her face again and again. Tall girls, short girls, black headed girls. Blonde. This happened over and over again.

That made me think. When I score a point (meaning when I do something right and good,) you smile at me and I smile back. I look around and find you there beaming at me. I feel connected, affirmed, supported, loved. I know you are there. I’m not in the game alone. And I like that.

I told Lucy to clap each time a shot made it into the basket. She would put her little hands together and clap, smiling at the girls. And then she looked at me. I smiled at her.

Seems to me this team thing is a good thing. Everybody wins because everybody’s connected to everyone else. Smiles abound. And even when someone misses, there's still an affirming face connecting with the girl.

I couldn’t see behind me (only my children think I have eyes in the back of my head) but I think there were a lot of happy moms and dads, sisters and brothers, grandmas and grandpas. I think we may have been the face of God to each other. Even people who walked in carrying a burden seemed to be lifted.

Gabrielle’s team won, but no matter. They just play for fun. Everybody seems to win. A smile, a hug, a kiss, a “good job” or “you can do it!”

It was wonderful looking at you and having you smile right back.

Loving God,
in a gymnasium
filled with little girls
or a parking lot,
you are present
with your
extra bag of goodies.
You bring joy
and a special vessel
to sprinkle it 'round.
Lucy, Gabrielle, Jill, Matt, and Rylan,
and a whole gym
full of family.
God in the middle.

Love, Andrea

Friday, October 19, 2007

Dearest God,

I got the call at 7:30 a.m. Jeno had just died. I pulled on my clothes and left immediately. When I arrived most of the family were already there. I hugged each one as I met them. Vicki was sitting on the porch. His beloved wife of eight years she held on as she cried into my shoulder.

As I stepped into the bedroom Jeno lay quiet, his spirit already gone from the room. His small frame had been eaten away by cancer. Jim was still holding his hand. He said he couldn't let go until I came to pray.

I stayed for a long time comforting, helping, guiding them with the service since I couldn't be there to officiate. Their friend Ruth helped with all the details.

There is no doubt about it, God lives in this home. Not in the traditional sense of things. There are no obvious symbols and signs like crosses or pictures of Jesus. It's the love they share with one another. The love they offer to one another. Love binds this family together.

Although the interior of the house is very dark, light shines through the people who enter. And when light meets light, something happens.

I invited everyone into the bedroom one last time before the morticians took his body. We held hands, put arms around one another, stood close in the small bedroom. And we prayed, "Our father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name..."

Light of the World,
you shine
in every darkness.
You reveal yourself
and we find
we are not alone.
How grateful
our hearts are
when we trust
in you,
when we lean in
your way,
when we feel
your strong shoulder
upon which we
can cry.
You are
the rock
upon which we stand,
steady, strong,
unmoving.
When the winds blow
we do not fear
because the ground
upon which we stand
will remain
steady.
Let the wind blow
for we stand
with you.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Dearest God,

I took the most courageous woman I know to lunch today. This is her vacation week but she is using it to get rest.

This woman has seen fighting and death. She watched her uncle killed before her eyes. She has lived in a refugee camp. She lost her toddler son because there were no antibiotic drugs available.

In America free from the ravages of a years-long civil war in Liberia, she now works two full-time jobs making just above minimum wage. Working sixteen hour days, she sleeps just 2-4 hours a day. She is the sole financial supporter of her five children. Just recently her oldest daughter returned to her home because she is in college.

This woman could complain, gripe about her situation. She could wail, judge, and scream. And she would have the right. God knows she has faced tremendous suffering both in Africa and in America. But she doesn't. When I look at this beautiful honey-colored woman, I see your son. I hear his voice. "I just pray for strength." She told me. "I just trust in the Lord."

She gave witness to that deep trust. When she has bills due, she prays that God will give her the amount of money she needs when she needs it. When her house was recently reappraised at a higher amount, she fell on her knees before you. She told you she could not pay that extra $500. She prayed and prayed. A few weeks later she received a letter saying there had been a mistake. That $500 was erased as if it had never existed.

She has never been late with her house payment or her utilities. At times she has no money for food, but her children never complain. They are like her, long-suffering and faith filled. After 16 hours of work she will come home, prepare food for her children, then go to bed. The oldest child will heat up the food although the mother will never eat it.

This woman could resort to becoming a beggar, asking people for money and food. But she doesn't. She only asked me once in four years for a loan to file her immigration papers. I gave her the money. She lives frugally and responsibly.

But more than that. She lives faithfully. When she speaks about you, her eyes light up. They twinkle with light. The weary lines on her face disappear. Faith for her is everything. She eats, drinks and lives faith. I sit in her shadow as she gives witness to her trust in God.

She will be deported in 18 months if we cannot find a way to stop it. All Liberians have to go home now that the war is over. Trouble is there is 80 to 85 percent unemployment. There are no social services. She has nothing to return to.

As we packaged up the extra breadsticks, salad, cheese and pasta to take home to the kids, I looked at my dear friend who refuses to call me Andrea because she is African and Africans give great honor to their pastor. I am always Rev. Leininger. I knew I had eaten with Christ who taught me again what it means to be a humble servant.

Your beautiful child
and servant
graced me
with her presence today.
She talked
with me
about faith
again.
She exudes faith.
On her voice mail,
she says,
"God bless you.
God loves you
and so do I."
I am inspired,
touched,
loved
by a woman
who knows
the deepest dimensions
of faith,
whose trust
is long and sure,
whose love
is beautiful, real, and authentic.
Bless this woman
over and over again,
O Lord,
and her children.
She is one
of your finest.
I learn
at her feet.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

My dear God,

I learned today that my dear friend has breast cancer. When she called I went right to her home. We sat around the fire pit in her garden area. As I sat there looking at her, hearing her voice, I remembered events in 1997.

On the day I was diagnosed with breast cancer in December 1997, Cindy came to my home to hear the results of my tests. I had to tell her I had cancer. She hugged me, promised me she would pray, then she left because my family and a pastor friend was there with me.

In the days and weeks following that day, December 17, Cindy was with me. She was present the day of my surgery. She stayed with me at the hospital rotating with my family because I had various problems. After I came home she was one of three people who took 24 hour care of me. I will never forget those days; neither will I fail to remember the gift of my friend who took such good care of me.

And now she sat before me with the same diagnosis. I promised her my support and help at doctor's appointments. I told her I would be with her during surgery and at any other time she needed me.

I now see cancer from the other side. My friend has just entered that strange maze, one everyone has to go through if they intend to battle the disease. I know each step. No, I did not have to have chemo or radiation. My oncologist told me I was not a candidate because I had extreme flashes. Chemo would create more of a problem for me. I would be non-functioning.

I don't know yet what my friend will have to experience. Her appointment with a surgeon is not until next week. I am praying for her.

Loving God,
my friend
is generous, loving, and kind.
I pray for her.
Hold her,
keep her.
May she find
in you
a deep, abiding friend
as I did.
As I do.

Love, Andrea

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Dearest God,

A return to faith. I spoke with a gentleman recently who grew up in a Christian home and church, yet as a teenager decided he did not "buy" the tenets of faith so he became an atheist. Suited him just fine.

But a couple of weeks ago when confronted by problems he realized what he had given up. He determined in his own mind that faith in God was better than the Darwinian theory. Held up better. Was crucial to life.

I think about faith a lot, what it means, its value to an individual and to the common society. I think of what a living faith can be for a family and a neighborhood, how it gets lived out.

And then I think about this: Is faith a "get out of jail free" card like in the game of Monopoly? Is it a way to temporarily get out of trouble? Is it something to call on when things get sticky and gummed up? Is that all it is?

I'm troubled when I live a faith-full life sometimes and other times not. When I turn from you because I want my own way. When I do return to what I know to be true, I am always sad, anguished that I was willing to set aside my faith to be on my own, letting go of the most precious commodity in my life. But I always find you willing to listen to my excuses, my weaknesses, my thoughts, hurts, challenges. You always have a word of hope for me.

Daily I pray for my loved ones. But there are many times I fail to pray for myself. I forget or I pray for others and just don't get around to praying for myself. I know that prayer can help my own faith, keeping it in place, strengthening me. I need a daily dose of prayer to keep my faith intact.

A counselling appointment for a couple last night reminded me about the awesomeness of faith and what a life of faith means and what a life without it is like. A reminder.

Loving God,
you are at the
heart of faith.
I am not.
Continue to speak to me
I pray
about matters
so close
to my heart.
Remove the obstacles
that stand in the way
of faith.
Or help me find ways
to rise above
or below the obstacles
in order
to remain true
to what I believe.
Teach me, Lord,
teach me.

Love, Andrea

Monday, October 15, 2007

Dear God,

You heard the sound of her voice, the joy, the tears, the celebration. "I wanted to talk with you all weekend." She told me. "My tests were normal. It's a miracle!"

My member has had several surgical procedures, each one unsuccessful. The original surgery had "pinched" her bile duct (I think), failing to allow normal flow. Subsequently they kept putting in stents, taking them out, putting others in. Nothing really worked for very long. The doctor was ready to schedule the big invasive surgery where she would be cut from stem to stern and the area of concern would be rebuilt. They did a final series of tests. And the results were phenomenal. Indeed it is a miracle!

She has a fear of hospitals. Her mother died following a routine procedure. She never forgot it. Every time she has to face surgery she has to face her fear.

Several weeks ago she called telling me she had found peace through her fear. She had grabbed hold of faith and allowed it to calm the fear. She would be okay, she said, when she had to face the really big surgery. I told the woman that the event of the normal tests was the second miracle. Letting go of her fear was the first one.

Fear and faith. I have a wooden disc that I carry in my billfold. One side says fear. I know all about that. The other side says faith. I know about that too. Fear and faith. Faith and fear. Seems they are wedded together. Fear can turn into faith and faith can turn into fear. I've been on both sides of that "coin."

But what I want is a life lived without unreasonable, irrational fear. I want to live my life in the light where fear cannot get a foothold. Like a sudden storm that soaks in, I want to have enough faith to ward off the fear, not allowing it in. Like that spray stuff that just makes the rain bubble but not soak in. It keeps the fabric dry. I want faith that only allows the fear to present itself but it simply slides off. Fear that dissolves or dissipates, not becoming fear at all. That's what I want my faith to be.

Every day I have to decide how I want to live. Will I give in to fear? Will I allow myself to be immobilized by a paralyzing fear? Will I trust only in my own resources? Or will I do something else? Will I remain close to you, keeping my whole self wrapped in loving care so I am enabled, empowered to function out of faith because I know you are in me and I am in you? Will I be courageous, willing to risk in order to follow you, your will? Lord, how much I want that kind of life, that kind of trust.

Thank you
for the miracle,
the first
and the second.
Thank you
for faith
that transforms fear.
Thank you
for the lesson
of faith, trust, courage.
Guide me,
O Lord,
guide me
in faith.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Dear God,

I was full. Full of living water. I didn't know how full until I began to preach.

The choirs had blended their voices together. The soloist had offered his grand gifts. The pianist had played the finest. Our music director had offered his best and I drank while listening.

By the time I began to preach I was spilling over.

I felt the effects of drinking spirit water yesterday. I had prepared myself, thinking I would be dry and thirsty today. And when the musical well provided even more water, I was nearly ready to burst and so it came forth in my morning message.

I believe in trusting you. I believe in taking responsibility to nourish the dry places in my soul. I believe in not blaming others for my thirst. I believe in the power of God. I believe in spiritual strength that comes from on high.

And what an even greater joy to have three people in the newcomer class who shared their lives at lunch from a deep well. Faith, they talked about faith from a deep place. "Spiritual awareness" they talked about. They want a church who is spiritually aware. All three have been at several churches and found ours to be the first who they believe really are spiritually aware. I realized my own gift of digging wells and teaching others how to do it. And now veteran spiritual well diggers are joining our fellowship. What great joy filled me.

You, O, Lord, it is you who continues to visit our church. You come bringing buckets of well water. And when we fail to fill our own buckets, turning dry and cranky, you enter quietly and for all those who bring their empty buckets to church, you fill them and we go home full. Some, however, are not aware that they even have a bucket. And sometimes those of us who do come bringing them turn them upside down because we don't want you filling them. We want to stay in a state of dryness. But when individually we upright our own bucket, knowing full well, we can't be full human beings living in faith without living water, you look right into our eyes, and the dark scales fall as our buckets become more and more full of you.

Great Wondrous God,
fill us to overflowing.
Forgive us
when we talk
about our brothers and sisters
who are dry, thirsty,
cranky and down right mean.
They're just dry.
Thank you
for sweet water
that quenches
our thirst.
Thank you
for our buckets,
well worn,
yet always ready
to be a source
of life to us.
Help us
to always be willing
to be filled.
But also
help us
to carry
our full buckets
to others.
It's just nice
that way.
One person
filling another's bucket.
The way
it's supposed
to be.
I love you.

Always, Andrea

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Dearest God,

I often find myself in a spiritual well, digging for water. When I know life may become difficult or troublesome, I bring out my divining rod. Today I dug for living water.

I am becoming increasingly interested in the spiritual process of well digging. I have discovered that my current well is not deep enough to provide what I need. As a woman of faith I need my well to be deep, very deep.

When my life becomes rocky whether that is in my personal life, church life, or family life, I always go to the well to fill up. This living water helps me live well. I drink, then drink some more realizing always that I am building up a reservoir for daily living. I cannot live my life well if I am always thirsty with no well from which to draw water. So I dig, deep.

After digging today, I took out my ladle and drank. The psalms, particularly Psalm 84, deepened my well. And the water, well, it was sweet. Longing for God, drinking in from your word filled up my empty spaces preparing me for Sunday.

I remembered a song I sang when I was in the ninth grade. "How lovely is that dwelling place, O Lord of Hosts..." I drank in the song recalling its value to my life so long ago. I decided to use it in my message tomorrow.

Digging and drinking is not really a hard thing to do. But sometimes I let my tools get rusty, tarnished, broken and it makes digging more difficult. If I don't keep my aids in good shape, then I complicate my life more and I feel more shaky realizing just what shape I'm in. I have to pay attention to all my spiritual helps. Today I did just that!

Wells and water,
digging tools and aids
make my life good.
I know
the great source
of this water
and I lean in
to say
thank you.
Sometimes
I'm really thirsty,
like after
a good cry.
I know
I need
to replenish
my supply.
And
I know
where to turn.
I go
into that spiritual room,
pick up my tools,
then start digging.
You're there,
you're always there
with me.
You carry
a bucket,
a divine, sacred bucket.
You pour
into my well.
You fill me
to overflowing.
My thirst quenched,
my praise
flows out.

Love, Andrea

Friday, October 12, 2007

Dear God,

Row J, seat 208. Dvorak. Ravel. Elgar.

Perhaps it was my state of mind. Or my trouping through Parke County booths all day. Or my date with my husband. Maybe it was the night air or the Italian food.

My pores, all my pores were open to the sweet music. It had been years since I had been to the symphony, way too many years. I'm usually too tired on Friday nights. And Saturday nights are out.

I had outbid my competition at the Mission Event. I won the two tickets to the symphony. I was anxious to take my husband for a night out, just the two of us. I wanted to hear the sweet sounds of the oboe, violin, flute, horns, percussion, all the instruments singing together.

I read through the program, taking in the commentary on the composers and their own words about their compositions. I took in the strangeness of thought as they grappled with instrument, sound, time and space. I listened to their voices of long ago as they brought music to the page and to the world. I was ready.

When the lights lowered, I was poised for beauty, a sacred gift, music from the heavens. And I was not disappointed. I closed my eyes, not wanting to be distracted by the movement of the conductor, other patrons. I wanted the music to waft its way into my soul. I climbed into the darkness, allowing the light of the music to follow me. My whole body listened, permitting tears to form while my spirit filled. Sweet music to the soul. Sweet, sweet music.

I can only imagine the first sweet sound of music ever heard. A mystical sound from paradise. And what is paradise but the home of God?

It was so appropriate to celebrate afterwards with cake and champagne, gifts from Maestro Leppard's 80th birthday. I ate every morsel and drank 1/3 of my glass. I didn't think I had any open space left in me.

We held hands as we walked to the car, the tiny white tree lights sparkling on the circle. The music still swirling in my head.

You are God
from everlasting
to everlasting.
The sweet sounds
of your voice
still echo
in my head.
Dvorak.
Ravel.
Elgar.
Leppard.
Gratitude
and
joy!

Love, Andrea

Thursday, October 11, 2007

My dearest God,

I carried a heavy heart today. As the family went downstairs to the hospital cafeteria, I bid them goodbye and started walking down the corridor when I heard a sound, a piano playing. Drawn back into the waiting room I sat down, closed my eyes and began to quietly sing along. "My Jesus, My Savior, Lord there is none like You..."

I've been visiting St. Vincent's Hospital for more than 20 years. I have never heard the piano play before. As I hummed and sang, I remembered sitting in the great cathedral in Kumasi, West Ghana when a young adult choir began to sing this song.

I recalled to mind how I stood as one of the 5,000 member choir and sang the same song at a Billy Graham crusade. Watching an ailing Billy Graham being lifted up the elevator and helped to stand to preach the gospel, tears formed in my eyes as I reflected upon the great song of Darlene Zschech that continues..."Shout to the Lord all the earth, let us sing, power and majesty, praise to the King. Mountains bow down and the seas will roar at the sound of Your name. I sing for joy..."

I stepped over to the piano as the pianist finished playing the song. "Thank you for your song. I needed it." The young Asian woman blushed and lowered her head as I sang her praise and yours.

I continued humming the tune as I drove to Panera Bread to meet a woman who wanted to talk with me. "How can I find God, Andy?" She asked me. "I want God back in my heart." We sat and talked for two hours, all the whys and wherefores of faith. "A little at a time. Keep watch. Stop, look around, listen for God." I told her. "Mountaintop experiences are wonderful but they only keep you for a while. It's in the daily ordinariness of life that God is most revealed. Look for Him." When we parted, I saw peace in her eyes.

I was weary by day's end. I had seen your face at least twice, heard your voice more. But my heart became heavier as I received sad news. Yet it did not bottom out because I felt your hand, the net of love catch my heart as it continued to fall. And I rose with it reminding our group and myself that we are spiritual leaders called to a higher level of living, that we will be called upon to lead as models for our congregation. I knew the source of my words and felt the beautiful calm that you bring in the midst of dark clouds although my heart was sad.

As I walked down the hall to exit the church building, I heard music in the upper room. Drawn as I was earlier this morning I climbed the steps and opened the door. Rene was tuning his guitar. I simply entered and asked, "Rene, sing me a song." "What kind of song?" He replied. "A song of hope." I answered. He finished tuning the guitar and I sat down.

The moment he began strumming the guitar, I closed my eyes once again to see your face. "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind but now I see." All the verses, he sang all the verses as holy, vulnerable tears spilled from my eyes. As he ended the song, I simply stood, walked over to him, and hugged him. "Perfect." I said. "It was the perfect song." Then I left.

At day's end I walked into my husband's arms as the gentle tears fell. A disappointment. A loss. A sadness.

But as I climbed into bed I knew the strength in my own soul, a resolve to be faithful, a peace that comes from faith living itself out into the world. I knew that the storms that come will be stilled at the appropriate time by the Great and Holy One, you yourself. I closed my eyes in the assurance of faith.

Great God,
praise is permanently etched
upon my heart
for you.
Never to be worn
by the seasons of time
or torment,
I shall always
sing your praise.
Faith is not faith
if not realized
in the time of trial.
I rest secure
in your loving, cradling arms.
I am yours,
a minister
of the Gospel,
a servant of Christ,
a child of God.

Love always, Andrea

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Dearest God,

Trust! Trust! Trust!

A week ago in the early morning hour I took a friend to her car which was left at the church. On my way to the monastery I took what I thought to be a short cut. But it didn't wind up saving me time. I got lost. It was still dark and there was a lot of traffic. I called one of my colleagues. "I'm lost; I can't find my way. I don't know where I am." As I kept driving, I finally came to a street I recognized and eventually found my way to my destination.

That scene has been repeated a few times in my mind. "I'm lost; I can't find my way." I remember when Daddy began to lose his way, how he couldn't figure out where he was, how frightened he was when he began to suffer from Alzheimer's. I will never forget the look in his eyes. Even when I went to visit him in the later stage, his eyes were filled with fear. I was an unknown person to him. I knew who he was, knew our history as father and daughter, but Daddy didn't. I was another stranger. Daddy was lost.

How many times I have been lost, not just when driving my car. I didn't know where I was. I couldn't find my way. Emotionally, spiritually I was wandering sometimes in circles, sometimes just paralyzed in place. The darkness grew and I simply couldn't see my way out. It's a terrifying experience. My time in the car a week ago brought all this to mind, Daddy and me.

I don't have Alzheimer's. I still have all my faculties. (At least I think I do.) But I do lose my way. When I lose focus, when my eyes fall downward from heaven, I began to slip up, forgetting where I'm headed. I look around and discover I'm mired in a situation and sometimes fear takes over.

A few weeks ago I experienced a situation that was very painful. I felt the darkness close in on me. I felt afraid, hurt, and angry. Something I had thought about a few days earlier helped me. I looked upward. I cried out, "I lift up my eyes to the hills where my help comes from. I lift up my eyes..." I repeated it again and again. Instead of sinking into quicksand that sucks me downward even further, I felt my heart, my soul rising up, trusting, trusting you.

I have further discovered that I can live simply a human existence. I can take charge of my own life, determine my own destiny, do what I want. At the end I will have what I have made of my life, good, bad or indifferent. Or I can live a life where the sacred divine is woven into my being. Like a strand of DNA where all the information about my life is stored, a tiny golden sacred thread can be woven into every strand. So tight, so firmly that it is impossible to pull it apart from all other information. My being will be guided by you because I have chosen to allow the sign and symbol of your presence to be an intricate, intimate part of my life.

Trust comes with the woven strand. As part of my whole being I have the capability, the capacity, to trust in you. Trust will grow just as every other part of my spirit grows...grace, mercy, love, compassion. My days will be written differently because you are an innermost part of me, but more importantly, I am a part of you. I live your life in the world. Not to say that I am God, (good grief) but I do take on some of your characteristics, living a life of sacred quality, sprinkling into the world goodness, beauty, love, friendship, forgiveness. At the end greater words will be said about you as I lived my life in you, rather than the eulogy of a purely human existence. Prayerfully, hopefully, as I trust more and more, my life will point more and more to you.

Weave into me
every thread
of you.
Make my life
one of pure trust.
Guide me daily,
teaching me
to follow.
Allow my purpose
to be fulfilled,
my desire
to be faithful
always.
Repair
the broken places
within me
so I can be
a conduit
of your loving presence.
Let trust
flow through me
like a
never-ending stream.
Then
make all of me
to offer praise
now and forever.

Love, Andrea

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

My dearest God,

Engaging in life's celebrations is to acknowledge and celebrate life itself. The smallest revelation can be life changing, giving a reason to live.

Facing life's realities can be most difficult especially when the news is about life restrictions. Yet, this news can be good, giving the challenge one needs in order to live differently.

I attended two life celebrations today. Both have to do with health. One man is dying with cancer. One woman's illness has escalated. Seems like bad news for both. Not necessarily so.

I went to lunch at the Cracker Barrel. I listened to the woman share about her doctor's visit. Her illness situation was very serious this time. She is exhausted. She knows the realities in which she has to live, but includes faith as part of it. She sees her situation as a gift, one she has consciously opened and has decided to use as a springboard to live life a new way. We celebrated with dessert. And she bought Christmas ornaments for her tree, something she might not even have imagined a few years ago. Snowmen playing.

I followed a member of our church to the home of her friend. First I sat down with the wife. I listened as she told me how the cancer had moved from his lower spine clear up to his neck. The cancer has become like the discs in his back. He can't get out of bed. He ran out of morphine this morning. Hospice had to make a special trip with more drugs. Takes about six hours to get everything running smoothly and ahead of the pain. The IV's dripping now.

Then I walked into the small bedroom. This once robust, healthy looking man is now skin and bones. He smiled as we talked. His friend was in the room with us. He's there every day. Presence is everything.

I learned a lot about this man. He can fix anything. He's repaired more broken things than anybody they know. He's a friend to a lot of people. He's walked dying people through to eternal life's door, caring for them in his own home. Took a different job that would give him time to give hands-on care.

As I looked around the sick room, there were pictures and scenes of motorcycles and race cars. "I expect Jesus will meet you on a motorcycle wearing a black jacket." I told him. He smiled, a sense of calm on his weary face. A new image to consider as I told him about Jesus as a shepherd to the sheep.

As I drove into the west, the setting sun, I realized that life is so spectacular. And the fact that life even exists points to a Grand Maker. My third celebration of the day!

Grand Maker,
stupendous, marvelous
is your life
in the world.
To see
the grandeur
of life
opening out
into the setting sun,
celebrating life
at its first atom
is to have known
the Creator personally,
intimately.
Hope is a
beautiful thing.
Reveling in hope
is celebrating
its creator.
Blessed today.

Love always, Andrea

Monday, October 8, 2007

My dearest God,

Trusting each day to your care is the number one task of the day. Rising, walking from the bed, taking medicine, straightening the house, praying. Nothing else truly matters unless I begin there.

The John Templeton Foundation has recently begun a series of conversations with scientists and scholars. A two-page ad in the New York Times addresses the first question, "Does the universe have a purpose?" With answers such as "unlikely," "yes," "no," "not sure," indeed," "certainly," "perhaps," "very likely," and "I hope so," it raises our own questions depending on how we answer this question. If the answer is yes, the next one points to a human's purpose. Do I have a purpose? If the answer is no, then the conversation by necessity dead ends there.

The book entitled, "The Purpose-Driven Life," argues that each human is born with their own unique purpose. What point is there in life if each person does not matter? Why be born in a string of births of non-purposed people?

I know my purpose. My purpose is to live a life of faithfulness to God. Every thing, every thought, action, gesture, attitude, behavior must move through the filter of this purpose. When dealing with a troubling issue, I have to consider my faithfulness to you. When my heart wells up in joy, my first thought must be gratitude to the Creator of faith and joy. My soul's reservoir is full and my task is to allow this fullness to spill out into the universe. Fulfilling my task each day leads to your own purpose being fulfilled and that is the sacred plan of love for all that exists. My teeny tiny part in that contributes to the good for all.

As I give thought to this idea first thing in the morning, I face a great challenge. How will I live out this day in faithfulness? How will I act in the face of someone's depression, loss, anger or rage? How will I address a hurt or sorrow? How will I interpret an action, a word, a misdeed? How will I express an emotion when I read more news about human trafficking, senseless murders, abuse, neglect?

I believe I must keep focused on the important questions of life. I must live in the light, return good for evil, offer love where there is none, live daily knowing my life counts to you, the universe and my neighbor whoever and wherever he/she lives. My task of faithful trusting will lead me to you, who in turn will lead me to others.

Glorious Holy One,
the questions
of the day
always
lead me to you.
Goodness, beauty and mercy
speak profoundly
your truth.
Its absence
cries out
in spiritual and emotional hunger.
Our world
is ravaged,
torn and ripped apart,
in parched soil...

Then someone
brings a bucket
filled with water.
On hands and knees
the soil is
hydrated,
breathing in life.
Another drops in
a seed.
And yet another
brings the warmth
of the sun.
The tenders
stand watch,
giving periodic nutrients
and somehow
what was once thought
impossible
now becomes possible.
The universe
with a purpose,
your purpose.

Love, Andrea

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Dearest God,

Remaining steady during a rain-swept storm, waiting for the storm to pass or pick up fury and die can be a pain-staking responsibility. Life is a series of storms, some as small as a gentle rainfall and others raging furiously with dark, ominous, threatening clouds. But the storms pass leaving in their path signs of its presence. Water-drenched ground. Fallen leaves, branches.

But to be able to have seen the weather through, to trust, to breathe in fresh spirit air, to hold the Master's hand is to be aware that God has been present all through the storm. To be alive at the end, to have withstood the fears and doubts, to have known the certainty of heavenly presence is to rise up in thanksgiving.

You have taught me to trust in every situation. You frequently remind me that my life is not a series of mountaintop experiences, but rather a pilgrim journey that takes me to all sorts of places. I do not know where I will find myself on any given day. I do not what storms may brew. I do not know the challenges I will face. I do not know how much courage I will need to summon. I do not know how the day will unfold. I do not know. I am not a seer. I cannot see the future.

What I do know is that the future sees me. The challenges know me, my weaknesses, flaws and imperfections. The storms recognize me. This unfamiliar, unpredictable time gives me cause to realize my own God-given strength, hope, truth, grace, and even peace. Living in the gifts of God deepens my reservoir of trust.

I do not have to look over my shoulder in fear, rather I look up into the face of the Holy One knowing the presence that shadows even the storm. I see the sweet face of my Savior, the one to whom I have given my life. And I drink in the joy of your presence.

I bow
in humble adoration.
I give praise.
I breathe
my prayers.
I allow
my trust to grow.
I sit quietly
at your feet,
listening, pondering, reflecting.

Love always, Andrea

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Dear God,

After you have done all you can do, what more can you do? Sometimes I ask myself this question, God.

I have done all I can do for now. I know that. Doesn't mean in a few days I can't try again. But for now I have to let it go, rest easy in your hands. Be attentive to your voice that tells me something else.

Waiting, that time of being still, trusting, allowing time to fulfill its own destiny is difficult sometimes. I want to change something, remove obstacles, help. Yet, I have to acknowledge that trusting you in the waiting time may be my own God-given task. And I want to do it well.

You are eternally kind, Great God. You must surely look at your people and wonder if we will ever get it. All of us at some time or another. We have so much to learn. Waiting, trusting, listening.

May I model
your loving patience,
O God,
in the waiting time.
May I be
an example
of trust,
leaning upon the
One Great Compassionate God.
May I be yours,
listening.

Love, Andrea

Friday, October 5, 2007

Dearest God,

One day behind in writing, I sit at my desk asking, "Where did I see God yesterday?" When did I hear your voice?

I run through my day, up early, started painting the bedroom, made numerous phone calls to members to check in on health and other issues, finished painting the bedroom, shopped for picture frames and bedskirts, picked up pizza, returned home, ironed the bedskirt, put the bedroom back in order, picked up a sick friend.

Like a telescopic lens my mind returns to the parking lot at Bed, Bath and Beyond. As I stepped out of my car a woman called out to me. A former church secretary I had worked with almost 15 years ago, we hugged and caught up on each other's lives. "Have you picked raspberries this year?" She asked me.

I took a trip back in time. She was struggling in her life. She was upset, distressed, not sure what to do. On my day off I had planned to pick raspberries to make jam. I invited her along for picking and lunch by the pond at the orchard. She had so much fun and could not believe that raspberry picking could be so wonderful.

She's been picking ever since. Our time in the orchard had been so emotionally and spiritually enriching that she now takes other people for the same reason. "It's so much fun. Thank you for inviting me that day."

A simple invitation to join me in nature, taking in your beauty and goodness, picking raspberries and a few apples, making it fun and entertaining because it is. A sampling of your presence at work in the world.

Although she focuses on the raspberries, what she is really saying is that she found your help in the raspberry patch. She discovered joy in her sorrow, faith in her fear, and strength in her weakness. She returns yearly to keep your relationship in tact, to enjoy the wonders of your mystery in unexpected places.

Truth is
you were
in all the places
yesterday.
In the car,
in the bedroom,
on the phone,
in the store,
and the parking lot.
I was never
alone.
You spoke
all day long.
Did I listen?
Was I attentive?
Did I honor you?
Did I keep
the commandments?
Was I loving?
Perhaps
the question
is not so much,
"Where was God..."
but rather
"Where was I..."
How did I
live faithfully today?
How did I
keep my relationship
to you today?
How did I
attend to your people?
How did I
show love?
Remind me, Lord,
that you are not
on trial.
I am.

Love, Andrea

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Dearest God,

I am a carrier, a carrier of heavy hearts. I carry them, one by one, to your feet.

All around me there are people with heavy hearts, worried hearts, broken hearts, frightened hearts, sorrowing hearts. Each one is burdened down, suffering.

A person I know likes to ask me, "Have you saved anyone today?" I always say yes or no with a big qualifier. I don't save anyone. I do take their hand if they wish someone to accompany them on their journey. I do walk beside them. I do help cut down or move obstacles in their lives. I do sing a lullaby or even dance a dance in celebration. I set them 'awanderin' into your mystery. "Have I saved anyone?" Perhaps I have made life a little more bearable. Perhaps I have broken it down into smaller pieces making it more manageable. Perhaps I have sprinkled hope, a little mercy. Sometimes joy. Perhaps I have helped them find some courage tucked way inside themselves.

Sometimes I have to be real careful when carrying heavy hearts, especially when my own family heart is breaking. I can get overwhelmed, saddened, burdened down. I can feel the extra weight tugging at me. I can get tired, really tired to the point of exhaustion. I know then that there is one heart I had failed to carry to you...mine.

Holder of tender hearts,
everything we are
is held
in your hands.
Our sorrow and grief,
our challenges and joys.
Our wanderings astray
and our welcomes home.
Lover of tender hearts,
allow us
to sit
at your feet
while the mending
takes place.

Love, Andrea

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Dearest God,

The sound of your coming sparks joy in my soul.

I was talking with staff when the call came. "Do you know...?" The assistant asked me. The name didn't sound familiar to me. "She was a visitor in the first service last Sunday." I left the office to take the call.

Joyce wanted to talk with me about the spiritual journey to New Mexico. She wanted to know if she could participate in the desert experience. I was thrilled. Some time ago she had attended a retreat in New Mexico and this sounded good to her. "Silence is a challenge for me." She told me. But one she clearly enjoyed. I explained the unique flavor of this retreat and with the exception of two concerns - dietary restrictions and altitude, she is very interested in joining us on this special encounter.

When I told Joyce I was excited that she may be joining us, she responded that we do exciting things at Bethel. She has joined us for worship before and thought we have unique exciting opportunities to offer our members and friends.

I remember back a year ago. Two people sat in the pew for the first time. That's when I announced a mission trip to Mississippi and they were both so inspired that they not only participated in the project but also joined the church and are active in the life of our church. Their spirit is one of Christ.

Have you visited us again?

The sound
of your footsteps
tickle my ears.
Your presence
delights my soul.
Dear God,
joy wells up
within me
at the thought
of your coming.
I allow
the dance within me
to continue,
the song
to rise up
to heaven.

Love always, Andrea

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Dear God,

The radishes and pretzels had been picked up from the yard. All the chairs and tables had been returned to their place. The garden was clean of weeds and debris. But what caught my eye was the "shiny" rocks gathered neatly together at the feet of St. Francis.

Years ago I started buying polished rocks whenever I traveled out of town. Beautifully polished rocks of every kind. Carried in a very small black bag, I would bring them home, then carefully place them around my garden pond. When grandchildren came to visit, they would seek to find the "shiny" rocks. Turquoise, tiger eye, quartz, they would search, then squeal with delight when they came running inside to me with a hand full.

I always told grandchildren they could toss "baby" rocks into the pond but the shiny rocks were treasures. No one could take any home so they would remain here to be discovered again.

On Sunday my older granddaughter collected many rocks. When the kids arrived she handed them a rock to carry throughout the day. She brought me one. "Hold onto it, Grandma." She told me. During my party I found rocks strewn throughout the house, in the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom, on the patio and in the yard. When I started to pick one up, my granddaughter would stop me, telling me this was a special party and the rocks had to stay in place.

After everyone left, Harold retrieved the rocks left in the yard and placed them at St. Francis' feet. When I walked outside I found them.

I think the shiny rocks were a comfort to my grandchild. She was having a hard time. And because she enjoys finding the small treasures, I think she went on a treasure hunt, found them, then put them in special places all around her. Even in my pocket.

That little collection set at St. Francis' feet looked like a love offering. Like a way to say thank you. Perhaps it was perfectly placed. Could St. Francis know of my granddaughter's sadness and worry? Did his presence bring comfort and compassion to my precious little girl? Can a saint do all this? They're still there, can't bring myself to touch them, too holy.

Eternal God,
a child's grief
can be turned upside down
by a simple treasure found.
Holding on to a
shiny rock
is like holding
a bit of heaven,
at least it is
to my grandchildren.
Thank you
for the simple gift.
Enjoy them
at the feet
of your saint.

Love, Andrea

Monday, October 1, 2007

Dearest God,

I get to witness some of the most beautiful things in the world. With my own senses, I am able to experience the profound.

Rene, Leslie and Allen stood among the pines, singing out their faith in you. They did not hold back or shrink from the awesome responsibility of sharing their gifts of you. They recognize that their music, the language of love, is not to be possessed or hoarded, but rather shared out, allowing the melodies and harmonies, the words to flow out of them into the universe. I believe even the trees, birds, bees and butterflies joined them in singing last Sunday.

Those who gathered witnessed the gift of faith. Mystified (like Harold was last week when he heard them for the first time) they wonder what it means. What does it mean when you touch and inspire...a soul needing a mending, a heart desperate for love, a mind ready for something mysterious? Rarely are we aware of the deepest needs inside ourselves...until music creeps into our being, crying out for more.

And not only these three. A woman ready to move on, to let go of the painful past, just clinging to pieces that will help her make sense in the future. A pilgrim of faith standing strong, claiming every bit of God-given power, even ready to claim a new name, a name of your choosing. Recognizing the beauty of faith that cleanses, restores, renews, empowers.

And two others. Singing and playing instruments, the songs of Taize. What was it like, Lord, the first time someone sang or the wind blew through the branches making an eternal song that would claim the human spirit? Ten of us in the sanctuary, hungry for more music. Two hours wasn't quite long enough.

The sun shone and the breezes blew today, but much more than that was evident. A church filled with hungry people, longing for your touch, wanting inspiration to make sense of their hectic, stressed-out lives.

As I said, I get to witness some of the most beautiful things in the world.

O God,
heavenly music
of the spheres,
your gracious love
is profound
and touches
souls who are open,
hungry, ready, willing.
What you can do
befuddles and bedazzles
the human mind.
There are no words
to describe
the majesty,
the love,
the gentleness.
I sat at your feet today
and met the profound.

Loving you always, Andrea

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Dearest God,

Our church was filled with people today. I wondered where they had all come from.

It felt so good having our children sing and being able to present bibles to our 4th and 5th graders.

I was glad to come home, working busy as a bee. I was making final preparations for my party. Heating up three big pots of chili, making another recipe of Spoony Fudge, getting out the paper products. Preparing for family and friends. I was so happy working in the kitchen.

The musicians were out back getting ready for the SpiritSongFest. Things a bustlin'. People arriving. Lots of people in my kitchen. Chairs being lined up under the tree for the concert.

How wonderful it felt to introduce your new music, Lord, and the singers and players, Rene, Leslie and Allen. And it was great to stand with the children to sing This Little Light of Mine.

I sat down, leaned back and listened to the music. I was anxious for the crowd to hear the songs Rene had written using my Holy Week Prayers and I love Leslie's voice and her songs and Allen's harmony. It was a beautiful afternoon with the sun shining and the gentle breezes blowing over us.

Gracious God,
I will filled
with joy.
Your presence
in the garden
and all around it
was a gracious display
of wonder to me.
I celebrated,
reveled
in the joy.
I will always remember
spoony fudge spoons
held high
paying tribute
to you.

Love always, Andrea

Saturday, September 29, 2007

My dearest God,

I love the early morning dawn. I waited for it so I could begin working in my garden. It was so quiet. St. Francis stood in my garden, awaiting my presence to work there.

I turned on my instrumental music, then opened the door to the screened in porch, to allow the music to waft its way to the garden. Quiet music, St. Francis, butterflies and bees, flowers and tall oriental grasses, aah.

I couldn't believe how the garden had been overrun by thistles again. But not to worry. This was my time for peaceful contemplation. I would pluck in peace.

I was preparing for my party. My 61st. Harold had worked on the yard, now I was tackling the contemplative garden. Harold would help later.

I stopped and started several times, taking in the vast array of flowers, trees and shrubs. I was thanking you for every beautiful item, for the morning, crisp and cool. I could smell Autumn in the air. I was grateful.

St. Francis arrived last week, a gift from Harold. He had promised me a statue last year but finally got it before my birthday this year. How wonderful having him with me at my home. I have carried him inside me for a number of years. But now I have a constant symbol of peace in my garden.

Beautiful God,
thank you
for my blessing garden.
I watch
with great delight
two white butterflies
dancing in the garden
together.
I watch the bees
buzzing,
the birds flying.
Hummingbirds
move from
delicate flower
to delicate flower,
always purple and red.
Quiet moments,
cherished.

Love, Andrea