Remember these days
write them on your hearts always
little beloveds
Sunday Friends, painted by my daughter-in-law, on display at the local art gallery.
My husband purchased it for his study at church.
Our granddaughter is on the right.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Writing Challenge
haiku story
gray Sunday morning
in spite of springing forward
it begins to snow
first time all winter
big white flakes now descending
on riotous blooms
purple-pink redbuds
bright yellow forsythia
pollen-laden pines
suspend certainty
while birds rush in, unafraid
of crystallized grass
momentarily
melting away in soft earth
—seems a sheer delight
to countless robins
hopping with newfound vigor
and the cardinal
on a blood-red blaze
toward the bare crape myrtle
where his mate awaits
and dark-eyed juncos
living up to their nickname
ground-flitting snowbirds
while papa house finch
forages in the clover
on the old dog’s grave
for seeds he’ll carry
to mama finch on the nest
incubating eggs
bluebird on the gate
ruffles his blue-flame feathers
in exultation
two crows come and go
strangely silent, for they know
the benediction
Carolina wren
hidden somewhere in the pines
sings Holy Holy
the earth’s aflutter
with myriad wings and things
returning blessing
in spite of the snow
life springs forward, brightening
gray Sunday morning
2020-0417_CentreCoPA_WestMain_Eastern Bluebird in the snow -01. amOBX. CC BY-NC 2.0.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
Early Sunday morning, on my way to church, the sky’s overcast but sun rays are peeking through, all set to teach the lesson on what constitutes a “hero” and while the best-known characteristic may be courage (which is not the absence of fear but acting bravely in spite of it), not to mention self-sacrifice, then perhaps the least recognized is humility, throwing off the mantle of leadership to be a servant, it’s all a matter of the spirit, service… and as I drive past barns, fields, pastures, the green, green grass hints of imminent spring, making my heart rejoice, as do the horses tossing their manes when I pass, surely shaking off sleep and the night, greeting the day as if to say Good morning, good morning, not to mention that I have just enough time to make choir practice before I teach, for we are finally singing as a choir again after two long years, and look at all these robins flocking by the roadside, taking flight as I round the bend, maybe straightening a curve or two, until I remember something my childhood preacher said: Don’t have a Jesus bumper sticker on your car if you drive like the devil… good thing I have no such sticker, but I’ll slow down a bit just the same…in my bag is a list of prayer requests and petitions to make, knowing the Lord already knows, for He knows all, sees all, is over all, and while there is so much I cannot understand, I am learning, I am always learning, and although words are forever scrolling through my brain, today, my heart needs no words; it just sings, like the birds.
A photo from last summer. In recent weeks a little Carolina wren has been perching on the tip of the cross of one of our two “bird churches,” singing its heart out to the sky. I haven’t been successful in recording this glorious solo… yet.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Slice of Life Story Challenge every day in the month of March.
Sunday is a stillness
in my week
not restful
for a pastor’s family
but restorative
and right
the church standing tall
like a father
doors like open arms
welcoming the penitent child
wrapping me
in belonging
Sunday is a stillness
in my spirit
ever how fierce or frayed
ever how dismayed
like a calming infusion
like a healing balm
the stillness seeps
so deep, so deep
for in all the unholiness
the holy remains
Sunday is a stillness
in my life
for the living
for the forgiving
for the remembering
for the mattering
for my walking in the footsteps
of those who walked before me
in the rhythms of grace
singing old songs of belief
through all our yesterdays
until our eternal Sunday
comes at last.
Here in the heart of North Carolina, epic snow and bitter temperatures haven’t been an issue.
We’ve had a different plague.
For nine dark days in a row, it’s rained.
Rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain
Small rivers flowing over roads and through parking lots. Yards turned to absolute bogs. Maybe we can raise a bumper crop of Venus flytraps.
The farmers say it’s good for the cows, that continuously pulling their feet up high from so much mud as they walk builds their muscles (is this true? The rain is beefing up the beef?).
Not so for humans. The utter gloom left us in a zombie-like stupor.
Gray day after gray day after gray day . . . .what did the sun even look like? Feel like?
Wait—I remember reading something like this. I first encountered it long, long ago. A story of bad enchantment. . .
“When you try to think out clearly what this sun must be, you cannot tell me. You can only tell me it is like the lamp. Your sun is a dream; and there is nothing in that dream that was not copied from the lamp. The lamp is the real thing; the sun is but a tale, a children’s story” . . . Slowly and gravely, the Witch repeated, “There is no sun.” And they all said nothing. She repeated in a softer, deeper voice: “There is no sun.” After a pause, and after a struggle in their minds, all four of them said together: “You are right. There is no sun.” It was such a relief to give in and say it.
—C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair
How easy to forget there ever was a sun, succumbing to the mind-numbing sound of rain, rain rain, just as Prince Rilian, Eustace, Jill, and Puddleglum fell under the spell cast by the strum, strum, strum of the Witch on her stringed instrument.
Until yesterday, that is, when I heard a sound other than falling water.
Just outside my bedroom window, birds were singing. Merrily.
Despite the pouring rain, on a morning with no sun, they sang with pure zest.
How it lifted my spirits. Surely the sun could not be far from returning. Surely the birds knew it, were proclaiming it ahead of time: This this this too will pass pass pass. This this too will pass pass pass, wait and see, wait and see . . .
Then, today, bit by bit, the grayness lifted. Yellow shafts of light suddenly spilled through the blinds; I ran right outside to revel in the brightness. Now, as the afternoon wanes, shimmering golden fingers are playing across my keyboard, my hands, the table, the walls. I think of a happy child, dancing, full of joie de vivre, joy of living.
Today just so happens to be Sunday.
And now I have a bit of song for you, little harbinger birds:
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun, and I say
It’s all right.—George Harrison
lit bits and pieces 