Won't you set out a traveler's lantern
Just a small light that they might see
To guide them back home before they wander
Into the dark billows that crash on the sea
~Dwight Yoakam (Lyrics from his song, Traveler's Lantern)
"We had a beautiful year." That's how my friend began her Christmas letter. I wondered how the narrative would read. Life had thrown her for some loops over the year, which she didn't deny. I read on. I could almost hear her singing above the din of disappointment and heartbreak, her voice exuberant with thanksgiving to God. All her children were reading. The family had meaningful encounters with horses at a nearby stable. She and her husband had made gains in their careers. Their faith in God remained hale. Robust.
Earlier in the year, this same friend had taken time to write me a personal letter. I knew she had little free time. I knew she had her hands full with all the kids, from baby to teen. I knew some of the challenges she faced were harder than mine. Yet she is one of those people who invites transparency without judgment. I wrote to her about some of the anxiety and fear gnawing at my heart. The "what ifs" of life, to put my angst in a nutshell. She wrote back, her words filled with "listening." Her words like a traveler's lantern that helped me see. That cracked open my isolation. That helped me not give up.
The forecast calls for rain all day. I don't mind. I sit here in the glow of my computer screen and the fragrance of a lit candle. I think of all of you who come to the site. I appreciate your correspondence, your presence. Like my friend, your words are like traveler's lanterns to me. Surely I pray all of you a wonderful new year as you make your way forward in 2025. May you have an expanded knowledge that God is your help. May you sing in the shadow of His wings. May your soul cling to Him. May you know and experience that His right hand upholds you and keeps you from the dark billows that crash on the sea. May you have a beautiful year.
It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.~L.M. Montgomery (From Anne Of Green Gables)
The surprise ending comforted me. I held off watching a PBS series I'd enjoyed for many years. I knew season ten was the last one. I'd come to love the characters. I'd miss them. Feel sad to no longer connect with them. As I moved through each episode, a theme emerged that the family would move to a different town and start a new life. But then, in the very last episode, the family realized they didn't want to pull up roots. They wanted to stay. The last scene showed the father peering through the open door of their home that was no longer for sale. He looked out over an expanse of ocean glittering in the distance, then nodded his head. I could hear the gentle click when he closed the door. The end. Safe inside.
It's that time of year when I feel like Anne of Green Gables. November marks the imminent close of another year. The geese have parted from the pond in the back of our house and the sunsets are vividly orange and deep indigo. Almost purple, the color of ripe plums. The wind is rustling through the pines. Christmas near.
And perhaps the autumnal winds have indeed cleared out the fogs in my soul. The last eleven months have been a time where I feel like I've come home from a long day. A good day. I open the front door, then look over my shoulder to glance out at the street. Neighbors coming home, a delicate, white moon beginning to emerge in the evening sky. I lean my back against the door, take a deep breath, relieved to be in the familiarity of home. The last rays of sunlight slide through the windows in the living room. The scent of coffee lingers from breakfast.
Doors open. Doors close. Comings. Goings. Beginnings. Endings. All are needful in this terrestrial landscape. Some surprising.
God's shalom peace and love at Thanksgiving.
And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.~Raymond Carver
"It feels good to be liked," I said. My granddaughter looked directly into my eyes and nodded, "It does." She smiled then and looked down at the letter she was writing to a boy who had braved to tell her that he liked her more than a friend.
"I want to be honest. I like him too. And I want to say that my parents have rules about boys and dating. I can't date yet. I want him to know."
I replied, "Well, being honest is a good place to begin. And perhaps you can say what you can do." Her face brightened and she exclaimed, "Yes. We can play our clarinets together. We can share what's important to us. I already know that grades are a priority for him too. That we both like spending time with our families. And I like his smile. I can say that. Do you think that's good, Minou?"
"That's really good," I said.
Later in the week, my husband and I were at the self-checkout at the grocery store. A robust woman wearing a Santa hat approached us. "Let me put the senior discount in for you," she beamed. "Every dollar saved makes a difference." As we grabbed our bags and walked toward the exit, my husband called out "Happy Holidays" to the friendly clerk. She responded, "Merry Christmas, Darling." A man behind us said, "Did you hear she called your husband, darling? I bet he liked that!" I thought to myself, "I think we all long to be called darling by someone who loves us."
Romantic love, though, is imperfect. Even when it is good and honest. Even when someone calls us darling.
At Christmas, we celebrate the One who arrived to give us what we all want--to be the beloved, to feel beloved on this earth.
I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.~John 8:12
A Prayer of Unknowing
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I'm following Your will does not mean that I'm actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone. Amen.~Thomas Merton (From Thoughts In Solitude)
People come to the rescue, just in the nick of time. In my mind, I was a woman standing alone by the edge of the sea. The waves an indefatigable soundtrack. Salt crusted on my lips. Seagulls crying overhead. The sky mildly blue. I pondered my life and decisions I needed to make. Then it was as if I turned my head and envisaged two women walking toward me, one a little older, one considerably younger. Beloved women in my life. Wise women who'd recently talked to me, written emails to me filled with their thoughts and powerfully comforting words. I imagined them linking arms with me and saying, "Let's walk." And in this vision, I walked between them. Our bare feet created indentations along the shoreline. Our faces were lit by sunlight. I felt embraced by their unwavering gaze into my eyes. Their understanding. I experienced their acceptance, even when I shared my confusion, my stubborn need to get justice when I sensed repentance was my better choice.
And without judgment, these two women, filled with the Spirit of Christ, told me this:
One woman said she'd been in a similar circumstance and affirmed that it is okay "not to know." She sent me the prayer by Thomas Merton. She said, "You are trusting God. His faithfulnes is iconic and never ending. He is the Good Shepherd who will show you every step on the path." I took sustanence from her faith, her strength. Oh, to be understood by another.
The other woman said she'd been re-reading Jane Eyre. My friend said, "I love that book and I wondered in your decision making if you might ask yourself, 'What would Jane do?'" She continued, "Jane would believe that a life spent pouring out oneself to an endeavor with few natural rewards, would be a beautiful sacrifice to the Lord. And your commitment to this calling, even though others might consider it a waste of time, could transform your inner being from glory to glory." Oh, that surge of confidence when someone gives you hope to trust that transformation of heart is better than earthly or monetary gains. "In fact, heart change is the truest treasure," my other friend agreed.
The imaginary walk along the shore, melded with that dreamlike ocean breeze and the scent of sunlight and salt and helped me to take a deep breath. Inhaling God's mercy, exhaling all my unknowing.
Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.~Psalm 84:5 (NIV)
This morning I'm mopping in increments. Dividing up the floor space to slide the mop into all the crevices where the dirt has mounded and hidden. In pieces I make progress, the wooden floor like little squares of Scrabble tiles. The task is almost as satisfying as making words when I play that venerated game. Perhaps this is how God works in my life, increment by increment, massaging His oil into my heart, working out the dry, cracked places, creating powerful words of "peace" and "beauty" and "strength" with His Kingdom Scrabble squares. God, my loving Father, reminds me that my life is not about doubling down to try and figure things out, but rather receiving and absorbing His aromatic love and affection. His light.
I find it difficult to relax. I say so often, "God, it would seem more wholesome to strive, to struggle. That mode feels so much more acceptable, more respectable, more satisfying somehow, than releasing myself to the unconditional validation you have for me. It is difficult to take in that your grace is that broad, that you don't condemn, nor do you browbeat me into compliance." Yet how can I think that of you?
I think it is because I possess a deep-seated conviction that I must prove myself worthy of your affection, to inhabit some kind of lofty eligibility in order to be near you. And yet even a human parent would not require this of their beloved child. That parent would run to embrace the child out of richness and abundance of love in their hearts for a son or daughter.
Oh, God, break off this ingrained belief from me. Mop it up. Carry away the debris that clings to my heart. Let my heart shine, polished by your pure love. Like my floors, now gleaming, the sun pouring in the windows, the scent of soap and spirit and gladness enveloping me.