* not with ink

“Love is a waste of time.” The best possible waste – an extravagant gift with no guarantees. No measure of success and a great deal of risk. Love is a waste that we all want to have too much of running over flowing freely wasted on us. Love is a waste of time – but I still hope you waste your time on me. -- Today's Scripture readings include this story about a woman wasting a year's worth of perfume on the feet of Jesus.  It is one of three stories we have about this Mary. The other two are the death (and return to life) of her brother , and her refusal to leave the presence of Jesus to help her sister prepare dinner . I think that this trio of stories is worth looking at together. And I think that what we find here is a woman whose relationship with Jesus was characterized by intimacy, and that intimacy gave her a willingness to be judged by others, to let her love be seen as wasteful and extravagant. She defied societal norms. She gave sacrifi...

“Count the stars,” he told me. “This land will be yours,” he said. Outrageous! I thought. “How will I know?” I asked. I brought the sacrifice, slaughtered the animals, sat down, and waited. He didn’t warn me that after the promises, the obedience, and the waiting, the darkness would come. From Genesis 15 , the Old Testament lectionary reading for today. This is one of several passages in which God makes a covenant with Abram. What struck me in this particular instance is the strange, unsettling way in which God reiterates the covenant. What was Abram expecting; how did he think God would respond to his request for a sign or guarantee of the promise? Why did God put Abram to sleep and send a "terrifying darkness" after making these massive and intimate promises? And what does either of these questions have to do with us today?

Ashes and dust, we all fall down. These bodies of ours will fade away Til nothing is left but a smudge. The smallest trace of life. All our dreams and doings, Our hopes and hollering. One dirty smear for the eye to see And the invisible effects Of how we lived: The slaves we loosed The meals we shared The time we gave And the fullness of our grace.

Last week, one of my lovely friends sent me an email with a poem (few things make me happier), because she had been "musing about strength and how one can develop and foster her own strength etc," alongside a recent conversation we'd had.* The poem was perfectly apt, and so we talked a bit about strength, and endurance and how life always has glitches and struggles that we cannot avoid. There is only one way ahead, and we have to go there. Going where you have to go.  Doing the needful, another friend calls it. But doing it in a certain way. One that expects capacity to increase, I guess, and believes that going where you have to go is ultimately going to be GOOD. I often think about this when things are overwhelming, or something in me resists what is inevitable, unavoidable, or already chosen: do I believe that the outcome will be good? That it will be worth it? Why or why not? If I do , then how do I help myself press on? If I don't , why do I feel the nee...

At my current church, there is an adorable old man named George. There's something about old-man Georges that get to me. (It's probably not hard for you all to figure it out.)  This George is even older than my Grampie. And on top of being a centarian, he is also a poet. In fact, when I initially expressed interest in his poetry, he brought me three of his four volumes the following week (he couldn't find any copies of Volume 1). A few weeks ago, during coffee hour (after the early service, 8 or 10 of us sit around and eat a breakfast of cookies and coffee), we got to discussing the weather, and this slow movement towards spring. One of my friends/colleagues there is a Maritimer, and she is particularly fond of the winter season. I am not so inclined. She was lamenting the ugliness of this liminal season before spring, and the inevitability of wet feet and dirty half-snow everywhere. "I look forward to the slush!" George piped up. And we all laughed. ...

Last week of classes. I feel a bit bittersweet. Like I haven't learned enough to earn any credits. There is still so much that I don't know; I wonder how I will feel at the end of the degree and whether it will still seem like such a tiny fraction of the things that could be known. Next week is exams, and then I'm going to get out of Dodge (Ford) City and have a silent weekend of thought and writing to see what to do with all that this fall has held, in and out of classes. I'm quite excited for a getaway, the friends coming along, and what it means to be together without speaking. No, seriously - speaking is not allowed inside the monastery we're staying at. I've started reading poetry before bed. It helps me unwind and encourages me to think creatively. I am almost finished a volume of Czeslaw Milosz' work that I started 18 months ago. Here is one I particularly liked last night: VOICE It was in hospitals that I learned humility and I walk, liste...

The other night, as I lay in bed, I realized I've dropped the ball on blogging recently, especially my weekly seminary updates. And then I thought, Right now, if I never posted on my blog again, I'd be okay with that. I have quite a few offline outlets for conversations and life-processing, and maybe this one is becoming unnecessary. This morning (for a moment, I thought it was yesterday!), I wrote a list of the things I've been thinking about recently. The list managed to come out as a poem: Thoughts. On being more myself, on jockeying for power and hearing others' stories. On writing papers for what I learn and not the grades I'll get. On Germany and Tanzania, on money and trusting it will come. Becoming old and wearing out. Remembrance Day, peace and whether we learn from the past. On gratitude and fear and how           everything is grace. And suddenly, I wanted to blog all these thoughts, unpack the seeds I h...

I'm reading faster than I'm writing these days, so here is a snapshot of May-July's books: The Sacred Journey by Frederick Buechner . A fantastic spiritual memoir that my friend Aimee lent me back in October. I delayed reading it, because I knew I wouldn't want to finish it. Then I read it slowly and in pieces, and I loved it. Here are my 3 favourite excerpts:  Listen. Your life is happening. You are happening. You, the rooster, the clock, the workmen, your stomach, are all happening together. A journey, years long, has brought each of you through thick and thin to this moment in time as mine has also brought me. Think back on that journey. Listen back to the sounds and sweet airs of your journey that give delight and hurt not and to those that give no delight at all and hurt like Hell. Be not affeard. The music of your life is subtle and elusive and like no other - not a song with words, but a song without words - a singing, clattering music to gladden the heart...

Inebriate of Air - am I - And Debauchee of Dew - Reeling - thro endless summer days - From inns of Molten Blue ... Oh Sacrament of summer days, Oh Last Communion in the Haze - Permit a child to join. Thy sacred emblems to partake - Thy consecrated bread to take And thine immortal wine!

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st...

I started the new year like a champ: that is, without a voice, hacking and coughing and wheezing into the air, contaminating loved ones with my presence. So on the 2nd, as I lay in bed rather than sitting at work, I took some of my awake-time to think about New Year's Resolutions and how I dislike the word "intentions." With my birthday next week (!), the new year is a natural time for me to think about the things I want and where I'm headed. And as I mulled it over, this is what came out: What I want is      always the same:           to know and be known.           to love and be loved.           to give grace and receive it well. I want to know      this one little life      is making a difference to some other little lives      and that together, our lives are more      than they are alone.  I want feet on solid g...

This art project from Dallas Clayton has been rolling around in my head for the past week... what would you  draw? ART PROJECT Draw a picture of the thing you love the most and beneath it write a small description of how and why. Take that picture and make fifty copies the size of business cards, cut them out and put them in your wallet. Each time you meet someone, instead of giving them your phone number give them this card. Once the first fifty are gone, make fifty more. Change the picture and the description as often as needed. Repeat until you’ve met everyone on earth. ...and I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival of my Sketchbook Project book. I wonder how I will fill it up. A top contender is some sort of daily list, like  I used to blog .

Yesterday, this poem posted on The Other Journal struck me in all the right places: Hate Invasion by Luci Shaw Like swoops of dark birds settling, anxieties and doubts weigh the branches, folding huge wings as they land. Heavy, broody, and fidgeting, they’ve moved in, building their awkward nests like clots in the trees, black twigs jutting. Clouds will pass, but the mass of sooty bodies walls off the sky, the stars, any heavenly light. A clatter rises, intensifies, dense as rifle fire in a war zone, clogging the air with stabbing, phony accusations and arguments that sound irrefutable. It’s clear these intruders plan to take over, reproducing their own dark-feathered kind. They’ve driven out the nesting doves, colonizing all the trees. I try a clap, and a loud shout, to dislodge them. Either they can’t hear it or they take it for applause. Their harsh voices promote anarchy, disruption. They join the local militia. To clear the air, to see the sun a...

Tonight I went to a poetry reading, which I've been wanting to do for the past year. Finally! As expected, half of it was inaccessible/difficult to grasp, and the other half was great. I jotted down some thoughts and notes and authors to check out. Notable quotes from the evening: host: (reading poet's published history) I can't say this!... My Gaelic fails me. friend: (a disappointed aside) Oh. I thought it was going to be "nigger." poet: (explaining obscure title reference) ...And that's pretty much it. Well, that's where it ends on Wikipedia. After the reading, for an unknown reason, I brought up a song that three of us had heard at David's Tea on Tuesday night: (for a clip of the original AND SUPER AWESOME vid, click here ) The line about a six-foot rabbit* moved us on to movies. Dannie Darko , which I have not seen, and Harvey , which none of the others have seen. Jimmy Stewart, folks! Pookas ! Y'all should check it o...

I'm pretty sure that everyone is waiting for a recap and summary of last night's shindig . I don't feel capable of doing a full and complete breakdown tonight - possibly due to lack of sleep, possibly due to my generally slow emotional processing speed. But I do have a few point form thoughts I'll throw out there in no particular order. 1. (okay, the order for this one is particular) I feel incredibly loved and encouraged deep in my being. More than a punch on the arm, You're great! kind of thing, but that the core of who I am is worth existing and sharing with others . 2. The trio of pairs that I saw as "central" were well-noticed and generally liked: "Hope Is" "Come Home" "Permanency Frightens Me" 3. The closest thing to "negative feedback" that I received was the three or four people (all male), who were surprised at the "darkness" of some poems. I don't know whether this was a good or bad thing in ...

The final theme of Advent is Love. Hope Peace Joy and now a poem on Love. Love has a beginning in one heart. And one heart only. Before it lives in two, binding them together, pulling others in, growing skipping pounding moving - Before all that, there is one heart that beats and beats again. Merry Christmas, all!

Looking back on Week 3 of Advent, here is my poem about Joy. Joy is always a surprise because it cannot be tainted by the bitter bite of disappointment. It is solitary, independent, seemingly arbitrary in the way it chooses where to make its home. And then, it comes with pomp and ceremony, startling inhabitants, settling in and presiding over all goings-on with confidence and clarity. Week 1: Hope Week 2: Peace

This past week's Advent theme was Peace. Here is a poem: Peace. Shalom. Be still. And also with you. Completion and wholeness. It is now. It is here. It is seeping and creeping coming up slowly. A heavy weight of being known. Loved and loving. Rest in redemption. The roots that hold us upright. (last week's poem on Hope is here .)

This Advent season, I am visiting The Advent Door and Christmas Is Happening for a much needed dose of Jesus-focused art and thought. And I have decided to write a poem each week. Here is my poem on Hope . Hope is watching waiting preparing Believing that the unknown will come any day, Knocking down walls and swinging doors open Sweeping the dust that's piled in corners into the streets and out of our lives. It is knowing that a hurricane comes to rearrange all things To shake us stir us change and make us More. It is saying that life is unfinished and the best is yet to be.