Garden of the Spirit

Many years ago, a child stood up in my Quaker worship service and asked a question of the adults. It was the time of the first Iraq War, and there was a regular peace vigil in our city. His question was simple. This peace vigil, does it make a difference? Does it matter at all? Then he sat down, and we were silent again. What a profound question he had brought us!

I was talking recently with my friend Desiree about the many painful events and troubled places in our world today. She acknowledged that “there are a lot of good reasons to be pessimistic.” We read about them in the news or see pictures of the painful situations every day. And we are pessimistic and ask “Does anything we do make a difference? Does it matter at all?”

Then Desiree added, “Therefore we need to hope with our eyes wide open.” That’s the challenge for today – to look with our eyes wide open at the suffering in the world. We must not flinch and turn away from photos of starving children in Gaza, for example. This is real. We need a hope that is strong and sturdy enough to support us when we try to make a difference.

To see “with our eyes wide open” means to see both the pain and the beauty of the world. I delight in biting into my first sweet peach of the summer, of having a visit with a good friend. But if I only see the beauty and peace in life, I am caught in an illusion, a denial of the whole of reality. We need to hold the contradictions of pain and beauty, of suffering and peace within ourselves. Rather than wear a protective coat of indifference, we need to accept the inevitable pain of caring compassionately about others. When we look and accept both the beauty and the pain “with eyes wide open,” I believe our hope for the future grows stronger.

These are the times when we need a sturdy hope and a strong faith that what we do matters. How do we live out our hope now? It’s like blooming in the wintertime. It’s like committing to God’s own dream for the world, a world where we humans cherish each other, where we feed the hungry and welcome the stranger. It’s joining with others to stand on the city square and hold our signs up high.

You may have heard of the lovers Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek mythology. The musical Hadestown tells their story of journeying through the dark underground trying to escape. It particularly emphasizes their belief that there was hope in spite of darkness, doubt, and uncertainty. At the end of the musical, the cast sings a toast to Orpheus as one who kept on even when all was dark and cold. He was, they sang, the flower who “blooms in the bitter snow,” who kept on when it seemed hopeless.

Orpheus has a message for us today: When everything around seems dark and hopeless, live your hope anyway. Believe in the world that can be. Even if we seem to fail, keep on trying. And, from another tradition, I read in Hebrews 6:19 what the Apostle Paul wrote about this kind of hope. It’s “an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”

I am reminded of my friend Charles who stood on the street corner in Lancaster every Saturday morning for years holding his peace placard–even when he had a cane in the other hand, even when he was the one person there. Now that’s a robust faith and a sturdy hope, a faith and hope for today!

Years ago, when the child in my Quaker Meeting asked the question Does it matter?, someone stood and answered him: Yes, it matters. I may not know how it makes a difference but I believe it does, and I am going to continue.”

May we, too, live that robust faith and be anchored in that sturdy hope.

The first challenge of an octogenarian is to correctly pronounce and spell the name itself. I’ve managed that one. But the second and more significant challenge is facing the fact that time is running out, and one shouldn’t “waste” a single moment of it.

As a new octogenarian, I’m wrestling with the second challenge. What does it mean to waste time? For someone like me with a constant to-do list and a family history of the old Germanic work ethic, wasting time is almost sinful. Time is for accomplishing tasks! As a child, I learned that vacation time and Sunday afternoons were for fun and relaxation, but most hours were for work. (On a farm, there was always more work.)

I’m no longer a child on a farm, and I wonder what “wasting time” means in this season of my life. Is it wasting time to read a new book rather than tackle the next job on the to-do list? Maybe. Is it a waste of time to sit on the deck as the sun goes down and colors the field and sky – instead of immediately clearing the table and starting on the dishes? Well, I don’t think so. And what about the hours spent chatting and catching up with a friend while the laundry is waiting? That’s surely not a waste of time!

The truth is that old Father Time persistently, steadily paces the minutes, hours, and days – no matter what I do with them, no matter how I use them. I’ve finally concluded that I can neither waste time nor save time. All I can do is live time, each minute and each hour as it comes rolling along. All I can do is be awake enough so that I live fully.

I believe the only real abuse of time is not to be awake and aware that one is living. Here I am, on a Wednesday morning, in my air-conditioned study with my fingers on a keyboard and my cat sprawled over the papers on my desk. Here I am, driving to work, aware not only of traffic but also of the morning sun and the farmer harvesting the wheat field I’m passing. Here I am, mowing the lawn, aware of the marvel of the machine I’m managing and the graceful sweep of grass before me. Here I am, paying attention to living.

Living is unpredictable though. I could die today, and time would “run out.” No one is guaranteed 80 years. People don’t usually focus on time running out, although octogenarians are definitely more likely to consider it. Facing the unpredictability of our lives helps us “seize the day,” helps us to grab hold of opportunities and even live into adventures. The uncertainty of living can be a stimulus to live more fully.

So let us live today and every day awake and conscious of the present moment. There are gifts in living this way. When I am awake to the individual present moment, the gift of gratitude rises in me. I notice things instead of taking them for granted. I see the blessings of the day: flowers blooming, my fingers using my laptop, the love expressed through my husband’s hug. I am grateful.

Another gift I’ve discovered is that I see the persons around me more clearly, even if I don’t know them. Maybe it’s a waiter or clerk with whom I exchange a few words. I look into his or her face; our eyes meet, and there’s a connection. Perhaps it’s a casual friend whom I’ve known for years. If I can see this person as someone whose life is filled with joys and griefs, enthusiasms and disappointments, and not just as someone in relationship to me, I can care more deeply for this friend.

What’s the wisdom from this octogenarian? Be awake to the present day. Notice the gifts within the passing moments and hours. Go ahead and live fully! It’s never a waste of time.

If this reflection has spoken to you, pass it on!

Far above the Arctic Circle, on Norway’s isolated Lofoten Islands, I found a man who had a dream. I met the wildly creative artist, Scott Thoe. Many years ago, he dreamed of building a gigantic bridge made out of tanks. A bridge created from 40,000 military tanks, to be precise! Can you imagine the enormity of an arch of tanks, the powerful significance of their destruction as a signal of a new world of peaceful co-existence?

It was 1990, and the Cold War appeared to be ending. Scott imagined his bridge built over a river between Germany and Poland. It would be across the former Iron Curtain, that imaginary wall between the Western countries and the Soviet countries. By 1991, Gorbachev (the Soviet president) and Reagan (the United States president) actually signed treaties committing their countries to the destruction of a set number of nuclear weapons and conventional weapons (including tanks).

Scott wrote to Gorbachev himself, outlining his dream. He was delighted to receive a response inviting him to visit Moscow and bring along the model he’d built of the 40,000 tank bridge to display in the Russian parliament. He was enthusiastically received, and tanks were promised. He contacted other European countries, and they also agreed to provide tanks for this huge art installation.

But the bridge of tanks never became a reality. Not everyone in power (in and out of the Soviet Union) wanted to move toward disarmament. Gorbachev was soon out of office. In addition, the exact location for the bridge became a matter of conflict. After years of effort, Scott had to let go of his project.

Decades have passed since Scott Thoe first dreamed of the bridge of tanks, but the model of the proposed bridge still stands in his gallery. The true gift of an artist is to create something that helps all of us experience their vision and to powerfully feel the truth and beauty of the vision. This ten foot long model does not use actual tanks, but it does speak truth and beauty to all who see it.

Gazing at it, I recognized the ancient ache of human beings for peace, the ancient desire to turn away from the weapons of war. That is the dream that is still alive. Scott Thoe is a grandfather now. I am a grandmother. We deeply long for a peaceful world for our children and grandchildren. At the present time, the world is not turning to peaceful ways. Wars are raging and stirring up brokenness and cruelty within humanity. Incendiary language blasts our social media and fosters more conflict.

But the dream is not dead or sleeping. We each carry it within us. And we are called to live it out in our own unique lives, using our own unique gifts. We may not all dream a bridge built of thousands of disabled tanks, but we can each dream about bridges. We can all imagine how to build bridges that will connect people and create understanding between peoples. I invite you to imagine such a bridge — and build it, too!

Thousands of years ago, a prophet wrote hopefully

They shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. (Isa. 2:4)

I would like to add to Isaiah’s words: They shall create bridges out of their tanks, and they shall link the people of the earth together; they shall not learn war any more.

If these words have spoken to you, please share them with others.

The whole world is a classroom. Sometimes we learn from our experiences, from the pain and joy in our own lives, and sometimes from the people around us. And sometimes the lessons come from other creatures on this planet.

I’ve been learning recently from teachers who didn’t use words — an owl, a deer, and a pussycat. This is what they taught me.

Last month I was walking through an arboretum in Seattle with my family, admiring early flowering trees on a beautiful spring day. Suddenly we noticed a group of people staring intently up into a big old tree. Of course we joined them and tilted our heads up, too. And there it was, a huge barred owl staring calmly down at us! Unruffled by all the attention, he sat quietly, then swiveled his head completely around and surveyed his audience. He was quietly self-possessed while our excitement was palpable.

As I gazed at his large stillness, I wondered how it would feel to look in all directions, to take in all sides of a landscape. Perhaps the ability to view all sides of a situation bolsters the owl’s reputation for wisdom. I wished I could do that! And how wonderful it would be to see as clearly in the dark as an owl does. Our world seems to contain more darkness these days, and many of us struggle to see our way. Would it help if we cultivated quiet stillness, if we looked more carefully around us and took in the varying points of view? Can we trust that there will be sufficient light to navigate as we move forward? I wonder if we could discover a quiet centeredness and certainty to help us live through this time. I often feel like a twittery little wren, but when I remember the owl, I believe I can see enough, that I can spread my wings and fly.

My second lesson is still being taught by a small herd of deer who roam my neighborhood here in rural Pennsylvania. One of the deer is an extremely rare piebald. Thanks to a genetic abnormality, a piebald is mostly white with scattered brown spots. It’s exciting to catch a glimpse of white shining in the sunlight among the trees, and realize there’s our piebald! We all are rather protectively proud of this rare deer; one neighbor named her Snowflake.

What I’ve learned by watching these deer is a lesson we often need to learn repeatedly. The deer pay absolutely no attention to the different appearance of their piebald community member! Deer are not colorblind, but they don’t seem to care that one member of their herd is almost completely white, not brown like the others. There is an ease of acceptance, a way of taking for granted that Snowflake is simply a member of their gang. What would it be like if we humans were like that? Often humans who are different from the majority are forced to the edge of the community. We leave them to munch on the least appetizing grasses. Sometimes we even chase them away. That’s not the herd I want to belong to!

And finally, there is the furry feline and the lesson he taught about living and dying. Sometime ago, our cat Shasta was very old and very sick. We knew he probably wouldn’t recover. He curled up on his favorite cushion, tucked his paws in and wrapped his tail around himself. I stroked his head and offered him food, his regular favorites and exotic temptations. He looked at me – and he purred. And that’s all he did. He kept looking at me and purring. Later I wrote,

Eat something, I begged.
Love is an extravagance now,
purring a luxury.
He touched my hand with his nose
And he purred.

In my grief at Shasta’s death, it took time for me to learn the lesson he taught. I finally realized I had it all backwards: Eating was the extravagance – love was the essential! That’s why he just kept looking at me and purring. May I always remember that love is essential, whether one is living or dying.

Who needs words when there are teachers like these around? Through them, I learned once again the importance of being quiet and looking all around me before taking off. They reminded me again how important it is to welcome into the herd those who appear different, and, most importantly, I learned again that loving is never an extravagance.

If this reflection has spoken to you, please pass it on.

When I was a little girl, I once received a package from my Great-aunt Luella in California. Since she lived so far away, I didn’t know her very well, but I remember her as a serious and rather formidable woman.

Surprised, I eagerly opened the package. There, wrapped in newspaper, I found six sherbet cups: silver holders that were black and tarnished and glass cups that fit within them. I remember wondering what they were since fancy sherbet cups weren’t part of my farm girl experience! My mother explained how they fit together, and then we wrapped them up and put them away.

For most of my life, I’ve ignored those cups. Tucked away in newspapers in their box, I forgot all about them. I never thought of polishing them when I polished a couple other silver utensils I had.

A month ago, however, as I was sorting through old things, I rediscovered the box. I opened it and examined its contents. And I decided to honor Great-aunt Luella’s gift by polishing the tarnished cups. Great-aunt Luella and her gift would always be a mystery to me, but perhaps it wasn’t too late to honor both of them by trying to resurrect the beauty of the cups.

And so I began. It seemed almost hopeless to expect that cleaning paste and elbow grease would make a difference, but I focused on one spot and rubbed and rubbed. Then I rubbed some more. Slowly, slowly, the color in that area changed. Bit by bit, it began to shine. That first cup holder took almost two hours to clean, but how it glowed when it was finished!

There were six silver cup holders, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do all of them. But something drew me to begin the next one. I began to realize this wasn’t about completing a job. This was about the practice of rubbing, about holding each cup gently and repeating the same movements over and over again. It was becoming a kind of spiritual practice.

The repetition of rubbing the tarnished silver cups was peaceful and centered me. Moving fast didn’t help; pressing hard on the delicate silver could be disastrous. Slowly and steadily, I gave myself to the rhythm of the polishing. Immersed in the present quiet moment, I wasn’t pushing to finish a task. Like a prayer practice of passing beads through my fingers or repeating a mantra as I walked, polishing the silver cups was inviting me to be more fully alive in the now.

One after another, I took up each silver cup holder and began to polish it. When each was finished, I placed it on the counter and set the glass cup within its silver cradle. Then I watched it sparkle in the sunlight. I was grateful for Great-aunt Luella’s gift as I had never been before. I felt closer to her than I ever had before.

I was both glad and sorry when I completed the last one. I loved the beauty that emerged where it was unexpected. I loved the way the spiritual practice of polishing silver had been a time of quiet opening to God in the midst of my full days.

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote There are two ways to wash the dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to wash the dishes. I had discovered there are two ways to polish silver. I’m grateful that I polished silver in order to polish the silver.

I wonder what other spiritual practices might be waiting to be discovered. Are there ordinary activities of my day that can open me to the the sacred within the present moment? Perhaps I can fold laundry as a spiritual practice, rather than a task to do as fast and efficiently as possible. Perhaps I can prayerfully and attentively slice carrots, make a salad, load the dishwasher or sweep the porch. Perhaps I can, as Thich Nhat Hanh also wrote, Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.

If this story has spoken to you, please send it on to others.

We sat in a circle, the young adults and I, exploring Quaker faith and tradition together. We’d already discussed Quaker history, the unusual Quaker worship, and belonging to a community. We looked at how being a Quaker shapes our living. We focused on integrity and simplicity, the importance of experiencing everyone as equal and being a good steward of our earth.

When we arrived at the testimony of peace, it was clear that it is one of the most complicated challenges in daily life! Of course we’re in favor of peace. Isn’t everyone? But what does it mean to be peaceful?

We talked about family hostilities and international battles. One person spoke about the danger of becoming passive, keeping the peace by sweeping conflicts under the rug. We agreed that ignoring conflict doesn’t foster peace – within ourselves or in the wider world. One person named experiencing a deep peace within, an inner peace to carry with us through the day.

As we considered the world today, we wondered: How do we live and foster peace in such an unpeaceful world? Can I be fierce in working for peace, in working against war and injustice – and remain spiritually grounded in God? What does it mean to “fight” against injustice and prejudice in every way I can, and remain peace-full inside me?

Our discussion circle didn’t find an answer to these questions that evening, but the next day I heard the Rev. Dr. Nathan Baxter, an Episcopal bishop and veteran of the Civil Rights Movement, sum up our question: How do we fight for justice and not lose our souls in the process? Yes, that’s the challenge! How can we navigate the troubled waters of our time without floundering and capsizing, overcome by our own anger or bitterness, our cynicism or depression? How can we carry a peaceful spirit within us and live from it? And how can we return to it again and again when we lose it?

There are no easy answers or quick techniques that guarantee an inner hopeful peace in the midst of a turbulent world. There are, however, choices we can make to help us as we journey through this time. Here are a few possibilities:

1. Commit to a spiritual practice that centers you, one that brings a quiet strength to your day and helps you remember who you truly are. Perhaps you will pause and focus on your breathing. Or perhaps you will be steadied through walking or another physical practice, opening yourself to God’s presence as you walk. You may read an online devotional and pray with it. Perhaps journaling will feed your spirit – or maybe another activity will strengthen your spirit. (What about the spiritual practice of housework?) Having a word or a few words as a mantra to remind you how you want to live and repeating it through the day is another powerful practice. What practice steadies and centers you?

2. Spend time with others who also long to be peaceful warriors, carriers of peace through their daily lives. You will strengthen each other, and being together helps you to be faithful to what you believe. Together, you may find actions that are clearly yours to take, practices that help you witness to your truth.

3. Jesus had a good idea: Pray for those who oppose you. Now there’s a challenge. I don’t mean the prayer that your “enemies” may realize how wrong they are. I mean praying for their true welfare, that they may be healed (since we all need healing). I’m suggesting prayer that changes you into feeling compassion for them. You can remain firmly opposed to their ideas; you can fight their ideas and purposes with all your energy – and still pray for them.

4. Take an action – one step to begin. Whether we are angry or feeling hopeless, joining with others in taking a step can strengthen our spirits. It may be writing a letter or joining a march; it may be volunteering somewhere or donating money or goods. After you have prepared yourself to remain steady and peaceful, take the step.

And then keep on.

I invite you to spread the Light by sharing this reflection if it has spoken to you.

I’m 35,000 feet in the air, snuggly encased in a narrow seat in a plane that’s taking me at 500 miles per hour from one world to another, from tropical Barbados to wintry Pennsylvania. And even though I face forward, I’m looking back.

I’m divided and in between, breathing the in-between oxygen circulating in this sealed cabin. Even more than my lungs, my heart and mind are in between.

Yesterday I was immersed in the enchantment and wonder of a glorious green world: Hunte’s Garden of Barbados. Created within an enormous sinkhole, the garden overflows with the amazingly varied beauty of tropical plants, trees, shrubs, vines and mosses. I never knew there were so many shapes and shades of green. And the flowers! I slowly strolled stone paths and listened to soft music floating through the air. I sat on a bench and watched a hummingbird flit from flower to flower while the brilliant exuberance of the garden stretched out and far above me. Such beauty is a gift for the senses and a renewal for the soul. I drank it in, and was at peace.

That was yesterday. Tomorrow is Sunday, and I will be at home, joining others of my Quaker Meeting in worship. Our worship is grounded in a quiet, expectant waiting for the Spirit to give a message, a Truth, to draw us close and refill us. Gathering together in worship is much like walking through Hunt’s Garden. Body and soul, I am quieted and refilled.

But my Quaker community is not a kind of set-apart Eden where pain and fear cannot enter. My Quaker “region” was recently among the Quaker groups joining a federal lawsuit to protest immigrants being rounded up within houses of worship. I know immigrants who have worshipped with my Quaker community. The image of such an event happening within my own community and during our worship is horrifying. It is heart-wrenching when I consider that people may be afraid to come to worship.

I’m returning to a challenging world, and there’s a big part of me that would rather be back in Hunte’s Garden. I know Barbados is not Eden either. Even surrounded by its lush green beauty and flowering exuberance, I couldn’t forget its history. The island’s riches of sugar and rum from two centuries ago came from the labor of the enslaved population. It’s a story of great cruelty amid great beauty.

But home for me is in Lancaster, a city called the “refugee capital of the U.S.” As the plane begins to descend, and I look out onto a wintry landscape, I know I’m still in between, caught between the gladness of beauty and the grief of cruelty. And I wonder: How can one bear both the overwhelming beauty of the world and the pain of our human dealings with each other? How can one live fully awake to the beauty — and to the pain? How am I to be, what is mine to do in this world?

I have no answer, but I offer this poem.

There are hands
   that will be untouched
      unless I touch them.
There is grief
   that will be unseen
      unless I notice.
There is truth
   that will be unspoken
      unless I speak.
There are songs
   that will be unsung
      unless I sing.
There is love
   that will not exist
      unless I love.
O God, help me to grow
   a heart for loving,
   a joy for singing,
   a courage in speaking,
and eyes that will notice grief
   and the untouched hands.
   
    

If this writing speaks to you, please pass it on to others.

There's a place in my house that I tend to avoid.
I hear voices there,
voices rising from the shelves,
from the old dusty trunk and the boxes on the floor,
long ago voices whispering to me.
Can you hear us?
Will you listen to our stories?
They are your stories, too, you know.
And I began to listen.

A few months ago my new book Those Who Came Before was published. Unlike my earlier books, Decision Making and Spiritual Discernment, and Fianna’s Story, I wrote this one because of the voices in my attic.

I have a haunted attic. It contains photos, letters, diaries, certificates, childhood memorabilia, and accounts from the lives of my ancestors. Some of them I knew personally, but many lived and died long ago. Through the objects in my attic, I catch glimpses of them; I hear their whispers.

In one folder are fragments of a fraktur, the highly decorated birth certificate of Maria Oberholtzer, my eight times great-grandmother. Maria was born in 1769 on a colonial farm in Pennsylvania. She married the neighboring farmer’s son, had three children, and died when she was only 37. Her daily life centered on farm and family; her community was the local church. I touched her certificate, and wished I knew more about her.

A fat folder contains my father’s sermon notes. For fifty years, he was an unpaid minister for the country church we attended, the same congregation where his family had worshipped since Maria’s time. As I read the pages, I could faintly hear his gentle voice urging worshippers to follow the path of Jesus in loving and forgiving, working for peace, and seeing all people as one family. I remember how well he practiced what he preached, loving and forgiving even during painful church conflicts.

A certificate from 1876 announces that great-grandfather Edward Wenger is of “good moral character,” that he “passed a Thorough Examination in Orthography, Reading, Writing, Arithmetic. . . ” and was certified to teach! And so he did for many years, mostly in one room schools.

From my mother’s journal, I learned how hard it was to teach eight grades in one room, especially when not everyone spoke English. But teaching was her calling; she loved helping others to learn. Another teacher, cousin Caleb Bucher wrote that “teaching children really gets to one.” Caleb ended his long career by instructing prospective teachers.

These voices and many more whisper to me in the attic. As they tell their stories, they remind me that what they lived for did not end with their deaths. These people whose blood I carry have influenced how I live — I am a teacher and a country woman. I, too, have a church community and try to follow Jesus’ teachings.

We are not only influenced by our ancestors’ voices. Other voices have powerfully shaped us, too. These voices may belong to teachers, mentors, friends, or even an enemy or two. What are they whispering? How are they shaping our lives — now and in the future?

A few days ago, I drove past a colorful “Happy New Year!” sign that was followed by a question: “2025: How did we ever get here???” It’s an important question. I wrote about how I “got here” in Those Who Came Before. I invite you to consider how you “got here,” the voices that have shaped you through the years, the messages you’ve heard.

There’s another question, however, that I think is even more important: Here we are, and what do we do about it? How do our lives influence those around us and those yet to come? What kind of decisions do we make to shape the world we live in?

Even if we’re not teachers in classrooms or ministers speaking to a congregation, we teach by our daily living. How we live whispers into other people’s lives.

May we choose to teach patience and forgiveness. May we choose to live out the truth of a God of love. May we choose to teach faithfulness and caring for others. May these be the messages our lives pass on.

+++++++++++++++

Nancy’s new book Those Who Came Before, is available on Amazon, from Masthof Press, or by contacting her directly.

I’ve recently returned home from a Thanksgiving celebration with my extended Bieber family.

For over forty years, this clan has come together every November, returning to the Pennsylvania hills from Washington and Wisconsin, from Oklahoma and Iowa, from Kentucky and Virginia. This year about fifty of us gathered in a mountain retreat center for a few days, playing games, catching up with news of each other’s lives, taking turns cooking, and exclaiming to the children “How much you grew this last year!”

Forty years creates a pretty strong tradition, and we take for granted that our yearly Thanksgiving gatherings will continue in time-honored fashion. “Of course we’ll come together to visit, to feast and play games next year! Of course I’ll see you next year.”

Not all families are so privileged. Surrounded by Bieber festivity, I remembered there are families gathered around Thanksgiving tables who have no assurance of “next year.” Perhaps Dad’s “papers” are not quite in order. Perhaps the warehouse where he has worked for the last ten years might be raided, and he could be taken away. Perhaps he – or Mom – might be taken to a camp, and eventually deported to a country that feels foreign to them, a country that has no place for them. What will happen to the family then? It may be an unspoken fear, but it’s solid and it’s real.

Many years ago I heard the phrase “Mind the gap” while traveling on the London underground. It was meant to remind passengers to be careful when stepping off the train and onto the platform. I think, however, that “Mind the gap” can also remind us to pay attention to the huge differences in privilege and security that exist in our world.

Over Thanksgiving I was particularly aware of the “gap” between those who have the security of documents permitting them to live where they are actually living – and those who don’t have such papers. Even while I watched my nieces and nephews playing with their young children, I remembered that there are families where the children are hesitant to go to school because their mother or father might not be there when they come home.

This is the season of gratitude, but I believe gratitude is only half of what we are called to. I cannot ignore the suffering of others while being thankful that I have the security of food and shelter or the freedom to gather with family next November. I cannot bear my privilege without reaching across the gap.

So what does reaching out actually look like for me? What would it look like for you? If we pay attention, I believe we will each discover an area of need that tugs on our hearts. We will find a way of giving that is ours to do.

I’m exploring a non-profit called Pennsylvania Immigration Resource Center (PIRC) that works with Pennsylvania’s undocumented immigrants. At this time, the Center is particularly overwhelmed with requests for help. Many individuals have a tangled immigration status with their hopes for the future caught for years in overloaded courts. PIRC provides free legal aid as they can. My heart is burdened for these individuals and families, and helping out here seems right for me. (Check it out: https://www.pirclaw.org.)

In A Testament of Devotion, Quaker writer Thomas Kelly writes that the ” Loving Presence does not burden us equally with all things, but considerately puts upon each of us just a few central tasks, as emphatic responsibilities. For each of us these special undertakings are our share in the joyous burden of love.”

What is your “share of the joyous burden of love?” What tugs on your heart and calls you to reach across the gap?

(If this writing speaks to you, please share it with another.)

A long time ago there was a church community with big problems. They disagreed about how the church should be run, what were the “right” beliefs, and what was the “right” way of living. They came from different paths of life. Some had money and were from the educated upper class. Others worked with their hands, had few privileges, and perhaps didn’t always have enough to eat. They admired different leaders and argued loudly about whose ideas to follow. Sometimes, it was reported, they even fought at church dinners! Simply stated, they were in trouble.

In case you’re wondering: No, this is not a metaphor for the state of my country. It was a real church community with big conflicts about who they were and how to live. Fortunately they had a good advisor – Apostle Paul – who wrote them two letters that we still have today.

The divided, quarreling church in Corinth, Greece really needed Paul’s advice. I hope they listened and learned and that their community grew closer as they worshipped and ate together. Most of all, I hope they were stretched into loving.

Sometimes we forget that Paul’s famous chapter on love, 1st Corinthians 13, was written to real people with real disputes, each convinced of their own rightness. Paul told them that it didn’t matter if they spoke in tongues or prophesied, if they gave generously to others or were wise and learned, or even if they performed miracles. None of it mattered unless they also loved. Then he went on and defined love:
Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered.
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. (NIV)

To be loving is incredibly challenging! There are always religious communities struggling to love each other somewhere in the world. We are human beings, and we (mostly) haven’t reached sainthood. We’re in the process of growing. We should all wear signs that say “Improvements coming” or “New and better version under construction.”

The more diverse and varied the community is, the more challenging it can be to follow love’s way. Some of us may find the challenges in a church community, but it could also be within our families or neighborhoods. The country where most of us live contains an enormous diversity. Sometimes it is easier to close ourselves off from those whose background, way of living, or opinions differ from ours. Like the people of the Corinthian church, we are sure our group is the right one.

Recently a friend told me about being verbally attacked while waiting in a check-out line at the store. The focus was on her shirt that carried the name of a political candidate. The vicious threats and rage really frightened her, but, as she quietly turned and left, she thought to herself, “That poor man! What pain was in his life filling him with such anger and hate that he’d attack a stranger like that?” From somewhere deep inside her, she had found love and compassion. She saw him, not as someone from “the other side,” but as a real person in pain from her community.

Love, Paul says, always hopes and perseveres; love never fails. May we take up the challenge of loving in a time of outspoken hate; may we take up the challenge of seeing beneath the surface of someone whose ideas or actions we disagree with. May we persevere in love.

If this reflection speaks to you, please share it with others.

What a lovely day, I thought, as I strolled on the hills of Yorkshire and enjoyed views of the farms and moors stretched out before me. I’d just found a bench and sat down to drink the sight in more deeply when I saw someone coming toward me pushing a stroller. But, wait! It was a dog in the stroller! In fact, it was a stroller built for a dog.

The man and his dog paused next to my bench. The dog wagged her tail at me while the man smiled and introduced her. “This is Meg,” he said. “She’s not a lazy dog, you know, but she is poorly.” He told me that Meg had just a few months to live, and that she had always loved running outdoors, exploring the world and enthusiastically greeting everyone she met. So he continued to take her with him on his walks.

Reaching over to the stroller, I rubbed behind Meg’s ears. “She’s had a full life,” I said.

“Yes, that’s it!” he said. “She’s lived life fully.” He watched Meg for a minute, and then he surprised me when he turned and asked, “and you, you’ve lived a full life, too, haven’t you?” Somehow we’d moved into a different conversation. “Yes,” I responded after a moment of reflection, “I have had a full life.” He nodded and was silent.

Although this conversation was four weeks ago, the question by the stranger who was taking Meg for a walk still haunts me. Have I lived fully? And what does it mean to live a full life anyway?

I do know that the stranger wasn’t asking how busy my life was. We weren’t reflecting on how many responsibilities or activities or possessions filled my life. We weren’t talking about living smooth lives with good fortune blessing all our days.

In the Gospel of John Jesus talks about how he has come so that “they may have life and have it to the full.” (10:10b NIV) The way of living that Jesus was teaching is truly the path to living more fully. Some translations use the word abundantly to describe Jesus’ purpose: “so that they may have life and have it more abundantly.”

A full life, an abundant life, is really about a way of living, an approach to living all of our days. In turning the adjective full into the adverb fully, I’m picturing a life of openness with arms stretched out to embrace others, a life of being alive and engaged in God’s world. I’m picturing us living in harmony with Jesus’ teachings.

At times it is easier to be open and engaged than at other times. Sometimes we may feel closed and guarded, even scared and untrusting. I want to live fully, even though I sometimes feel uncertain and guarded. But in all the seasons of our lives, however they may be shaped, we can try to follow old Meg’s way of living. How can we do that?

Living fully or abundantly means being willing to receive the stranger as a potential friend. It is being awake to the world around us and noticing the miracle of beauty in the change of seasons. Living fully for us humans means offering our individual gifts so that we are more fully alive in their use. For example, writing is a gift of mine, and when I offer it, I feel more alive.

Most of all, living fully is loving, being open to both the giving and receiving of love. In Jesus’ words, “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (John 13:34 NIV) May your living, my friend, be full and abundant, and may you overflow with love.

If this story has spoken to you, please share it with others.

When I was a child, Sunday was definitely a Sabbath. In the morning, we attended our church a few miles away. After a big Sunday dinner, we each relaxed in our own way. My mother did no laundry or cleaning; my father didn’t work in the fields or barn (although, as teachers, they may have prepared for the Monday classes). My brother and I played in the meadow, curled up with a book, and occasionally did homework. The “blue laws” still reigned in Pennsylvania so restaurants, shops and businesses were closed. Sometimes we played games together or visited with family or friends.

What I remember most about those Sundays was their openness and spaciousness. After church and Sunday dinner, we were usually free to do whatever we chose, whatever drew us. The leisurely meandering through the hours provided more than rest. It renewed us.

I’ve grown up, and the world has changed. The legal effort to impose Sabbath is gone, replaced by the modern weekend, two days overflowing with activities: sports events, social events, special weekend sales, and household tasks. Some people have no weekend. For me to shop, eat out, and be professionally entertained, somebody needs to work. Many manufacturing plants contain machinery that is never shut down, resulting in required weekend shifts. Internet technology permits many people to work from home, making it easy for work projects to stretch into every day of the week.

We’ve lost Sabbath. In the Genesis creation story, God surveyed creation and called it good, but God blessed the day of rest by calling it holy (Gen. 2:3). I also note the directive: “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy” (Ex. 20:8). This holy Sabbath of rest and renewal has been ambushed by the whirling kaleidoscope of life today.

We need to create a new Sabbath. Our culture won’t help us create a holy time; no new “blue laws” will dictate a set-aside day. The desire for a Sabbath must rise from within, from our deep hunger for rest and spaciousness in our lives. We must choose it.

Our new Sabbath will be different from my childhood Sundays. My Sabbath will be uniquely shaped for my life – just as yours will be shaped for your life. We can create a Sabbath time any day of the week. Perhaps it will be a full 24 hours or maybe just a few hours long. It will vary depending on work schedules and on children’s activities.

I believe there a few essentials for any Sabbath experience. Here are some basic guidelines:

1. Whatever “work” is, don’t do it. Consider carefully what activities are work for you. There are lots of tasks besides our formal jobs that help maintain our lives. If it is a task, set it aside. For example, I rarely bake bread, but I find joy in the scent of years and the rhythm of kneading. It isn’t work for me; it’s a Sabbath activity. On the other hand, financial record-keeping is a task for me; necessary, but it doesn’t provide a Sabbath renewal.
2. Be awake to the present sacred moment. Pause and notice the now. Be playful with your hours and allow yourself to waste time. This is often a challenge because we organize our lives by the clock. Sabbath means I take off my watch and lay it down. I find it easier to be open to the sacred present if I’ve also laid down the distractions of email, texting and social media!
3. Make an appointment with God. God’s schedule is quite open. The challenge is to put the appointment into our lives. If we literally enter the time into our calendars, we increase the chances we’ll honor it. What happens during that appointment may vary widely. You may go for a hike or a run; I may write in my journal or read. Experiencing the time as an “appointment with God” means we are open to the Divine Spirit, however it is present with us.
4. Rest. The Biblical story tells that God rested, and we humans have been created to need rest, too. How will you rest during your Sabbath?

I invite you to create a new Sabbath in your life and discover its power for renewal and refreshment. And may you be blessed by this holy time!