Author: nancy

I’m holding a letter Fianna wrote over a century ago. The year was 1915 and she wrote from a mountaintop tuberculosis sanatorium. Fianna was a gentle young mother, dressed plainly and wearing a prayer covering on her head as was the custom for women in her church. She’d never been so far from her rural Pennsylvania home before. She was lonely and homesick, and very sick.

At that time there was no cure for tuberculosis. Large sanatoriums isolated the victims of this frightening disease and provided ineffectual treatment for them. The sanatorium dormitories were filled with patients, many from crowded cities with varied languages, faith traditions, and ways of living.

Fianna had her Bible and her hope for healing and her faith in prayer. In the midst of all the strangeness, she was determined to follow Christ’s teachings in this hard, strange place. But it was not always clear how best to do that. Fianna wrote:

Yesterday morning while taking my milk I said to my roommate “I wish I had a piece of toast to eat with this.”  Before I knew it she went out in the kitchen and stole two pieces of toast with butter and brought  them to me.
Well I didn’t know what to do.  My conscience told me it was wrong to eat it as she had stolen it and I knew I would offend her by not taking it.
After a while I said “I couldn’t do it.”  She asked why. I said my conscience won’t let me.
She started to scold me, called me a foolish thing, etc.
I left her talk but resolved in my heart not to take it.
After she had cooled down,  I said,  “Maybe the Lord will let me get well on my conscience and if I don’t have so much in my stomach.”
After a while she said “Of course it’s stealing.”
It was a little thing but I am sure that toast would have been very hard to digest had I taken it.   There are so many chances to let your light shine in a place like this.

Fianna wanted to follow what she knew was right. But she also wanted to be a good roommate. I wonder what I would have done. Would I persuade myself it was so small it didn’t really matter?

It’s one challenge to know what is right to do. It’s another challenge to discern how to do it with both integrity and kindness. Bearing witness in small neighborly situations can sometimes seem harder than boldly bearing witness in the larger world.

May we be quiet enough to attend to the Spirit, the Guide that will show us if we are to eat the toast–or not. May our neighborly witnessing rise from our desire to be both truthful and kind.

Although Fianna was my grandmother, I never met her and I only have her letters. She died a few months after she wrote this. Her witness still lives on.

In these gray January days, nightfall comes early. I welcome evening darkness that, as Longfellow wrote, “falls from the wings of night.” Perhaps evening comes with a flurry of activity as dinner is prepared, children are minded or emails answered. Perhaps the end of the day brings a quieter pace. Winter evenings encourage me to light a candle that doubles itself against the windowpane and gives gentle light for evening questions.

Of course these questions aren’t exclusively for evenings. However the spiritual practice of prayerful reflection on the day fits well as the day draws to an end. Evening questions are the ancient spiritual prayer of examen, an examination of the day. Praying the examen invites us to thoughtful, Spirit-filled reflection, to gratitude and love.

Evening Questions: How did I give love today?  How did I receive love today?

Love is at the heart of the spiritual journey. When I open my heart and truly listen to another, feel the miracle of another’s strength amid human brokenness, my loving deepens. And when I receive this gift of being heard and seen, love grows, too. Love is present when I forgive—and am forgiven. I believe noticing love’s presence in the large and small moments of this day prepares me to love tomorrow.

Today I gave love to my cat who slept on my lap and awkwardly shared the space with my laptop. I gave love to my daughter who called grieving when she heard Mary Oliver had died. My sister-in-law loved me with words of encouragement as I anticipated leading a retreat while dealing with a sinus infection….and a snowstorm. Love came through when my husband texted me a heart.

More Evening Questions: What filled me with life today?  What drained me today?

Noticing the activities, thoughts and feelings that fill us with energy and life (and those that drain us) help us to know ourselves better. When I pay attention to the patterns of what I am passionate about and what is heavy and burdensome, I learn more about who I am now, and am guided in decisions for tomorrow.

This was a day of quiet solitude, and I realized how solitude is life-giving for me. A troubling email reminded me of a challenging relationship, and I immediately felt my energy drain. I reflect on how I’ve clutched this hurt, and I wonder how I’m led to forgive and be forgiven.

Another evening question:  How have I known God’s presence today?

It is through God’s loving presence that we reflect on the day. Held in God’s love, we remember the day, and then release it as we settle to rest.

Reflections on flourishing

We are all planted in the Garden of the Spirit.    Just as my garden contains a variety of plants, all with their own needs for growing and flourishing, so all of us are uniquely designed to grow and bear flowers and fruit. We may at times feel stunted or dry or be starving for proper nutrients; we may have been trampled on or ignored, but we’re still here, alive and longing to grow.

Even if we don’t claim our spiritual planting, we are here.  Recently columnist E. J. Dionne wrote of  “the enduring hunger for the experience of the sacred” when he wrote about those drawn to church at Christmas and Easter.  A lingering desire for Something More draws us at such times, and we feel touched by the Unknown, the Mystery we call God.   When we are stirred by places of great natural beauty or hold vigil at a loved one’s deathbed or feel the joy of birth’s miracle, we recognize an experience of the Sacred even if we don’t call it spiritual.

In my postings once or twice a month in this blog, I write —-

—-sharing my experience of the Sacred, believing that others will identify and be encouraged to attend to the Sacred in their own lives

—-teaching about practices and traditions that have opened many to the Spirit that is always around us and within us

—-hoping to offer love and encouragement so we can live our daily lives more fully awake.

I am a spiritual director, a listener and guide for the spiritual journey, and this writing is an extension of my ministry.  May I bring a bit more light for your path.  May I aid your flourishing. 

This is the time of shortened days and long winter nights, of snuggling deep within the dark and waiting for the turn of the winter solstice.  It’s also Advent, another waiting for the Light to come.  What is happening while we wait? What will be unveiled in the light?  Waiting is truly an adventure.

Sometimes an Advent adventure shows up when it is least expected.  This evening I write from Williamsburg, the famous 18th century village in Virginia where 21st century visitors go to learn history of our country.

A rare Advent snow has completely blanketed historic Williamsburg.  Snow fell heavily all day, and this evening Williamsburg, all decorated for Christmas and with snow draping its small, trim houses and shops, and its large mansions, is stunningly beautiful.  Burdened boxwood and pine trees bow gravely to each other.   Horse droppings on the street are buried now under a half foot of snow.   Pristine flakes continue to whirl, adding layer upon layer, covering the historical markers, the walls of the Palace, the hat and cloak of the last interpreter walking down the street on his way home. 

What a surprising Advent adventure! Tramping through the snow, I laughed with delight, even after I discovered my boots leaked.  Pelted by huge wet flakes, we explored the Palace maze, exchanged warm greetings with other intrepid history buffs, and stopped to warm up in the blacksmith’s and shoemaker’s shops. 

Today I was thoroughly awake.  I was awake to this place, this unusual day, this present snowy miracle.  Today I remembered how easily I forget to live in the present tense and be alive to the present moment.  Even at home, in ordinary, gray winter days, I could be more alive to the day and look for the moments of miracle.

Though Advent suggests a waiting experience in contrast to active adventure, both words come from a common Latin root.  Both Advent and adventure announce that something is on its way.  Something is forming, and beginning to show itself. I cannot force it or push it along.  In this holiday season, it is easy to get caught up in pushing it along, in preparations of hospitality and gifting and celebration, in all the work of making it happen.  And we might miss the present, the miracle already happening in our midst.

We cannot force the adventure into being born before its time.  We cannot know the adventure before it arrives.  Adventurous waiting is alive to the unknown.  The child, the calling, the mysterious tug of the heart, the unexpected snowfall.  Something is coming.

So we wait, awake and alive to the present season.  We offer an adventurous and willing spirit ready to be surprised and challenged.  We offer our “yes” because we too are invited to be born, formed and reformed.  God is not done with us yet.  It’s the greatest Advent adventure of them all—becoming.