Author: nancy

Recently a dear friend invited me for a visit to her brand-new house. I was warmly welcomed by her family, and we shared a meal and good conversation. My friend had also asked me to offer a prayer of blessing for their new home. I was glad to do so.

English is a tricky language. While my friends were living in a new house, I was offering a blessing for their home. House usually means the physical structure – walls and roof, kitchen and bedroom, all the parts that go into the construction. Home, on the other hand, is more emotionally linked, implying a space that holds family and love and security.

So I offered a prayer for their new house — that it truly be a home for their family! And, as I did, I realized that I wanted to offer a prayer for my home, too. Although I’ve lived for 20 years under the same roof, I don’t think I’ve ever offered a prayer for this space, that it truly be a loving home. It was time I did.

I invite you to join me in the spiritual practice of blessing our homes.

Loving God, here is our home.
It is our desire that it be a place of love,
a place of welcome for all who enter.

I want everyone who enters my home to be welcomed – whether it is the Amish tree surgeon come to work on our trees, my granddaughters back from college, my next door neighbor, or a stranger at the door. To be welcoming means to truly see a person and to value them. My prayer is that I honor each person with a true welcome.

As we mature and live through all the seasons of our lives, 
may this home be a place where we find steadfast love,
a warm acceptance of who we are and
a gentle encouragement to expand into whom we can become.

I want the atmosphere of my home to invite people to stretch themselves, to encourage them to grow into more of whom God created them to be. This can happen simply through our conversations together, and. as we lovingly accept where we are in our lives, we can envision what we can become.

May this home be filled with peace,
with a quiet security and stability
so that love blossoms freely here.

Sometimes are homes are definitely not peaceful. They may seem chaotic, especially when we are frantically busy, overwhelmed by our schedules and perhaps by inevitable disorder. I have a meeting to attend and I can’t find last month’s notes. There’s laundry to complete and no milk for breakfast tomorrow — and I have at least a dozen messages on my phone. At such times, I need to stop and breathe, to close my eyes and rediscover the underlying peace within my home. This can happen even if the laundry remains undone, the messages are still unanswered, and the notes still misplaced!

Sometimes the unpeaceful state of our homes is because we who share the home are not sharing love. Whether it is a brief anger or a long-simmering unhappiness, a home cannot foster peace and security when there’s deep friction between those who share the space. My prayer is that we find our own healing so we can indeed live together peacefully in a home where love blossoms.

May this home be a place of comfort
when times are hard, when there is grief and pain.

To find refuge through the peaceful quiet of our homes and in the patient understanding and loving embrace of those with whom we share our homes — that ‘s true comfort in hard times. May we nurture love in ourselves so we can offer comfort to others when they need it.

Loving God, we are so grateful for this home.
May our loving grow here
so that it ripples out and blesses others, too.

I’ve offered this as a prayer for our homes, an expression of what we desire our homes to be, but it’s actually a prayer for the people within the homes. May we deepen our loving; may we welcome all who come. May we grow in patient understanding and support for everyone in our lives.

And our love will ripple out to touch others’ lives though we may never know of it.

I am writing this on the first day of May, and it’s a beautiful sunny spring day. The iris in my garden are just beginning to open while the coral bells, lilies of the valley, and the bleeding hearts are in full bloom. There are even a few narcissi still waving in the soft breeze. What a day! I want a Maypole to dance around! When I was a child, May Day was celebrated as a true springtime holiday at my school. And, yes, there was a Maypole that we danced around, weaving in and out as the ribbons we held were braided around the pole.

My favorite childhood May Day memory was the old tradition of the “May Basket.” I gathered a small basketful of flowers from our garden and placed it at the front door of our house. I rang the doorbell and then quickly hid and waited for my mother to open the door. She never failed to be surprised by the anonymous gift.

As a child, I didn’t know that there existed another, wholly different stream of May Day practices. In 1890, at the International Workers’ Congress conference in Paris, May 1st was declared to be International Workers’ Day. At that time in the United States, the American Federation of Labor was pushing for an eight hour work day–instead of what was frequently 10, 12 or 14 hours for the common laborer. Having a specific day honoring workers brought attention to the unsafe conditions, poor pay, and long hours they had to endure.

In much of the world, a May 1st International Workers’ Day continues to be recognized. And paying attention to the working and living conditions of all workers and their families is still important. Unacceptable conditions, especially within migrant worker communities, are still rampant and need changing.

Dancing around the Maypole and marching for workers’ rights–what a contrast! And yet, I believe we need both ways of honoring the first of May.

I need the rebirth of hope and the energy of spring’s renewal to help me work to create a better, fairer world where everyone can thrive. Springtime brings me the energy to keep on, to keep on even when I’m not sure if it makes a difference. And when I doubt, I can draw on the renewal of spring to help me believe that we can make a difference. I need the eruption of the fresh and fragile flowers of spring to regrow my hope and sustain my faith that a new world, a more kind and compassionate world, is possible.

Springtime feels like the earth itself is supporting our efforts to flourish and to widen our sense of community, and then to care about the lives of those we call neighbors. I wonder what a gift of a May Basket placed at the door of a neighbor would look like today. Perhaps it would be a gift to a class and teacher in a school district that is underfunded. Perhaps it would be a donation to support low-income housing. Remembering that May contains 31 days, how would you gift a neighbor with a May Basket?

The deep mysterious strength of earth’s renewal reminds me that the One “who made heaven and earth,” who created all the seasons, is the One “from whom comes our strength.” This Divine One yearns for all people to live in peace and love for each other. May the Source of Love refill our hope, replenish our love, and draw us on.

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

I’m sitting peacefully at home with a sleeping cat on my lap. My laptop is poised precariously on the arm of my chair while I watch a fascinating live-streamed story. A local eagle couple has returned to their home high in a Lancaster County tree and is raising a family there. As I watch, two fuzzy chicks open their beaks wide, and an eagle parent stuffs them with bits of fresh-caught fish. Very fresh–just brought to the nest five minutes ago.

With the LiveCam that is focused on the nest, I can follow the eagle activities easily. And every day they delight my heart and bring a smile to my face. First the parental nest-sitting stage, then one tiny chick poking his head out, then two open mouths to feed! There is something reassuring about the eagle parents following their ingrained patterns of caring for their young.

Finally I bid farewell to them, and decide to check the “news.” Oh, my. I’d much rather watch the eagles! There’s nothing reassuring or uplifting in learning about the latest atrocities in the Middle East.

Scanning the headlines, I read of bombing and destruction in Iran and Israel, in Palestine, Lebanon and Saudi Arabia, in the Emirates and in Iraq, Bahrain, Yemen, Kuwait. I’ve named all these countries because I am astounded how many there are. I know that it’s the ordinary people in these places that are most affected. Thousands of people (like me and you) have been killed, and others have lost their homes, their jobs, their schools, and members of their families. I read of Jordan suffering as a corridor dangerously located in between. Then there’s Syria, Egypt, and Turkey who are watching fearfully from next door. How much suffering there is!

It’s too much to take in, and I want to return to the eagles’ nest. But avoiding the reality of this war and its cruel destruction is living a falsehood, like pretending to live in a world where only pleasant things happen. If I flip the channel quickly, not allowing myself to feel grief and pain, I’m not fully alive.

A friend recently shared that he was beginning to become numb when he read his morning paper. He was turning the page quickly without allowing himself to be touched by the news. He asked our circle of friends to pray that none of us become numb.

Our country is a major combatant in this war — but we’re not being bombed, and we can live our daily lives unfearfully from the safe sidelines. Although the economic fallout for Americans is growing, my house will not be blown up, and my family is not in danger of being killed by a missile that lands nearby. I believe that we owe it to those who are suffering to look steadily at what is happening. Only this way can we experience fully the pain of compassion and the ache of grief. Only this way can we avoid becoming numb. May we find the courage and strength to be fully alive to the reality of this war.

But we also need to visit the eagles’ nests of our lives, the places of delight and gladness. It may be gathering with friends for a fun time together or perhaps finding satisfaction in creating a thing of beauty like a poem or painting, a quilt or a birdhouse. It may be a peaceful evening with family or an adventurous exploration in the natural world. We’ve been created as human beings to carry both gladness and grief, both joy and sorrow. Living fully means experiencing all of it.

We are created to hold hope, too, even when hope is hard to find. One hope I have is that by the time my eagle chicks are full grown, stretching their wings wide as they drift above the Susquehanna River near my home, this war will have ended. May we do whatever we can to help that be so!

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

What’s the DDS? It may sound like a secret code or perhaps a secret organization, but it’s actually not secret at all. We can all join the club. In fact we probably already are part of the grand DDS!

The name for the DDS was created by my friend Mickey. The letters DDS stand for God’s Divine Delivery System, and Mickey, recognizing that God’s ways can be mysterious, believes that we are all part of that Divine Delivery System.

Have you ever felt as though you received a hug or a loving affirmation, a word that guided you or an opportunity that invited you–just when you most needed it? They came through the DDS! Was there a helping hand or an unexpected ‘coincidence’? That was because of the DDS, too.

All the people who offered the hug or the wise word or the invitation were part of the Divine Delivery System. They were all message carriers. You, too, are a part of the DDS. Although God’s presence and activity in our lives is indeed mysterious, Mickey believes that, if we truly desire to be a channel for God’s love and wisdom, we will be used. We may never even know how we contribute, but we will become part of the DDS web.

The DDS doesn’t always deliver perfect and clear messages. The messengers are human after all, and we live in a broken world. There have been times I haven’t responded to a Divine nudge. I felt called to offer a message of encouragement or comfort to someone, but somehow I never did it. And sometimes there was probably encouragement, support or guidance that a DDS messenger offered to me – and I was too busy or perhaps I was closed up and guarded, and I didn’t let it in.

One of my favorite delivery people has been Mickey herself. She is one of the most vibrant and loving persons I know in spite of having constant pain. At 95 years, she acknowledges that she knows only half dozen persons older than herself. She has, however, a host of younger friends, people whom she cares about deeply, relationships that she has nurtured through the years. She has a true gift for friendship, and she encourages us all in living full rich lives

One important wisdom this DDS messenger has delivered to me has been the understanding that I will be stronger and more whole when I have compassion for those who are bringing division and destruction to our country and communities. They are broken; they don’t know that they are beloved of God. “Try praying for their healing,” Mickey advises,” there’s no down side to prayer.” I’m not sure I can stretch to compassion, but I know bitterness, anger or cynicism don’t strengthen me to work for the healing we need within our country and communities. Perhaps compassion is worth a try.

I’ve also received DDS messages from Mickey about aging with grace and hope. It’s not easy! There is pain and loss and diminishment. She has experienced all of it, but she believes that, in some mysterious way, “all will be well,” as Julian of Norwich wrote six hundred years ago.

The Divine Delivery System has provided this message to all of us through Julian: All will be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. . . . . For there is a Force of Love moving through the universe that holds us fast and will never let us go.

These are words for the present troubled times. May we truly receive them and may they strengthen us to live in hope.

They first “”met” in 1934 when they were teenagers. As high school students studying a foreign language , they were matched to be penpals to help them learn. Lotte was a businessman’s daughter in Germany, and Lucille was a farmer’s daughter in Pennsylvania.

Lotte wrote first: Dear Miss Lucille, Today in school I got your address and at once I resolved to write. . . I am fourteen years of age. I am very glad to have a girl-friend in U.S.A.

During the next few years, letters flowed across the ocean. They wrote of daily life at school and home, of summer trips and activities. They wrote of their plans for college and hopes for the future – a women’s college in Berlin for Lotte, studying “what I must for daily life,” and local Elizabethtown College for Lucille where she’d study to become a teacher.

Lucille did graduate and become a teacher, but Lotte lived in Germany in the 1930’s, and Hitler was in power. Even before World War II began, all communication between Lotte and Lucille stopped.

I don’t know much of Lotte’s life during the war, but I know about Lucille’s life. She married and, a few years later, became a mother–MY mother actually! My parents lived together on a family farm and taught school.

Finally the war ended. It was over a year later when a letter arrived for Lucille addressed to her maiden name. Fortunately the local postmaster in her small town knew her present name and her present address.

My dear Lucille, For many years we have written us some letters from the school. Perhaps do you remember on this happy time? My name was Lotte Thiele. Now I am married. . .My husband is in Yugoslavia and I in Hamburg. My family and I have lost our home and all that we love. We live very poor in one room and you have surely a good heart to help us.

Lucille did have a good heart to help! My mother’s journal recorded how she and my father stayed up late and talked for hours about what they could do to help Lotte and her family. The first letter was sent off the next day and the first package followed very shortly.

Lucille learned that Lotte, her four sisters and her parents had escaped from eastern Germany ahead of the Russian forces, and traveled dangerously by sea to Hamburg in the West. But they had nothing, and, as Lotte wrote, had “not kith and kin in America only you.”

This second stage of the Lucille and Lotte friendship flourished as packages and letters bridged the Atlantic. Friends from Lucille’s church also sent packages to Lotte’s family. And, after a few years, as Lotte and her sisters found work, small gifts arrived for Lucille, too. I have fond memories of the Advent calendar that arrived one year. Another treasured gift hangs framed on my wall today. It’s a simple handkerchief with “your German friends” and the names of Lotte’s family embroidered on it!

No, Lotte and Lucille never met. But their friendship and their letters continued the rest of their lives. That handkerchief on my wall speaks to me of faithfulness, of open-hearted generosity and love.

Faithfulness in friendship can seem rather unexciting. Continuing to write letters to someone an ocean away whom you know you’ll never meet – how easy it would be to quit. But they kept on. They were called to this mysterious relationship of letters, and they continued writing. When they lost their husbands in the same year, they comforted each other through letters. The faithful, loving care they had for each other was a gift for both women, and they just kept on.

—————————–

Although my mother and Lotte never met, I met Lotte when I traveled with my husband and two young children to Germany many years ago. Lotte was very excited to meet “Lucille’s family” and had prepared a feast to celebrate. We heard stories of the first package that arrived from America (at Christmas time), and how it contained a fondly-remembered red sweater and the first chocolate they’d had since before the war! I told Lotte what her Advent calendar had meant to me as a child. And so, the following autumn, my children received an Advent calendar from Germany!

Friendship ripples out to touch many lives, and we can’t see the end of it. May this story touch your life and ripple out through your living and your friendships to touch others.

Two weeks ago my daily life turned upside down.

It happened this way. In the midst of a joyful Thanksgiving gathering, my husband began to show stroke symptoms. Our EMT/police officer nephew, together with a family MD, drove us to the local hospital where Larry had a severe stroke while he was being evaluated. Immediately he and I were airlifted to a large medical center where the neurosurgeons were ready to operate. After three surgeries and ten days in hospital, he recovered sufficiently so that I could bring him home! Here at home, he is continuing his amazing recovery.

I don’t have words to express our gratitude for the availability and miracles of medical science, for skilled practitioners and gifted caregivers, for family who noted Larry’s early symptoms, and for the helicopter that lifted us above Pennsylvania’s twisting mountain roads and smoothly set us on the front lawn of the Penn State Hershey Medical Center. I know so well that “it might have been otherwise,” as Jane Kenyon wrote in her poem “Otherwise.”

What has moved me most deeply during this time and repeatedly brought me to tears is the overwhelming sense of being wrapped in love. We have been surrounded and upheld by loving thoughts and prayers from our family, friends, co-workers, patients, clients, and even some whose lives touched ours only slightly. We received cards, texts and emails from around the world, from our exchange student daughters in Germany and Japan and our granddaughters studying in Canada and Spain. Like endless circles of Hanukkah candles lifting their light in dark December, we have been bathed in the light of love, and it has strengthened our hope as we’ve journeyed through these dark days.

Being the recipient of so much love and tender care has reminded me that we all are containers holding an endless supply of Divine Love. I believe that each of us has “that of God within us” as Quakers have traditionally said. We can send the light of that Love out to surround and uphold each other. I have believed this for a long time, but to experience it, to be on the receiving end of it has deeply touched me.

We humans really are capable of sending out tons of love! We touch others’ lives with small acts and quick notes, with loving prayers and homemade bread. And often we don’t know what a deep blessing we have brought to others at a time when they needed it. If those whose love surrounded Larry and me and our family knew how much their candles of love have lit our way and given us hope, they’d be astonished.

We received love from a client who gave a pot of soup to her daughter (a hospital employee) to give to me, from the nurse who gave me a hug when he saw I needed it, from the text I received that started out “I don’t know if you remember me but. . .” Love rises from the wall of cards in our kitchen and from the friend who offered to help us set up our Christmas tree. So many faces of love, so many ways of sending it to others!

As I feel tears of gratitude gathering again, I invite you to commit anew to the spiritual practice of spreading love wherever it is needed. (which is, of course, everywhere!) May we adopt as our own the daily prayer of Father Tim from Jan Karon’s books: Make me a blessing to someone today. May we carry that prayer through this dark December and into the new year.

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

“Yes, that would be interesting,” I had responded. “I’d like to do it.” That’s what I had said a few months ago. Now I’m wondering what on earth was I thinking when I said “yes”!

My Quaker Meeting (Lancaster PA) offers a program called “My Spiritual Journey” a few times each year. It focuses on someone telling the story of her or his spiritual journey. We all appreciate the opportunity to learn more about others in our community, to discover who they have been and are today, to listen as they reflect on their individual journeys.

We all love being the listeners – but I never thought about the challenge of being the presenter! It’s my turn this coming Sunday, and I’ve been busily preparing. I believe all experiences and situations in our lives are potential openings to the “Something More” that we usually call God. Therefore everything in our lives can be part of our spiritual journey! That’s a lot to reflect on.

What have I discovered so far? Looking back through the chapters of my life and remembering what has shaped me, I have found gratitude for both blessed times and hard times. I understand better how they are related, and how I have been stretched spiritually by both. For example, the judgmental God that I learned about as a child was offset by parents whose love was unconditional. Their love helped me seek out a Divine Being whose essence is Love. This long journey of seeking and finding has been both painful and very rewarding.

We don’t often share these personal stories with our friends, even those we worship with. Often we don’t know how to talk about our deep spiritual experiences. We struggle for the words to describe things like “having a calling” or “feeling an opening.” And we don’t want to name our doubts and fears either. It is hard to be vulnerable with each other; I find myself wondering how open I can be with my own community. (Yes, I feel safe with my friends, but can I really tell them how I tried to convert my grandfather when I was a little girl?)

I am reminded of Gerald May’s words in Will and Spirit. The spiritual journey seems lonely. . . .There is a dimension of [pain] in this, but even in our aloneness, we are together for we each have it. At the deepest level of our hearts we are all aching, for each other and for the same eternally loving one who calls us. It would be well, I think, if we could acknowledge this more often to one another.

I am grateful for this time of reflecting on the journey, and for the opportunity to share it with others. I am beginning to realize how important it is to share my story – not because it’s unusual, but because it’s so ordinary. As Gerald May reminds us, we all feel lonely on our spiritual journeys, and we are all “aching” to know we have companions.

I also have discovered that this time of looking back over my spiritual journey has stretched me. As my 93 year old aunt said when she wondered why she was still alive, “I’m still growing. I’m not done yet.” Taking stock of where I have been, I feel invited to stretch more fully into whom God created me to be. What is the growing edge for me now? What is the growing edge on your journey?

May we all share more of our spiritual journey stories with each other. Through such sharing, we will find companions on the path, and we will be renewed and strengthened.

NOTE: Nancy will share her spiritual journey story at Lancaster Quaker meetinghouse Nov.2 at 12:00. You are welcome to attend in person or on Zoom.

Directions to join Zoom: go to Zoom.us, at the top, click on “meet”, then “join a meeting” and enter: Meeting ID: (821 5725 7152) and Passcode: (Worship).

OR use information in Meeting e-news (for a limited time): https://us02web.zoom.us/j/82157257152?pwd=MlptQW9QeFloZk9abFIweTNZa3A2dz09
Meeting ID: 821 5725 7152
Passcode: Worship
One tap mobile
+13017158592,,82157257152# US (Washington DC)
+1 929 205 6099 US (New York)
Meeting ID: 821 5725 7152
+1 929 205 6099 US (New York)
Dial by your location
+1 301 715 8592 US (Washington DC)

Over 150 years ago, a new mother named Emma Wenger laid her first baby in the cradle pictured here. She rocked him, picked him up when he cried, and laid him gently down after he nursed. Over the next 25 years, she gave birth to 12 more children. All but one of them lived into adulthood, and all of them slept in this cradle.

One of these babies was my grandfather Edward. When I was a little girl of six, Grandpa gave me this old cradle as a Christmas present. He told me how he and his siblings had all slept in it. At the time, I didn’t appreciate the history behind the gift, but it was a wonderful gift for a little girl! For many years, my dolls cuddled together in the old cradle as I rocked them all to sleep.

In time, I became a mother, and, yes, I laid my own babies snuggly within the cradle’s embrace and gently rocked them to sleep. More time passed. My babies outgrew the cradle. In fact, they grew up and became mothers themselves — with their own babies in their own homes. And when they came to visit us, their babies slept in the old cradle, just as their mothers had. The family tradition continued.

This cradle has been in my home for many years, but it isn’t truly mine. I am simply the one who has had the privilege of holding it for a time. I am a steward and responsible for its care, but not an owner, possessing it forever. And now the time has come to release it, to pass it on to the next generation to use it and care for it.

As I look around in my home and beyond my home, I realize I am simply a steward, a care-giver, of everything around me. Including our earth itself! Even if my name is on a piece of paper as owner, I am simply a steward of this land. I am responsible for its care now, but in time, others will care for it. In this season of harvest, I want to be a wise and generous steward of my vegetable garden. I will share its produce as much as I can.

When we accept that we are not owners but stewards of the things we value, we may cherish and care for them even more deeply. At the same time, we can also hold them more lightly. We can hold them with hands open to share, not with hands clutched tightly to ourselves. What I cherish, whether it is my cradle or the planet itself, will be passed on to others. To love our planet wisely is to care for it so that future generations will have a healthy environment in which to raise their babies. To love our planet well is to share its gifts generously with all.

When I understand myself to be a steward of what I hold, I often feel a deep and profound gratitude for the privilege. I am grateful for the privilege of living with the antique cradle. When I rocked my babies in the cradle, I felt as though great-grandmother Emma was by my side, and I was grateful. I am also grateful for the privilege of passing it on.

When I understand myself to be a steward of the earth itself, holding it for others, I see its wonders and gifts with great gratitude. I deepen my commitment to caring for it and my desire to share it.

“All, all is gift. Give it away, give it away” wrote Daniel Berrigan. Can we experience all that we have as something we hold for a time and then, overflowing with gratitude, “give it away”? That is my hope.

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.