Garden of the Spirit

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!

“The world,” she said, “needs consoling. There is pain and grief, distress and anger all around us. How can people carry it? What can we do?”

My friend and I were reflecting on our world’s brokenness and pain when she came out with the word console. What a powerful word! To console is to bring comfort amidst the overwhelming problems of our broken world and its suffering peoples.

The problems are evident. Last week, the world broke its high temperature record. There are fires burning, people starving, and ongoing wars. There are conflicts on many fronts, and even when there is not active fighting, many cultures around the world spread violence. Here in my country, our politics is full of “attack ads” that demean the other side and deepen our divisions.

In the midst of all this, what good is a comforting, consoling presence? Does it really change anything to have someone offer comfort with a few words or perhaps a hug? Isn’t that just a temporary fix when we should be working on solving the problems?

And yet my friend spoke truly: The world does need consoling and comforting. We are grieving and distressed, discouraged and in pain. Both words, comfort and console, come from Latin roots, and their meanings are essentially the same: to join with another, to help and to strengthen.

When people offer me comfort, they are joining with me in my pain; I am not suffering alone. And when I’m not suffering alone, when someone has listened and showed that they care, I am strengthened. Perhaps I can carry what has felt unbearable, perhaps I feel glimmerings of hope.

Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted (Matt 5:4) is a familiar verse from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. There is a “Divine Comforter” who comforts us when we grieve and suffer. St. Paul reminds us, however, that we are also called to comfort and console: “the God of all consolation who consoles us in all our affliction so that we may be able to console those who are afflicted” (2nd Corinth. 1:3-4). It is our work to offer consolation to those who suffer.

There are several steps to becoming a consoler. First one must notice another’s pain. Sometimes I am so busily engaged in my life that I don’t pause and pay attention to others’ needs. I know that when I notice another’s pain, I am probably going to feel pain – and I’d rather not. However, a compassionate “feeling with another” is the important second step. One can’t be a consoler without joining another and feeling; there is no such thing as a dispassionate, disconnected consoler!

Feeling with another person in their distress or grief can be challenging. Perhaps we fundamentally disagree with them and experience them as on “the other side.” Maybe we don’t see the world as they do. Perhaps we see the pain and suffering of someone who is angry and pushes people away. I believe we are still called to find something to cherish about this person, to notice something in our common humanity that makes us like family.

The third step in being a consoler is to show that you care deeply about the person you are comforting, to somehow touch them so they know they are not alone. That is the beginning of healing, healing for the individual and healing for the world. It is the beginning of hope.

As I reflected on being called to be a consoler, I recalled this poem I wrote many years ago:

UNTOUCHED  HANDS
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 message has spoken to you, please share it with others.

Last Sunday morning, as I was sitting quietly in worship, I heard an infant speak. “I have a voice!” she (or he) proclaimed again and again, experimenting with coos and chortles, low tones and high tones. In the quietness of our Quaker worship, we notice all messages! Mostly we hear thoughtful Spirit-led words offered by adults. This was different, and it still came through clearly.

As the infant vocalized, I thought how much like singing it was. Speaking uses words, carefully chosen to send a message. We think about the message, and it’s shaped by our minds. Music, on the other hand, can come straight from heart and soul without words. Who needs words to sing? Music can use words but it can also deliver its gift powerfully with no words at all.

“I have a voice,” this little one was telling us. “I have song within me.”

Later that day my husband and I attended an outdoor concert of the Wheatland Chorale, a premier singing group here in Lancaster. Their voices united to weave a spell of harmony and beauty as we listened. Dusk fell slowly, and they sang of light. Quoting poet E. E Cummings, they gave thanks “O God, for most this amazing day.” Their music rose in gratitude and celebration of the natural world around us, and the song within each singer was a gift for all of us.

The next morning, as I sat outdoors to drink my coffee, I listened to birdsong and remembered that not all song comes from human throats. The morning chorus of birdsong is a real celebration of a new day. Like the baby in worship on Sunday morning, the birds cannot resist singing. I felt like joining! The Celtic Christian tradition suggests that we do join in, that we pray outdoors so that our voices join with the rest of the created world in praise and thanksgiving. Whether it is the babbling of the river, the crash of the waves, the song of the birds, the lowing of the cattle, or the purring of the cat, all, all can be song.

We are called to pay attention and listen for the songs that are around us. And as we listen, we may discover the song we have within us. It will rise. It’s true that not all that is within is joy and gratitude; our lives and our songs include grief and lament. (There’s a whole book in the Bible named Lamentations after all!) Perhaps we need to give voice to the laments in our hearts and souls through song. Can you give grief a voice even when there are no words? Sometimes songs without words seem to go deeper than songs that have words.

Recently I attended a class called “Soulful Singing.” We didn’t come together because we were skilled singers. We gathered because this time was offered for our hearts and souls to sing. My friend Ruth Fitz led us in quiet chants and lively rhythms. She created a quiet pause between each song so that we could feel the music hovering in the room and open our hearts to it. My eyes filled with tears as I received and gave the gift of song.

There is that within each of us that is moved by music, even if singing isn’t a regular part of our lives. We are created to respond to music, and I believe we are also created to use our voices in song. You may use the words of an old song from many years ago or perhaps your music will be freshly created by the stirrings of your heart. You may need no words at all, and simply experience pure sound, perhaps a quiet humming. There is song within you. Let it rise.

What is your song? What is the music within you and how will you express it?

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

.

The first day I met Denis, he told us that he was an atheist. I’d just arrived in Albania with my friends, and Denis was going to help us explore his country. I immediately began to wonder what being an atheist meant in his life.

“Wait a minute,” you may be thinking, “where is Albania anyway?” This small country is snuggled next to the Adriatic Sea north of Greece. Torn apart by battling empires through the centuries, it has had a tumultuous history, but nothing can destroy its dramatic mountain beauty, fertile farmland, and beautiful sweeping beaches.

Albania is a mystery for many of us because it was totally isolated for almost half a century following WWII. It was ruled by the paranoid dictator Hoxha who quarreled with everyone (including other Communist leaders) and outlawed religion. While tearing down churches and mosques and persecuting religious leaders, Hoxha declared Albania to be “the first atheistic country in the world.”

Denis was born a few years after the dictator died and the Communist system collapsed. He grew up in a country trying to find its place in a new open world. For him and his family, religion wasn’t relevant. “I believe,” he told me, “in the physical, material world that’s around us.” For him, that is enough.

Is it enough? It isn’t for me. I remember my years of wrestling with the God-idea. I wanted to know that there was Something More, something larger than one traditional religion, but that includes the religious traditions. Slowly I began to sense a Presence, a Spirit that is a mystery larger than my human understanding can take in. I believe in a Creator God, A Spirit of Love who brings healing in the world. Whether I have a name for that God or not, I am pulled to follow the path of love and contribute as I can to wholeness and healing. Awake to that Spirit, I have awakened more fully to joy in the beauty and miracles of the world.

My friend Denis is passionately interested in learning about and exploring the world, too, both within his country and beyond. He treasures his friendships, and responds warmly to the people around him and their needs. He loves the beauty of the Mediterranean world and wants to share it with others. He dreams of making opportunities for others to be creative, perhaps through art, music, or the world around them. He wants to have a family someday, and he’ll be a good Dad.

Denis lives in hope for the future of Albania, a “gifted country,” he says, and filled with potential, although hope has sometimes been in short supply. “Having hope is most important,” he said. “It is the last thing to die.” Sometimes Albanians emigrate in search of a better life in another country, but Denis believes “a stone is happier in its own ground.” He is determined to remain and participate in Albania’s recovery. His hope brings hope for others.

Reflecting on Denis’ path and my own, I thought of this poem by the 14th century Sufi poet Hafiz (translated by Daniel Ladinsky):

THE GOD WHO ONLY KNOWS FOUR WORDS
Every child
Has known God.
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don'ts,
Not the God who ever does
Anything weird,
But the God who only knows four words
And keeps repeating them, saying;
"Come dance with me."
Come
Dance.

I call upon a divine Spirit that is greater than I. Denis doesn’t. But I believe we are both part of God’s grand dance. We love and want to make the world around us better. We embrace possibilities to grow, and we hold hope for the future.

I believe the Spirit strengthens my desire to be a loving presence, to contribute to the world’s healing. It takes me beyond my own strength and uses me in ways I may not know. I am grateful to belong to a spiritual community that helps me “walk cheerfully over the world answering that of God in everyone,” as Quaker founder George Fox wrote. That of God is everywhere, in everyone. May we be awake to see it and respond to it.

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

As a child, I lived in an old farmhouse where my ancestors had lived since the 1700’s. For many generations, my family attended a church built on land that another ancestor had donated to the congregation in the mid-1800’s. Four small family cemeteries lay within a few miles of my childhood home.

My family was deeply rooted in the wooded hills, the gently sloping fields, the big barns and the three generation farmhouses of rural southern Pennsylvania. Growing up, I knew this countryside was home; I belonged here. And I took all the security and stability of home for granted.

Although I don’t live on ancestral land or attend the church I did as a child, I still live surrounded by beautiful Pennsylvania farms and woods. I can still visit my childhood home and farm, attend worship in the old church or stand in the cemeteries and read the names on tombstones of those whose blood flows in me. Though I’ve traveled the world, I know where home is, and how precious it is to have a home land.

There are others whose roots in their homeland, in family and community, in hills and rivers, are just as deep in mine. And, tragically, people have sometimes been violently torn from the land of their ancestors. They’ve been uprooted, and they’ve lost their own rolling hills and familiar patterns of living. Their roots exist now only in their memories, and a changed world spins around them.

What happened? Perhaps they fled a war that seems to have no end and takes no prisoners. Maybe they were escaping chaos and riots and gangs or they were persecuted because of their religion. If they were lucky, they found a refugee camp where they might live for decades. But no one creates deep roots in a refugee camp; roots are shallow there because everyone is hoping to be transplanted.

Perhaps it is the land itself that uprooted them. Perhaps the climate changed and rain no longer comes as it always has. Crops dry up, dust blows, and living in the land of their ancestors is no longer sustainable. Even in the cities, the world changes as the weather changes, and life is harder.

Many people without a home set out on a perilous sea voyage or a jungle trek to find a new land where they can find work and begin again. Behind them are their roots; before them only the desperate hope that their children will, in time, begin to root themselves in a new place. They take the risks, hoping that they will find some place that can begin to be home.

Everyone needs a place that is home. Everyone needs to feel that here, here is where I belong. This need for a community and a country where one can be rooted is a basic human desire. All of us want a homeland in which to live in peace, celebrate birthdays, and worship God without fear. We want a place where we can laugh and love, earn a living, and finally die in peace.

I have never been torn away from my foundational roots like so many others have. I am grateful for the stability of my life, and I want to say to those who have lost so much:

Come, there’s space here for you to put down roots. We’ll work it out, and we’ll share. There’s schooling for your children and work for you here. Come, there’s a welcome here for you.

If you want to help provide a warm welcome, these are two organizations I know well that do good work: Pennsylvania Immigration Resource Center and Church World Service. Click on the names to learn more.

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

A broad swath of the United States will be briefly darkened next Monday afternoon. It will be a full solar eclipse for thousands of people and a partial eclipse for thousands more. My home is within the strip of 90% darkness, and, like many others, I’m looking forward to experiencing this rare event.

It is easy to forget that it’s the moon’s dance through the sky that will block our light. The sun will be shining as usual! Whenever the moon is directly between the sun and the earth, the sun is eclipsed somewhere on earth. And what we see of that moon throughout the month – full moon, new moon, or in between – depends on how much the sun illuminates it, and how much our earth gets in the way. What a dance it is!

In fact, the relationship of the moon with the sun and earth plays a bigger role in our calendars than we usually notice. Many religious holidays change their dates according to the appearance of the moon in the sky. In the western Christian tradition, Easter is the first Sunday after the first full moon following the spring equinox. Passover is always around the time of the full moon in the Hebrew calendar. Then there is Holi, the Hindu festival of colors, on the date of the first full moon between February and March. And Ramadan lies in the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar and lasts a full lunar month, beginning with one crescent moon and ending with the festival of Eid al-Fitr at the following new moon.

This year we celebrated an early Easter (thank the moon), and now there’s an eclipse coming (thank the moon again). This stately dance of interweaving celestial beings is fascinating to learn about. And, with science at my fingertips, I’m not afraid of it! People many centuries ago found the mystery of a darkened daytime sky terrifying, but, when the sky darkens in the middle of the afternoon next Monday, I won’t fear an angry God or think the world is ending.

Perhaps that’s why the Bible recounts that the sky turned dark for several hours while Jesus was on the cross. This darkened sky was no eclipse. (Jesus’ crucifixion occurred at Passover, a time of full moon when an eclipse can’t occur.) I believe that the terror and dread associated with an eclipse was probably the strongest statement the Gospel writers could include in their account of the day. It was truly a time of despair and fear for those who had been touched by Jesus.

In many ways, Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection are echoed in the process of an eclipse. The sun is gone, – or should it be “the Son is gone”? – and there is darkness and desperation, fear and panic. And then the light returns again! People rejoice and hope! Whether it is the sun or the Son of Man, we feel the presence of light again. This is truly an Easter event.

Therefore, as we celebrate the resurrection of sunlight after the eclipse next week, may we also honor the living presence of the Son in our lives. May we remember that the Presence of the Christ Spirit throughout the world depends on our choosing to glow with the Light.

In an eclipse, the sun, moon, and earth follow the ancient steps of their ordered ancient dance. But we humans participate in an even more amazing dance. Like the moon dancing with the sun and reflecting its light, we humans are invited to move in harmony with the Divine One and reflect Divine Light.

This Light can illumine the earth and its peoples with a love brighter than anything the sun can produce. May we join in.

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

In the flowerbed close to my little brick patio lives a helleborus niger. Although Pennsylvania winters are quite cold, this variety of hellebore actually begins to bloom in December. When the days are short and cold, helleborus niger generously offers a vision of spring!

First, my little hellebore tentatively offered me only a few white flowers, but when I looked closely, I could see a dozen or more buds preparing to enliven wintertime. And so they did. More and more flowers bloomed all through January and February, even when they were bowed down by snow. Now it’s early spring, and the stalks are overflowing with new white flowers and older pink ones waving in the raw March wind. (Unlike humans, older hellebore blossoms turn pink with age.)

For me, this hellebore is the flower of hope. In the bleakness of winter, it reminds me to hold on, that warmer weather will eventually come. Even more than a reminder of the future though, hellebore lives as though springtime has already arrived, blooming when no other flower dares to hold up its head! It embodies hope by blooming in the middle of winter’s cold and stormy weather.

We use the word hope frequently. It often expresses something we wish would happen, such as “I hope it will be sunny tomorrow,” or “I hope I get a raise.” True hope, however, is much more than a wish for the future. Holding onto a hope is a decision that can affect how we live in the present.

My little hellebore doesn’t say deep in its roots, “I wish it were April already. ” Instead it lives and blooms as if it actually is April. “Yes,” it whispered to me as it prepared to begin blooming back in December, “I have hope in springtime, and I’m going to live springtime right now!”

I can learn from my hellebore; I can try to live my hope. I hope for a world where people live in peace, where we humans treat each other with respect and love. I am challenged to live as if that hope were a reality right now. I am called to treat others with respect and love, to see a spark of the Divine in each person I meet.

Bearing witness to our hope through how we live is a powerful spiritual practice. It’s a discipline that will stretch us into blooming more than we ever thought possible. And we’ll never finish blooming. In fact, we can grow stronger in hope as we practice it – as with any exercise we might take on.

We can also grow stronger in our hope when we’re part of a community that shares it. I live in the hope that love is stronger than hate, and I need a community to support me in making that hope part of my daily life. If my hope flickers, companions are there to encourage me and lend me their strength for the journey.

What hope do you have that you want to live into? What hope can bloom in your life? And where will your support come from as you practice living it?

Helleborus niger is rightly known as the “Christmas rose.” In my garden it began blooming while we celebrated the birth of Jesus – and Jesus is called “the hope of the world.” Like the hellebore, Jesus lived in a hostile world, and yet his life and teachings offer hope. May we catch Christ’s hope for the world, and spread love throughout our life journey.

Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.” Romans 12:12.

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

I have a story to tell. It happened this past Sunday evening when my husband and I had settled into our living room couch with a bowl of popcorn filled to the brim. We were ready to participate in the all-American ritual of watching the big game. But somewhere in the second quarter, it all changed for me.

Later, I wrote a poem story about my evening.

The Super Bowl and the Bombs

Super Bowl Sunday.
I sat with my husband as the game began.
He wanted to watch (he'd played in college),
and I wanted to keep him company.
I mostly caught the replays
as I ran through my emails and planned my week.

Then came the message tossed right into my box:
"Meeting for silent prayer now!
Murad in Rafah asks us for prayer now!"

My friend Joe had written me.
He'd worked with Murad in Gaza,
teaching divided peoples
ways to live in peace,
teaching non-violent responses
to those surrounded by strife.
Together, Murad in Gaza
 and Joe in America
built spaces where peace could grow.

But now Murad texted to Joe:
"Very violent bombing now --
in all of Rafah!
We may be martyrs tonight.
Pray for us, to save my family and the children."

In my living room
Super Bowl ads filled the screen:
This is the beer to drink!
This insurance will always protect you!
Driving this car (or maybe this other one)
will make you happy!

And my friend Joe wrote
"Join us on Zoom for prayer now.
The need is immediate."
Just silent words on my laptop screen;
 no drama of song or dance to coerce me.

I left the TV and the Super Bowl, 
and the Chiefs and 49ers
to battle to the end, and beyond the end.
I left Travis and Taylor for others to watch.
I left the adverts to scream
their happiness directions for others
to follow.

I clicked on the Zoom link,
and entered the place of prayer.
Joe said he'd heard from Murad again.
It was 3am in Gaza,
"and the bombs are falling everywhere here.
They may hit us at any time."

We joined in prayer as the bombs fell.
Together we wove a circle of Light 
around Murad and his family, 
around all of Rafah and Gaza
and the world.

The Chiefs won the Bowl in overtime.
but when bombing is the game, no one wins.
There's no shaking hands at the end of that game,
no "Well played today!" from one team to another.
When bombing is the game, we all lose.

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

(Murad and his family survived that night’s bombing. Not all did.)