Reassurance markers

On a trail,
a carved wooden sign, faded and weathered gray,
a small metal marker nailed to the rough bark of a tree,
a rock cairn - a sentinel of confidence.
Confirmations that although I might feel lost,
really I am not.
Or, perhaps, if I am, it's okay.
I will eventually find my way.

With pen and paper, in a book or in a song,
when someone else puts my feelings into words
in a way that I have been unable to do.
Providing a way out, an escape.
Helping me better understand my place in the world,
or inviting a quick glance through someone else's perspective.
Validation and understanding joined like colors,
creating a new shade of compassion.

Within me,
the peace that comes with making the right choice,
or sometimes just the act of making a choice,
following the right path for right now.
Being intentional and present.
Listening. Seeking. Discovering.

Realizing that the stones of my experience
might become a marker,
a rock cairn for someone else,
someone like me, who is looking
for small assurances along the way.

Finally, you notice

Swirling.

Reach into the wind within,
try to catch one.
A feeling, an emotion,
like a leaf pushed and lifted by gusts of air.

Release that one,
then grab another.
There,
let go so you can catch the next -
and the next -
and the one after that -
until you notice your hands are full.

But wait,
what if we try something else?

Step forward, into the wind.
This time,
hands by your side.
No longer reaching. No longer grasping.

Instead,
feel the wind move around you.
Emotions brush by.
Hands remain empty.

Eyes closed. Still within.
Suddenly, no gradually,
the sun warms your face
and you notice.
Finally.
At last.

amen, it is so

hello god -
there you are
within reach of my thoughts and my heart
(always within reach)
thank you

it is good to be with you
in this place
in this moment
- now

please enter into my being
settle into my heart
move through my mind
guide me
help me follow your love wherever it leads me
help me include you fully in my experience of life
pure joy, unending love, the deepest peace

i get stuck
when i try to find words to name you, to define my faith
it feels impossible
like trying to fit the ocean inside a goldfish bowl
i can capture only the smallest bit
of who you are

but that is okay because
each day offers a chance to immerse myself in your love
each moment an opportunity to bring my thoughts to the highest places
with you there beside me to share in the present
- now

each person i encounter
becomes a chance to share your love
each challenge, a way to strengthen my trust
refine my belief
expand my ability to see
(or to turn away
in disbelief)

i am
so grateful
to feel your presence
like the ground beneath my feet
(walking barefoot on sacred ground)

you bring hope to each day
- now

amen
it is so

Grand canyons of the soul

We have all met these people.

The ones who have experienced great love,
great loss, great suffering, and somehow through it all,
great peace.

The ones who have a depth within their being,
allowing life's experiences to carve beautiful inner landscapes -
grand canyons within their souls.

You know them when you meet them.

Like water slowly eroding rock,
the layers of who they are
revealed to those who will pause and look and listen.

We have all met these people.
(Perhaps you are one of them?)

Within, an emptiness,
a deep abyss that is somehow filled with beauty and hope.
Sometimes it takes the shadows and the darkness to reveal the light, yes?

As I stand beside them listening, on the edge of who they are
I find myself once again standing on sacred ground,
looking out over the pain and beauty of their lives,
glimpsing God within.

Yes, we have all met these people.
Great love, great loss, great suffering,
and eventually

great peace.

To Katie and Christian

This is what I know.
I am not exactly a wedding-dress-fluffing sort of a mom.

Nobody ever asks me to do their hair and makeup, 
(unless they are under the age of five).

I'm not gifted at raising a glass and offering a toast - 
publicly expressing my inner feelings in front of others.

And I have proven, beyond doubt, that I don't know 
how many people it takes to feed a crowd.

But I'm okay with all that.
Here's why.

Last weekend I got a front row seat
to watch my beautiful daughter pledge her heart
to a kind and good man.

We were surrounded by a sanctuary filled with family and friends,
offering their love and support.

I felt God's presence in the ritual,
the music, the message, the vows, my mom sitting next to me. 
Love and hope, amidst the baby's breath and white lights.

I'm not exactly a wedding-dress-fluffing sort of a mom.
But I'm okay with that. That's not so important to me.

What is important is that my family came together to celebrate
the start of a new journey.

Now, in the quiet of my home, I lift my heart and say,
"To Katie and Christian, may God's love forever be expressed
in the love you share."

Forever and ever. Amen.

Clumsily graceful

Here's what happened, I think.

I stubbed my toe on my faith,
stumbled, lost my balance
and then...



bumped into God.
(who smiled and shook his head at me because that's what love does)

Remembering the burning bush incident,
when God told Moses to take off his sandals
because he was standing on holy ground. 

Now here I am,
walking  barefoot on sacred ground.
Stubbing my toes while seeking grace.
Clumsily graceful? Perhaps.

Following those who have gone before me.
Glimpses of the sacred, everywhere I look,
if I only remember to see. to believe

Hoping that my children and their children and their children
(all people really)
might stub their toes as well. 
Knowing that when they stumble, if they fall, when they fall,
they will find themselves safe 

in loving arms.

Hope is in the sunrise

He found his fullness in the empty space
suspended above the powder.

Pushing limits, always pushing limits, yes?

It's crazy how his hopes and dreams must have felt just beyond his reach,
even as he helped so many others realize their own.

His smile could light up - the world, actually.
Yet he was so often consumed by a fierce and overwhelming darkness.

If only?
Yes, if only.

I cannot understand the world as he saw it,
or life as he experienced it,
or the heavy weight he carried.

But I was witness to the pain of those
who tried so hard to help him on his journey.
Who did their best to love him. Who did love him.
Completely. Through it all.

Now, in a way, it feels over, but really there is so much more.

Hope is in the sunrise.
Indeed.

(I wrote this for my friends who lost their son, an amazing skier, in an avalanche recently. The backcountry was where he found peace from the struggles he faced in day to day life. I hope to cling to the lessons he taught me. I hope to honor the love of his family and friends. Rest in peace Adam.)