River of small stones

Thus, the river of small stones has come to the end.

Each day (almost) in January, I have written a short description of  a moment when I have been attentive to what's going on around me.  (Check previous posts.) The challenge was given by two writers at "River of Stones" for people to write a "small stone" every day for the month of January.  Their definition of a small stone is a "very small piece of writing that precisely captures a fully engaged moment."  It's a great invitation, but I added to it.  I allowed whatever small stone I observed to form a prayer.

What has this experience taught me?  First, the engaged moments have invited me to pray for things that I wouldn't have thought of otherwise.  That's been pretty cool.  Secondly, I am mindful of how many of my most attentive moments have come on the morning walks which are part of my prayer time.  Therefore you have heard a lot about birds and sky and the like.  Thank you for your patience.  But finally, I also have become aware of how hard the discipline of writing is, and I have a new respect for writers who sit down to the task of communicating every day through the written word.  Thank you, writers around the world.

Now, on to being a pastor....(which includes much attentiveness and frequent writing.)

Small stone, day 31

Sitting in the group, 
it suddenly comes with clarity, 
with certainty, 
with joy,
that there is so much work left to do, 
work left for me to do.


Praying today:  With gratitude for the opportunities to work and serve faithfully.

Small stone, day 30

In the middle of the city,
in the heart of a busy day, 
over dirty concrete streets,
a piercing call
twice spoken
I know a hawk when I hear one;
so sudden visions of northern exposure
and sitka pine set
telephone poles swaying.


Praying today:  For wild creatures adapting to living near people.

Small stone, day 29

I walk into the living room 
with my cheese toast supper 
and discover a tardy champagne glow 
resting in the winter sky, 
still seeping into my window; 
so my body begins relaxing into 
the lengthening of days. 

Praying today:  For people in the southern hemisphere who are relishing summer days.

Small stone, day 28

Two woodpeckers hammering in stereo, 
back and forth the drumming
dances through the thawed air.

Praying today:  Giving thanks for musicians who praise you.

Small stone, day 27

Outside the window sounds a constant shrill call.
I look for its source in the pussy willow bush 
but see nothing.  When I step out the door, 
a disturbed hawk glides off the roof and away.
The strident alarms soon settle into a conversation as
two newly visible chickadees peck at 
the ends of stems for seeds. 

Praying today:  For all those who will encounter danger.

Small stone, day 26

Contentment today is
finally to arrive home from work
to sit in a warm corner,
to feel the softest of yarns
slipping through my fingers, 
spilling a pattern of green and white.
I stop every few minutes, spread my 
hand over the growing blanket
and imagine the baby miles away
that it will gently hold for me.


Praying today:  For all babies being born---and their parents---especially those who will enter impoverished conditions full of risk for a little one.

Small stone, day 25

I pass through the cemetery up the hill on my morning walk. 
A mound with frozen brown roses and drenched pink ribbons pulls at me.
I peer at the funeral home's temporary sign stuck in the ground this last month.
It is someone I know.
Someone who showed my family hospitality when we were new in the neighborhood.
I remember standing in her kitchen and washing supper dishes.
I am suddenly sad for the loss to her family, 
but for this too: 
I didn't know she died.


Praying today:  For her family.

Small stone, day 24

Spruce needles pregnant 
with tiny globes of water
formed from mist, 
growing, swelling, lingering, 
dropping 
and beginning again.

Praying today: Giving thanks for fresh water that gives life.

Small stone, day 23

Where did day 22 go?  Let.s not go there; but here is day 23.

A gathering is called, 
an email to a few dozen.
Two come: I and another.
That's all.
More than worthy of a drive 
through hills, fog and shifting expectations,
to where one new friendship is cemented
with a prayer.

Praying today:  For the new friend.

Small stone, day 21

A comforter of soft snow wraps my village.  This corner of the world is sleeping in.   Even the train, slowed by rail repair on hold, creeps past with barely a rumble.

Praying today:  Giving thanks for the gift of rest.

Small stone, day 20

I climbed a mountain this morning---
new hiking shoes grabbed limestone and dirt,
legs burned, heart pumped, ears drummed,
lungs scoured by brittle air.
Dogs wagged tails, watched from above:  
what's taking so long?


Praying today:  For the bigger challenges friends and family are facing.

Small stone, day 19

One sentence spoken with a certain glance
and I feel myself crawling somewhere deep 
to mull things over until morning.

Praying today: For wisdom and patience.

Small stone, day 18

Immigrant snowflakes cross over into this January's strange territory. By the time I climb the hill, they have disappeared, leaving only a few of the fallen to melt by noon.

Praying today:  For all immigrants making a home in a strange land.

Small stone, day 17

Seven people talk about cancer. Vulnerability encircles the table. Much to say.  Much to feel.  Much to remember.  Much exhaustion.  Much in the deepest places left unspoken where hope must do its work.  

Praying today:  For those who are terminally ill and those who accompany them....past and present.

Small stone, day 16

18 degrees.  Leaves snap underfoot.  The rooster's crow creaks to a close.  Gloved fingers go numb anyway. I stand aside, pull the dog's leash tight as pick-ups rush by for warmer destinations.


Praying today:  Thanksgiving for courageous people like Martin Luther King, Jr.

Small stone, day15

The guitar picked up with ease, the mellow voice leading, the growing swell of people following, and I am no longer pastor, just any human, singing a slow prayer in my corner and marveling at gentle grace.

Praying today: For all musicians who lead us to pray.

Small stones, days 13 and 14

Pale and soft yarns flows through my fingers,
in and out, back and forth, 
while I imagine the one for whom I make this
being woven by Another, cell after delicate cell,
in the depths of the mother's womb.


Praying yesterday:  For grandbaby and parents as they grow in hidden and not so hidden ways.

The sycamore has slowly being undoing itself;  this morning I see yet another limb has been cast off.  It lies half submerged in the water with its gnarly hands and fingers grasping the creek bank like bleached bones.


Praying today:  What things do I need to cast off in order to be the person God has made for today?   (I could start by forgoing that stupid computer game :-/ )

Small stone, day 12

I know this small stone is late.  I was too tired to write about it  ("it" being a moment when I try to be fully present/observant to what's around me) when I got home last night from Prayer around the Cross.

Murmurs in the hall, heels on stone, fingers exercising empty euphonium valves, rustling into pews, cough, guitar whispering that strange chord again, cough, overhead jet coming in for a landing, cough again, and then suddenly everything settles into a few seconds of deep communal  silence.  We begin...

Praying this day:  For healing in people, in the world.

Small stone, day 11

Eleventh small stone, 20 to go:

At dawn the sinking moon and I 
are walking past a grove of trees---
she on one side, I on the other, 
silent companions watching 
through the tangle of black limbs.

Praying today for the places I will go before the moon rises again.

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Small stone, day 10

Tenth small stone, 21 to go.   (Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

The cold morning air

bears the sharp scent

of the absence of growing.

Praying today: For new life, creativity and enthusiasm.
 

Small stone, day 9

Nine days done; 22 days to go.   (Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Chickadees dive, wrens dart,
Nuthatches hang upside down,
Finches cluster, juncoes browse,
titmouses wait their turn,
a northern flicker bullies,
sparrows glean under the holly bush;
swoop, swipe a seed, haul the bounty to
a branch and eat it in peace.


Praying today: For hungry people in our communities.

Signs (Continued)

There are no C & O signs for Cohill Station when I arrive here this afternoon.  Today, it is only because of the previous mile post I just passed (yes, I did notice what I needed to see after all), that I am alerted  that Cohill Station is near.  When I check my trail guide, I see that the road on the other side of the canal must be  where Rick will pick me up.  Sure enough, not much farther on the trail there is a wooden bridge that leads over the empty canal to the road.   I walk across.  There is nothing here that indicates to a vehicle traveling down the road that the cleared dirt area twenty yards way is anything more than a farm turn-around.  It certainly does not look like a parking lot for the towpath or pick-up point for a lonely hiker.  There are no buildings around; no abandoned station.  Nor is there any C&O sign at this bridge that will notify Rick that this is Cohill Station.  Well, he won’t need a sign, I think to myself.  I will sit here right on the bridge by the road that runs within  four feet of me; I myself will be the sign that he cannot miss.

I slip the pack off my shoulders, tie Chester to the wooden rail, and pull out snacks and water for both of us.  This has been a shorter walk today and it is only 2:00 pm.  Lounging on the smooth bridge boards, I try to call Rick on my cell phone to tell him I am done walking, but there is no coverage out here.  Ever since the trail has entered the mountains, cell phone service has been spotty.  Geologically, the Potomac has done its hard work of carving through soil and rock, ridge after ridge, as it flows east so that now it lies deep in the shadows of the bluffs, cliffs and the worn mountains it has gashed.  Signals from distant cell towers to my peaceful resting spot here below near the riverbed are blocked by all this stone and earth.

I don’t mind waiting awhile.  I have been wistfully aware that this is my last day walking the trail in early spring.  Tomorrow we pack up, leave the trailer in a campground nearby and head back home to prepare for our three week trip to the Pacific Northwest.  When I return to this bridge next month, the wild flowers that have become familiar will be long gone. The tree leaves will no longer be tiny and tender green.  Magenta pawpaw blossoms will have dried and disappeared, exposing green fruit.  Ducklings will have lost their fuzzy down.  Spring floods will have waned.   Part of me laments leaving these signs of the young, unfolding spring that will be more grown up when I return.

I have been learning  about signs in John’s gospel.  Jesus is often doing “signs” that are supposed to point to who he is: the Messiah, God’s son,  for whom the people have been waiting.  For example, the first sign he reluctantly does is to change the water in large stone jars into wine for a wedding.  A few people are aware of what happened, but most simply enjoy tasting the new wine he made available.  His disciples are impressed with the sign and decide he is certainly someone to follow.  Only the gospel writer narrating the story seems to understand:  this sign shows Jesus to be the “bridegroom” come to the people of Israel.  Later Jesus performs signs of healing, making a lame man walk and healing a little boy about to die of a high fever, but the crowds seem more interested in getting in line for the next healing than believing in the one who might heal their relationship to God.  Now in chapter six, the chapter I’ve been working on the past few days, Jesus feeds the crowd of five thousand people with five loaves and two fish, and the crowd chases after him across the lake.  When they find him, they ask:

"Rabbi, when did you come here?"  Jesus answered them, "Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.  Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you."  (John 6.25-27)

When the crowd realizes that Jesus is not going to give them another free meal right away, they try a different angle:

So they said to him, "What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing?  Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, 'He gave them bread from heaven to  eat.'"  Then Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven.  For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world."  They said to him, "Sir, give us this bread always."  Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”  John 6.30-35

Most of the crowd, including some religious leaders, had trouble understanding the spiritual nature of what Jesus was saying.  They were clueless about the sign.  When Jesus starts talking about eating his flesh and drinking his blood, that does it.  Even some of his regular followers end up leaving him, thinking his words are either ridiculous or that he is talking about some sort of cannibalism.  Jesus’ signs seem to be “blocking up the scenery” and “breaking their minds” and turning people in another direction.

I have been waiting for about an hour now, and in that time only a few cars have passed by.  Some horses.  A few bikers on the trail.  Otherwise it has been very still in this comfortably warm sunshine with the minutes drifting by.  Then I see it,  a shiny black truck heading up the road toward me.  “Chester, here comes our ride.”  I begin to get up: slowly, I admit, since my body does not move quickly from ground position.  I smile as the truck approaches...too fast and, smile fading, the truck whizzes past.  I belatedly start waving at the rear view mirror and yelling, a  futile endeavor since the windows of the air-conditioned truck are up, but somehow the energy of shouting into dusty, deaf air makes me feel like I am doing something useful.  It is, however, peculiarly useless.  Rick did not see me, and I thought I was a sign impossible for him to miss.

How much quieter it is now on the side of the road.  To be unnoticed and overlooked leaves me in uneasy silence.  Only a few deep breaths ago I was full of relishing spring and puzzling through munching on the bread of life.  But now, in the empty space of being left behind, I note the angle of the sun, guess the hours of daylight remaining (just in case), hear the sound of a mower far away uphill, and wonder if that leads in the direction of a land line phone at someone’s farm.  I try the cell phone again and it beeps an “emergency numbers only” signal.  I wonder: if I dial 911, would it really work?  Then  reluctantly I acknowledge that this is not a situation that warrants my trying...yet.

So Chester and I begin walking in the direction the truck disappeared.  We walk for maybe five minutes before coming to a strange, three-way intersection with one road curving narrowly under an abandoned railroad bridge.  I notice that the road signs seem rather confusing. It seems like the road I am standing on is not labeled the same as the trail guide indicates.  Is Rick looking on the wrong road because of the confusion?  I have no idea which of the two ways Rick hurried down, so rather than stand here and look lost (which technically I’m not, since I know I must be at Cohill Station....here’s the railroad after all), Chester and I walk back to the apparently  unnoticeable wooden bridge.  I decide I will be a better sign if I am standing up as opposed to sitting down.

The afternoon progresses, and it is now the hour for folks to be driving home from work, although in this remote area there can’t be many homes to drive to.  Now I am standing here getting hungry.  I met the wife of the mayor this morning.  She was power-walking on the trail in Hancock.  When I asked her about the best place to eat dinner, she very diplomatically told me the town’s restaurants were all good, but she offered the name of the longest running, most historical eating spot...home-style cooking, she said.  I can smell a Maryland crabcake coming.

Each sound of a  vehicle approaching from around the bend brings new hope.  After five or six disappointment, with long spaces in between, the truck, much slower now, comes into view.  This time I am prepared and start waving sooner and pour all my  mental concentration into willing Rick to look at me.  Only when the truck sharply veers over into the small cleared area, do I know for sure that we have succeeded in being the sign to pull over.

After all, we disciples of Jesus are suppose to be signs: signs to others that God indeed has come, that God is healing, God is feeding, God’s Messiah is abundantly present and working in this age.  Am I a sign that is joyfully and enthusiastically waving and pointing to the bridge we have just crossed, the way of Christ we have found?  Or am I sitting down preoccupied, lost in the weeds and grass as others rush by in their busy life’s focus?  (I find out later Rick’s eyes were focused down on his GPS on the first drive-by.)

Being a sign to others that God is present in the world may take some intentional effort on our part, and, at the very least, require the Holy Spirit’s intervention for connections to be made:  a smile, a wave, an invitation, putting ourselves into the path of conversation, a bowl of soup, a clean bed, a pounding hammer, a note written.  Our purpose is to be a sign to the searcher who is looking.  Of course, we signs may not recognize who is searching, and the searchers may not have a clue what sign they are looking for, but it is all up to God to bring the two together.

Right now, I am simply relieved that this sign and this searcher have found each other.  We head into town for crab cakes while there is enough daylight left to admire the layers of hazy green mountain ridges and the ribbon of blue river winding below: signs that it is once again a lovely spring season in God’s earth.

Small stone, day 8

Day 8 already! 23 days to go.  (Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

When the sun crests the tree line,
my hair and shoulders feel it.  Our warming
shadows stretch to the far end of the park
and disturb a bevy of mallards in the un-iced corner
of the pond.  In loud unison they rise like steam,
except for a handsome pair remaining to 
paddle lazily between a few floating feathers.

Praying today:  For the congregation as it gathers to worship and sing in unison.

Small stone, day 7

Listen:  Pine needles sift wind.  Grounded leaves shuffle.  Swaying limb creaks.  Galloping paws pound the earth. Barking.  Panting.  Down in the valley the train rolls and whistles, the highway hums.  Crows caw on the ridge. A chickadee calls.

Praying today:  For a place where the sounds are very different.  "Winterfest" is in Lancaster this weekend and several hundred Lutheran youth and young adults are noisily worshiping, serving, learning and playing.

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Chapter 14-- Signs

(From my journal, Wednesday, April 30, 2008.  I am walking from Hancock. MD, to Cohill Station on my way hiking from D.C. to Pittsburgh, memorizing the gospel of John.)

There was a song years back: “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind....”  Actually, along this towpath, there are not many signs.  There are brown, square wooden posts, one every mile along the trail, with the mileage carved into them and the indented numerals painted white: 32...55...91...113.  When matching up the mile marker to the trail map in my pocket, it can be handy to know how far one has come, how many miles to the next trailside campsite (as in portable toilet), and how far one has to go to the destination (a comfortable seat in the truck home to the campsite).

I often miss the mile posts when I am absorbed in learning John, or when I am looking around at something else  like the pawpaw trees, so I have gotten the bright idea of trying to train Chester to notice them for me.    Whenever we stop at a mile post (that I notice), I place hot dog bits on its top square surface, and Chester is immediately standing on his hind legs scarfing it down.  I figure, if I am staring at turtles or muskrats in the canal, I won’t miss mileage information if he pulls me to the mile post in anticipation of eating hot dog bits.

That is as  far as the training goes.  From his perspective, mile markers are pretty indistinguishable from the rest of the scenery, unless, of course, another canine has peed on it.  For him to notice the mile post first, then drag me over to put a treat on it...well, that seems to be either beyond him or, more likely, beyond my consistency and patience to train him right now.  My contemplative prayer friends, who are cheering me on this walk, would remind me that I don’t need mile posts to control and plan and measure where I will be.  Pilgrims, they would say, are playfully attentive to whatever is happening at the moment; they enjoy where they are now, knowing that they will see what they are meant to see and be where they are meant to be.  So much for Chester noticing mileage signs.

There are also the occasional campsite signs.  Each primitive campsite along the towpath is marked by a sign that gives a name, such as Huckleberry Hill or Killiansburg Cave, followed by how many miles east and west to the next campsite.  While these signs may catch the attention of swiftly moving bikers and help them plan whether to stop for the day or continue on, for a walker these signs are rather superfluous.  I don’t need a sign to see the picnic table in the clearing over there, the campfire pit, the portable toilet and the hand pump for water.  At the slower pace I am going, the sign’s information about mileage to the next campsite is irrelevant, since I probably won’t pass the next campsite it points out until tomorrow.  I do, however, enjoy reading the campsite names.  They trigger  my curiosity about what might be nearby.  Huckleberries?  Too early in the spring.  A cave?  I start watching the bluffs on my right, instead of the mile posts.

There are signs posted in the major parking lots which serve as the popular entrance points to the towpath.  These signs are helpful for people traveling in vehicles trying to find the trail.  “Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park”  the large wooden signs read, noting the specific location: "Edwards Ferry," or "Hancock", or "Great Falls."

However, unlike what the old song says about signs being everywhere, there are often no location signs marking the less frequented vehicle access points to the trail.  When Rick and I  go searching for the location of the next pick-up point, we often must rely, not on a sign, but on maps, GPS navigation and the river to ascertain exactly where we are.

We used to be diligently prepared and check out our pick-up points before hand.  Lately Rick and I have become lax about investigating the pick-up points in advance.  With the mountain ridges always blocking the way, it can be a time consuming, round-about drive to check things out for the next day.   After a long hike, I am more interested in getting back to the campground for a shower rather than figuring out where I will be picked up the next day.  But that proves to be a risky mistake, as we shall see when this post continues...

Small stone, day 6

Slice through the yellow-skinned grapefruit,
scent sharp as sunburn
sprays from twelve, glistening segments,
spoonfuls to quench the craving 
for long lit days.

Praying today: Giving thanks today for fruit: for those who plant and tend trees and vines, for those (often migrants) who harvest, for those who deliver these gifts that keep our bodies healthy.

Today is the feast of Epiphany.  May your journeys lead you, like the wise men, to adore the Holy One.

Small stone, day 5

A sheet of fine white linen stretches 
before me on walkway and road, 
beckons feet to be first in 
joining winter's royal procession.
I wonder in pre-dawn light
why the grass alone seems bare,
uninterested in the festive show;
it has simply swallowed the snow whole.


Praying today:  For all those who are taking first steps of one sort or another.


(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Small stone, day 4

Counting stars and reach fifty
or so when the grass
rustles.  Opaque forms move
among the trees.  Four deer
maybe. Sixteen hooves 
bending hundreds of grass blades 
in the dark.  One moon shadow 
floating on the road---mine. 

Praying today:  The wise men followed a star to find your gift of the Christ child.  Abraham gazed at a myriad of stars and heard your promise.  Stars have awed, fascinated, guided, humbled and sometimes pointed to faith.  Before I get much older, I would like to travel to a place dark enough to count with my own eyes a thousand stars you have made.

Postscript tidbit:  After I wrote this, I googled "best places to see stars."  There are two certified star-watching places in the U.S.  One is in Utah and the other?  Cherry Springs State Park in Pennsylvania!  Three hours away.  I'm going!!

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones" of which these small stone posts are a part.)

Small stone, day 3

Ok, this small stone is more like a boulder.  I began and ended noticing the present moment, but there was all this worry stuff in between...

Porch windchimes sing through a stiff breeze.
My body tenses, mind searches, remembers
their dark warnings night after night past:
last season of twisted tornadoes, drenching hurricanes, 
thunder bolts beating on the very mountains
my son walked alone.
Breathe deeply, mother.  
Listen again. Today's chiming tells 
only of sun and winter blue and
all is well, safely home.

Praying today: Thanking God today for people with courage to take on new challenges, and others that continue to sing when dangers and difficulties come their way.

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones.")

Small stone, day 2

A vastness of fallen browns and tangled grays,
the inevitable monotony of winter woods,
is sliced by a single thread,
vivid green.
I follow the live moss home.

Praying today:  I am grateful that I can see colors.  I pray for those who have no home to go to tonight and am thankful for those who staff the homeless shelter this winter.

(Check this site to find out about January's 2012 "River of Stones.")

Small stone, day 1

A small stone, for today:

Table crumbs basking in sunlight,
Spots of crimson pooling in wineglasses,
Scattered chairs, slouching candles:
Lovely echoes of friends' laughter.

Praying today:  In this new year I thank God for treasured old friends and enlivenng new ones.