Here we go…

It’s official, the Season of Lent is upon us. Professionally it means many hours of work and preparation, extra time with the church community, and some nights of restless sleep. However, I am in more anticipation of this time of reflection this year than ever before. Ash Wednesday started things on the correct path, and I hope to continue with it.

My goal this year is to blog everyday with some sort of reflection, either about my personal journey or that of the church… but it will always be about God’s presence. This is part of my time of transfiguration and searching. I am working on substantial change to my innermost self as well as the way I look at the world.

I invite you to follow with me in this journey, and share something from your thoughts as well. I am hoping that this process will allow for conversation between people. I do not want us to debate for the sake of answers, but for the sake of conversation. Let us revel in the ambiguity of life, and realize we don’t have the exact answers all the time. It’s a journey that includes searching and having faith.

This first blog is an introductory post. I will be more reflective and pose questions in subsequent days. I want to leave you with this poem for today:

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith by Mary Oliver
Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear

anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.

Blessings on your journey this season!

One Reply to “Here we go…”

  1. Good work! I’ll be looking forward to reading these blogs. I especially enjoyed the poem about the slow and unobservable but very real transformation in the summer. It’s like when you haven’t seen someone in a while, and they look completely different, and you’re like, “WTF”?


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