In the Upper Room of our Quarantine

            My heart goes out to the people in that upper room in the first chapter of Acts. Once upon a time, they had been capable fishermen, efficient tax collectors, competent homemakers, and women of means.  After meeting Jesus and being swept into his company, they’d had a crash course in discipleship, but they were still a ragtag bunch.  There were the brothers who had quarreled over who was greater, the woman from whom seven demons had gone out, the gaggle who always needed the parables explained, and that blustery fellow who spent an awful lot of time with his sandal in his mouth.  Then tragedy struck, followed by mystery.  And now they were expected to be . . . what?  His “witnesses to the ends of the earth?”  What did that even mean? 

            Yet on Pentecost day, Scripture says, devout Jews from every nation under heaven heard them speaking in their own tongues of the mighty acts of God.  The disciples had spent most of their lives knowing how to do one thing, and then they learned to do something else entirely, and then the Holy Spirit came upon them, and then they changed the world. 

            If their transformation seems dizzying, it might help to peek back into the upper room.  Our mental image of that place may be DaVinci’s table-for-thirteen, but Luke tells us there were actually some one hundred and twenty persons gathered there.  What did they do in those ten days between Ascension and Pentecost?  Two things we know:  they devoted themselves to prayer, and they discerned who had the right gifts for the work ahead, adding Matthias to the Eleven in place of Judas.  Although they had no idea what would happen next, they stayed together, they prayed, and they did what they could until the Holy Spirit enabled them to do far more.

That’s a reasonable mandate for us during this Coronavirus crisis.  Stay together (at least in mind and heart).  Pray.  Discern what you can do.  Wait for the Holy Spirit.

What has impressed me most about this time of shutdown is how people are learning to do things they never did before: pastors live-streaming Mass in near-empty churches; classroom teachers giving Zoom lessons from their kitchens; reporters broadcasting from their tidied-up dens.  Much of this is made possible by technology, of course, enabling the self-quarantined to work from home, video chat with grandchildren, even play board games online with friends.  A colleague of mine recently observed that, if this had happened just a decade ago, the entire school year would have been a wash.  No graduations, no promotions to the next grade: just one giant do-over. 

However, what is intriguing right now not just about the technology.  I am so touched by the way people are rummaging around in their hearts and their skill sets, bringing forth whatever is useful for the need at hand.  Makers of quilts are churning out masks.  Performers are finding new ways of getting their art into the world.  Distributors who used to move food from farms to fancy restaurants are packing boxes for hungry families instead.  Of course, these pivots could be short-term strategies—designed to maintain an income stream or a sense of purpose—yet I believe that some of these new endeavors actually hold the seeds of future promise.

And it’s not just about what people are doing, of course; it’s also—and more importantly—about the transformation happening within.  This season has been profoundly jarring, ripping away so much that we used to take for granted.  Perhaps you are on the front lines of the crisis, sacrificing safety at work, peace at home, or financial security.  Perhaps you are grieving the loss of someone dear.  Or perhaps you are among the lucky ones: riding it out quietly, but still having to let go of plans, assumptions, and certainties.  Here you are; here we all are, learning to abide in the unknown.

We are not unlike those early disciples: staying connected; praying in new ways; discerning next steps and waiting for the Holy Spirit to let us out of the room. 

In his book The Holy Longing, Ronald Rolheiser describes the tasks required for each stage of the paschal cycle (not only in the Bible, but in the countless dyings and risings of our own lives).  According to Rolheiser, the work from Ascension to Pentecost is this:  let the past ascend and bless you; receive the spirit for the life you are already living. 

We have begun to live into something new, here in the upper room of our quarantine.  It is not clear how much the Coronavirus crisis will yet ask of us, but this has gone on far too long to be just a blip on the radar screen, a ridiculous inconvenience we’ll tell stories about someday.  Now is the time to settle in, to pay attention, to notice the changes within and without. 

How might the Holy Spirit be transforming you?


I was honored to write this reflection as part of the Ignatian Volunteer Corps’ Ascension to Pentecost series, featuring contributions by Fr. Jim Martin, Dan Schutte, and more. If you are not familiar with IVC, check them out: Experience Making a Difference!

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Celebrating Easter at Home

Friends, this week I had the privilege of being interviewed by Lynn Rosen, co-owner of The Open Book Bookstore in Elkins Park. Lynn and I chatted about my book for a few minutes, but quickly moved on to talking about the challenge of celebrating Easter from home, when Holy Week is usually marked by such beautiful church services. If you have eleven minutes, check out our conversation on YouTube!

The Open Book is one of those indie gems, a true hub of literature, fun, and friendship in our neighborhood. Like many local businesses, they are finding lots of creative ways to stay afloat and generate digital content during the coronavirus shutdown. (They are also willing to do local delivery of in-stock items, so if you’re nearby and could use a new physical, audio, or e-book, consider supporting them!) You can also watch Lynn’s other author interviews and book recommendations at her new YouTube channel: Lynn Reads a Book!

Finally, I am enjoying doing my own daily audio recordings of Finding God in Ordinary Time along with new, fresh content. If you’d like to jump on in time for Holy Week, visit here.

As always, may your ordinary (and far from ordinary) days be extraordinarily blessed.

Spiritual Sustenance for the Self-Quarantined

Thank you to everyone who subscribed to this; stay tuned for whatever’s next!

No doubt you have experienced a cascade of cancellations this week, as schools, theaters, and other public venues have shut down to try to contain the Coronavirus.  It has all happened so quickly:  yesterday morning, I was speculating about whether to go forward with next week’s Lenten retreat; by last night, our Archbishop had announced the cancellation of all parish activities.

As a new member of the “gig economy,” my first thought was about all the work I would be missing.  Pretty quickly, however, my mind turned to the countless people who hunger for spiritual sustenance during the season of Lent. So many of you have signed up for retreats, programs, or days of prayer which are now not happening, or rely on the company and inspiration of groups which are now not meeting.  Ironically, such sustenance is needed more than ever in these days of unprecedented uncertainty.

So I’m going to try something new.  Starting next Saturday, March 21, I will release the audio file of one chapter of Finding God in Ordinary Time each day, accompanied by a second file in which I muse a bit on that day’s content.  (Fresh bread!)  Counting the Introduction, that’s 29 days of content, which will take us all the way through the Octave of Easter on Sunday, April 19.  For this, I’m asking just $30. (Those subscribing in Week Two will receive 23 days of content for $20.)

People have been inquiring about an audiobook for some time now, and while the quality won’t be quite as good (no fancy intro music or special effects, though sometimes you might get a free train whistle), I hope that you will enjoy hearing the stories in my own voice.  

And now if you could please say a prayer to the patron saint of technology for me . . .

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Walking Out of the Desert

This reflection may look familiar to my long-time readers, but—since we are back to the “A Cycle” readings—it seemed worth re-posting. It may not be “fresh bread,” but hopefully it still nourishes!

Jesus returned from the Jordan, and was led by the Spirit into the desert for forty days, to be tempted by the devil.  -Luke 4:1

We only hear about the 40th day.

What happened during the other 39?

Jesus was propelled out into the desert after his baptism, after he heard those life-changing words: You are my beloved son.  Did it take him that long, perhaps, to figure out what it meant to be God’s son, and what on earth he should do next?

And this “devil” – more appropriately translated “opponent” or “obstructor” – what exactly was he trying to oppose and obstruct?  And how?

I believe that, during those 40 days, Jesus wrestled with his understanding of his mission – not just the “why” and the “what” but especially the “how” of his public ministry.  Opposed and obstructed at every step.

And since the good is often the enemy of the best, I suspect that the great obstructor suggested all sorts of tangential issues to care about, alternate strategies to pursue.  Maybe Jesus needed those 40 days (the Biblical number for “a really long time”) to clear his head of all that rubbish, to be calm and focused and purposeful, to learn exactly how to direct his energy.

Here’s how I picture that final day:

It’s over.

Plans and possibilities have been considered and rejected.  Powers, perhaps, have been explored, and reliance on them restricted.  Hungry, weary, yet resolute, Jesus begins to trudge back towards civilization, leaning on his staff.

He is really hungry.

The stones at his feet shimmer in the heat; squint your eyes and they look like bread.

Then that damn voice again.  “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become bread.”  If?  If?  Always if!  The Spirit had said so; hadn’t he heard it?  Hadn’t everyone?  He’d just spent 40 days growing into that identity.  Why was the “if” back?  If you are the Son of God … and not some delusional freak!

Turning the stone to bread; would that silence the “if” for good?  The walk back was so long, and he was so hungry.  This was so hard.  What harm would it do?  Who would know?  What was the use of being God’s son, if you couldn’t feed yourself when you were hungry?

As he leans on his staff, he realizes that hunger and weariness are feeding him insecurity and taking him to the brink of unraveling all the resolutions he made when he was feeling stronger.  Mental note – fatigue and hunger are dangerous.  The strongest resolutions can start to slip away under their siege. He must steel himself against such lapses in logic; he cannot use his “magic powers” for his own comfort or convenience.  (And though he does not know it yet, If he can’t resist making bread when he is hungry, how will he resist the jeers of the crowd telling him to come down off that cross … baiting him with that word “if” again?)

More importantly, he can’t cave to the urge to prove himself for the sake of his pride.  That can’t end well.

Once the first temptation is resisted, the subsequent ones get easier. (Probably a good lesson for the rest of us.)  Though they do have their own specific appeal.

Then he took him up and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a single instant.   The devil said to him … all this shall be yours, if you worship me.  (Luke 4:5-7)

Now that is tempting.  All the kingdoms of the world in a single instant.  Just think of all the places he will never visit in his lifetime.  All the places it will take his followers years … decades … even centuries to reach, and how much his message could be warped in transmission!

And yet the devil here has overreached, showed his hand.  He doesn’t have the power.  The kingdoms are not his to give.  Easy to resist.

So the obstructor takes a step back.  Returns to what almost worked the first time.  If you are the Son of God … throw yourself down (from the parapet of the temple).   For he will command his angels to guard you … (Luke 4:9-10).

Again, there is a certain draw.  It would get people’s attention, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t have to struggle against their disbelief in the “carpenter’s son.” Wouldn’t have to take the hard road.  (Might not even wind up on the cross.)

But no.

The devil’s lures are getting tiresome.

This is not the way, and he knows it.  He walks on, feeling stronger, resolute. And so the devil retreats, waiting for Jesus’ defenses to go down again.

To do the right thing, in the right way, for the right reason. That’s the challenge that was laid before Jesus, and that lies before each of us every day.

Forget Your Perfect Offering

I’ve been thinking a lot about what to do for Lent this year.  Despite my annual insistence that the best thing is simply to respond to God’s daily invitations to be prayerful, sacrificial, and generous, I still can’t shake the feeling that I should make a Plan.  (You know, just in case someone asks me what I’m doing for Lent.)

There have been years when I was experiencing so much grief and transition during Lent that I couldn’t even fathom giving anything else up.  (Rend your hearts, Joel, really?  Mine is cracked wide open already, thank you.)  The best I could do was to sit quietly in the dark and pray for one other person each day.  It was enough. 

This year, however (and I hesitate even to put this in writing, because of how quickly things can change), I am doing pretty well.  I am loving my new freelance existence (though I still haven’t figured out how to carve out time to start that new book).  Several people close to me have had astonishingly good changes of fortune (though others are still plowing through rough times).  My health is reasonable, and there are exciting things on the horizon (though my ability to walk 300 miles across Spain on the Ignatian Camino this fall remains a question).  In other words, as the mixed-bag existence of any human being not living on a TV show goes, life is good right now.

Professionally, I spend a lot of time talking about how to draw closer to God in times of vulnerability, diminishment, failure, and loss.  Now I find myself asking an unaccustomed question:  how do I draw closer to God when things are going well?  In those hard times, it was obvious that I needed God in order draw breath, never mind get out of bed.  Now, the biggest temptation is to imagine I’m doing it on my own.

The biggest temptation is to imagine I’m doing it on my own.

One Lenten idea I’m having (notice I’m not calling it a Plan) is to spend more time fertilizing my own soil this season.  I tend to be very task-focused.  When I had a full-time job in addition to my freelance ministry and volunteer commitments, I used to say, “My life is like a game of Tetris.”  (Remember those rapidly falling blocks that you had to line up perfectly, with no gaps?  That’s how I felt about my schedule.)  Now, my days are more spacious.  (As my work successor put it, I have more of a “choose your own adventure” life these days.)  Nevertheless I still default to things that can be written down, finished up, and checked off.  I’m not sure that’s a very good way to let God in.  Correction:  I’m sure that’s not a very good way to let God in.

What I mean by fertilizing my own soil, then, is taking time for nourishing over accomplishing.  Call it input over output.  The first thing I want to do is commit to some good spiritual reading.  Not just page-a-day or quote-a-day Lenten stuff (though of course I have those too); I want to find the kind of books that make me pour a second cup of coffee and go back to the rocking chair, pencil in hand.  I’m going to start with a Christmas present, Kate Braestrup’s Beginner’s Grace.  I welcome additional suggestions, and will let you know what else I select.

To do this, however, I have to guard my morning time from myself.  Too often, my days start like this:  from the pre-dawn peace of my prayer chair, I remember something I was supposed to ask/tell someone.  I pull out my phone to take care of just that one thing, but can’t help glancing through the waiting emails.  Something catches my eye.  I read.  I respond.  The next one takes me to a survey; I click.  (So compliant!)  The New York Times daily briefing leads me down a rabbit-hole of articles . . . and now the sun is up.  Does any of this sound familiar?  (Please tell me it does!)  The way to prevent it, however, is simply to put a notepad and pen by my chair, so that when that first distracting reminder pops into my head, I can simply write it down, and refocus.  Ta-da!

So, there you have it: my big not-a-Plan. I don’t know exactly how these ideas will draw me closer to God, but, as the season unfolds, I trust that two things will happen.  1) My fertilized soil will bear fruit in unexpected ways, and 2) life will present countless invitations to respond prayerfully, sacrificially, and generously.

It reminds me of that fabulous refrain from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem:

Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.

I can’t think of better advice for Lent than “forget your perfect offering.”  The season ahead isn’t about creating a perfect Plan, pulling ourselves up by the spiritual bootstraps, or nailing our resolutions.  (A+ in humility, anyone?)  It’s about letting God in through the cracks, and maybe—just maybe—widening them a bit.

May your ordinary (Lenten) days be extraordinarily blessed!

Take Nothing for the Journey?

Warning:  this is a LONG rumination!  Read it when you are in the mood for something to chew on.

When I traveled with Maryknoll missionaries to campus ministry sites in Peru and Bolivia in 2001, I felt prepared for anything.  In my suitcase—one of the largest in our group—I had clothes for every climate, remedies for every malady, and even “hostess” gifts for every community:  four one-pound Whitman Sampler boxes!  With difficulty, I dragged that giant bag up and down the stairs of each new residence; with embarrassment, I watched our guides strain to get it to the top of the bus each time we changed cities.  

At the other end of the packing spectrum was Fr. Claude, an older Canadian priest, who carried only a duffel bag.  A smallish duffel bag at that—and it was not full.  He wore the same sweater every day, and washed his socks and underwear in the bathroom sink each night.  My chocolate weighed more than his luggage!  Watching him hop up and down steps and on and off buses with that thing, I experienced a wee bit of judgment (no one was turning to him for Band-Aids or Pepto-Bismol) and a hefty dose of jealousy.  Fr. Claude might not have brought any presents, but he was so unencumbered that he was free to share the gift of his presence everywhere we went.

Fr. Claude might not have brought any presents, but he was so unencumbered that he was free to share the gift of his presence everywhere we went.

That experience, almost twenty years ago, stirred my lasting interest in packing—both logistically and as a metaphor—as it shows up in life, in literature, and even in Scripture.  Cleaning out deceased loved ones’ houses, downsizing, and giving up my office (AKA overflow storage) added a new intensity to my wrestling match with “stuff.”  And now, as I plan for the Ignatian Camino this fall, I realize I will finally be taking a page from Fr. Claude’s book: in Spain, I will be washing my (limited) unmentionables in the sink each night! 

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Follow the Thread

“Try to think of it as a long thread,” Jim said.  “Il filo, in Italian.” 

This past Monday night, my church choir was practicing for Christmas, working on a new song that was not yet pretty enough for prime time (AKA Midnight Mass at St. Vincent’s).  Our accompanist, Jim Primosh, was trying to help us sing more smoothly by getting us to think beyond individual words or notes to the “through line” carried on our breath, unbroken and continuous.  He encouraged us to picture il filo—the long thread running through the music.  This image helped our singing a great deal, but what really caught my attention was that it was the second time I’d encountered “following the thread” as an analogy in less than a week. 

The first time was at a mentoring breakfast last Friday.  I was talking with a wonderful young man who had just changed majors, following his passion away from a clear career path.  We were discussing my recent shift from campus ministry to freelance work—also a leap into the less clear.  Andrew observed, “All the things you really loved, you’re still doing—just in a different context.”  The image of the continuous thread came to me (though I hadn’t heard the lovely Italian yet), and I described the things that matter most to me as a thread running through everything I’ve done.  “Find your own thread,” I encouraged Andrew.  “If you can see where it’s been, you can follow it forward.” 

We talked about personal mission, and the concept of a “six word mission statement” from a leadership training session at Gwynedd Mercy University. For a long time, I’ve been using the six-word tag line: Connecting Scripture, Spirituality, and Everyday Life.  Challenged to come up with a more personal motto, however, I found myself drawing on the words of the Baltimore Catechism (which, NO, I am not old enough to remember, but that didn’t stop my mom from teaching it to me).  Why am I here?  Six words:  Help others know / love / serve God.  That’s a clear thread.  The context doesn’t matter nearly as much as making sure whatever I’m doing serves that goal.

Through subsequent conversation with Jim Primosch (who happens to be an acclaimed composer and brilliant pianist as well as a parishioner of St. Vincent’s and an incredibly patient music teacher), I learned that an even more elegant term for il filo is the French la grande ligne, the main or “pure, true line” running through great music.  Jim pointed me to an article that brings together theology and music around this concept of la grande ligne:

“The more that music, however complicated it is internally, gives off a pure, true line, the more intelligible it is—and that’s why nine out of ten developments, which are not integral parts of the form, but some sort of filler for the blank spaces between the essential points, are false and wearisome.” 

(Letter from composer and music teacher Nadia Boulanger, cited in Jeanice Brooks The Musical Work of Nadia Boulanger: Performing Past and Future Between the Wars.)

In this season of Advent—a time in which we are called to create space for God—I am intrigued by that image of “false and wearisome” things that are just “filler for the blank spaces between essential points.”  It’s like St. Paul’s prayer in Philippians 1:10:  May you learn to value the things that really matter, up to the very day of Christ.  (That’s the 1970 NAB, no longer in use liturgically, but gosh, I do love some of the phrasing.)  This is a season for noticing the false and wearisome filler that keeps us from spotting and following the divine thread in our lives.  Instead of filling up the blank spaces with chatter, frittering, or mindless acquisition, can we grow more willing to rest in them?  Can we pause in the darkness long enough to let the essential points of our life come clear? 

This image of il filo or la grande ligne also can help us make sense of our disjointed personal history.  If we’ve been through significant changes, our life narrative can begin to seem more like a collection of short stories than one great mystery novel.  We change schools, jobs, and homes; we find and lose life partners; we are healthy, then we’re not.  In the midst of such flux, it is helpful to remember what is unchanging in our lives.  This includes our deepest passions and convictions, loves that continue beyond the grave, and—at the heart of it all—our relationship with God, described by the Hindu poet Tagore as “the one companion of my endless life, who links my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.”

That’s the thread. 

In this Advent season, at Christmastime, and always, may you follow it with confidence into the unknown future. 

All That You Can’t Leave Behind

On this fifth anniversary of my dad’s death, I’ll let my brother’s words speak for me. Sending love to all those who mourn . . .

The Masu

Today is the five year anniversary of my father’s death and I’ve been wondering for a few weeks what I might say about it.  I’ve been wondering how I would feel about it, and honestly, nut much is coming up.  It feels like an important date to pause and offer a quiet prayer of thanksgiving for his life and for everything I learned through his death.

Decade Challenge #DecadeChallenge fail

I’m conscious, however, of how many people in my life are currently experiencing grief from the loss of a parent, a loved one, or a sudden turn of health.  Losing my parents at a relatively young age made me a kind of pioneer in this rugged terrain of grief.  “Welcome to the Dead Parents Club,” my now-dead cousin Susan said to me way back in 2007 after we said goodbye to my mom.

In my previous blog post, I wrote about…

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The Harder Path

Double back, or press on?

The trail map of Monhegan Island (population 65) clearly identified three walks recommended for day-trippers, so we had chosen the pleasant, 25-minute stroll to Lobster Cove. We sat on a sunny rock and ate our peanut-butter-on-raisin-bread sandwiches (standard picnic fare), watching the sparkling ocean and enjoying a lone seagull who seemed pretty content on a rock of its own. The view was pretty, but we had grown accustomed to longer hikes during these last two weeks in Maine. We decided to walk out along the Cliff Trail a ways, just to see what the vista was like from a bit higher, then return the way we came.

Lobster Cove: Can you spot the seagull?

We would have preferred to stay on the Cliff Trail all the way around the east side of the island, then cut back down the middle to the ferry dock, but again, the map was clear: two sections of the trail ahead were marked in red, identified as “particularly challenging.” The map was also clear about what happened to tourists who overestimated their abilities and got into trouble. No medical service on the island. No guarantee that there would be enough cell signal to call 911. No way for a vehicle or even a boat to reach some of the places a middle-aged woman in sneakers might injure herself. For added drama, the remains of a tugboat wreck dotted the landscape around of us like a rusting cautionary tale.

Which is why we were going to double back. Except . . .

It was so beautiful! Scary, but beautiful. We scrambled up and down rocks, avoided tree roots and swampy bits, and took at least one false turn, but over and over we looked up and discovered a stunning new view of the sea. It had already been hard, so the thought of turning back and retracing our steps was, frankly, a bummer. We didn’t know if the trail ahead was dramatically harder, of if we’d already done the worst of it. And so we pressed on. (I fought rising panic by singing the jaunty rendition of Psalm 23 that was jogging through my head.)

View from the Cliff Trail on Monhegan Island

Porter took the lead—having under his belt both longer legs and more years of scouting. He figured out the safest steps, and gave me a hand when I needed it. This gave me frequent opportunities to soak in the beauty around us, as well as the chance to begin musing about the “harder paths” offered to us in everyday life.

I found myself remembering the two months my father was in home hospice care, when I took FMLA leave and moved in, along with my brother, Stephen, to care for him. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Every few days, Dad’s abilities dropped off, and the tasks required of us grew more demanding. As on the Cliff Trail, we wondered how much worse it would get, and whether we would hit a point where we couldn’t do it anymore. Yet there was so much beauty.

Even five years later, I have such warm memories of that time-out-of-time: our cousin Mike keeping me company on Wednesday nights when Stephen was back in Baltimore; our cousin Tish sitting with my dad one afternoon so I could take a shower; our uncle Len dragging a vast quantity of recycling to the curb each week as we cleared out the decades of tests, notebooks, and newspaper clippings which the home of two teachers had accumulated. I still savor the way I sat around the fireplace visiting with relatives and friends on weekends, took Stephen’s dog for walks around the old neighborhood in the mornings, and had long, consoling phone calls with distant loved ones at night. And I remember my favorite visit: my friend Liz walking in the door with homemade pizza, an assortment of craft beer, and flowers without a vase—because she figured (rightly) that we already had enough of them.

Those eight weeks were intensely challenging, but I still miss the camaraderie of that special kairos-time.

There is no dramatic ending to my Monhegan story. No one was injured. We didn’t even have any hair-raising near-misses. Eventually, the Cliff Trail intersected with the Burnt Head Trail: a gentle path that led us down an easy slope back into the village, where we shared a blueberry soda (because, Maine) and got back on the Balmy Days II for a ride around the island and return to the mainland.

A few days out, my lingering feeling is great satisfaction with having successfully taken the harder path, mingled with lingering curiosity about life’s harder paths. I keep wondering: when is doing it the hard way worth the beauty and the reward? When is it just too much? When does challenge shade into folly? And how do we know if it’s time to turn around?

I don’t know. But I do know that I want to keep exploring the questions—on foot as well as in prayer. And I know is that getting myself out into nature here in Maine—moving my body in unaccustomed ways and seeing unfamiliar sights—has opened my spirit to fresh metaphors for the spiritual life, and given me a renewed awareness of God’s presence in it all.

The sort of practicing that I did on Monhegan—taking something in the natural world and working the metaphor—will be part of a lovely half-day retreat I’m offering at the Cranaleith Spiritual Center next month. Together, we’ll take a wide-eyed look at the small things in life, and notice the presence of God, hidden in plain sight. The retreat is Sunday, October 6, from 1-4. If you are able to join me, you can register here.

But for now, I invite you to reflect on the harder paths in your own life. What have you tackled that you weren’t sure you could do? Where did you find beauty, or reward? What choice of path lies ahead of you now? How are you being led? Who has your hand? I’d love to hear your stories.

Along whatever path you walk, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed!