A strong line of high winds and thunderstorms passed through last night in the deepest hours of darkness when the world seems most vulnerable and a house’s shell most fragile. I lay awake, watching the flashes of lightning, hearing the thunderclaps, feeling the impact of wind and rain against my windows. Living in a city provides a sense of protection with houses almost touching and wide paved areas impenetrable to rain. Here on the island each of us is exposed, open expanses for sheets of water and wind to explore, wide windows and doors for branches to crash, pine cones that strike like missiles.
I can understand how the disciples must have felt in their storm-tossed boat on the sea, so fearful they woke Jesus. He rose and quieted storm. Sometimes I feel as if the boat of my life is rocking out of control, and I want to make certain Jesus isn’t sleeping, ignorant of my plight. Please, Lord, quiet the storms in my life, both those that rage within and without. Grant me the faith to outwait the storm, faith to know you are not asleep. Amen.
I watched a gull today as he waddled before me, clumsily walking the water’s edge. His footprints were splayed into the sand, triangular shapes laid before me. I wondered why he walked instead of flying; why would one born to soar aloft choose instead the difficult and awkward task of walking? Then I began to wonder about myself. Why do I sometimes choose to live a life apart from God, even for brief moments when I could choose instead to be close to him? Why do I refuse to forgive myself when God has already forgiven me? Why do I reject God’s love when it is so freely given? Forgive me, Father, when I choose to walk clumsily on my own rather than soar by your side. Amen.
Each evening we regularly watch the weather forecast, letting it assist us in selecting the next day’s wardrobe and activities. I see storms blowing up from the west or cold fronts descending from the north. I read of strong winds moving in from the east or balmy weather reaching us from the deeper south. As I look at weather maps and hear the forecaster’s analysis, I think of all the forces that move over each of us every day, affecting our lives. Quarrels, petty betrayals, ill health, financial reversals, family divisions. We are so exposed, here on this human weather map! Please, Lord, have mercy on us all. May we see in you a refuge remote from surface patterns, deep, abiding, and eternal. Amen.
Some days, as I walk on the beach, the dolphins seem to be playing with me, dancing off shore, changing direction as I change direction, watching and entertaining me. I remember the day my husband and I put a deposit on our island lot. As we returned to the campground, we saw dolphins in the water, cavorting and playing, seeming to put their stamp of approval on the bold move we were making. How blessed we are! Our creator has placed us in a world intended for joy and happiness, a world first made perfect. Sometimes we glimpse that perfection and, like the dolphins, can only celebrate our creator’s greatness. I thank you Lord, for the dolphins’ dance and for the beautiful world you’ve shared with us. Amen.
Last night as I lay in bed, I heard an owl hooting softly in the darkness. I thought of the terror that ‘hoot’ must bring to the small and even larger creatures who live in harmony with us—crabs, mice, snakes, feral cats, young raccoons and possums—all must listen to that sound with fear in their hearts, burrowing deeper into whatever secure niche they’ve found. I think too, as I lay there, of the sounds I hear in the night that trouble me—an ambulance racing past, the shriek of a wounded animal, even voices from my past that accuse or blame me, voices that name sins I’ve committed. I thank you, Lord, for the secure niche you’ve given me, and the assurance that in your love I am forgiven. May I ask forgiveness of others and grant it to all who’ve wronged me. May my night be a time of peaceful rest. Amen.
Renters across the street had a noisy weekend. Their trash barrel is overflowing with empty beer cases and liquor bottles. I heard singing and shouting until late at night, loud voices moving in the darkness, landing with a thud on my bed. I try not to resent their noise, reminding myself they’re probably young and feel the need to shout. And yet I can’t help but think of silence and its beauty. I know that silence between people can sometimes be cold and hate-filled, but silence between friends is beautiful, the sharing of unspoken thoughts proof of closeness and love. I revel in silence. Forgive me, Father, when I talk too much at you and fail to listen and lie silent. Help me hear more of your voice and less of my own. Amen.
Our bird feeder was the scene of an altercation this morning. The feed we buy has a few sunflower seeds, but mostly it consists of millet and other small grains. Unfortunately, the crows, raccoons, woodpeckers, and black birds prefer the sunflower seeds. They squabble and squawk at one another, refusing to be fair in the distribution of the rare seeds. Each wants only sunflower seeds; let the others have the smaller offerings. And so we hear verbal fisticuffs as they dive, attack, and scold one another. How like humans they are! Fighting, shrieking, and selfishly wanting only the best. Instead of being grateful for the gifts placed into our lives by a loving father, we struggle and battle to have all the prizes, resentful if we aren’t the winners. Forgive us our selfishness, and help me, in particular, to learn to share gracefully, thankfully, and eagerly. Amen.
‘Crabtracks’ is the name of our house, so named because we found ghost crabs had made intricate patterns in the sand when we initially visited our lot. We decided these were hieroglyphics, inviting us to stay. Today I noticed a large, deep ghost crab hole beside one of my pansies, almost exposing the roots. I love the flower, but I also love the crabs who lived on this land long before I arrived. And so I will leave the crab alone, free to excavate my flowerbed and make his home. I wish him happiness and success, respecting his native habitat. I ask you, Lord, help me respect all life in its myriad forms. May I willfully destroy nothing you have created—well, maybe with the exception of noseeums, mosquitoes, and fire ants. And perhaps Father you could use even these pests to teach me much needed patience. Amen.
Today as I was standing in line to check out, I heard the woman ahead of me tell the cashier, “This is my first and last trip here; there’s NOTHING to do here!” I was quietly shocked, and then I realized there is little to do here on the island, if ‘doing’ means being entertained. There are no theaters, bowling alleys or amusement parks, no nightclubs or miniature golf courses. Only the ocean, the beach, and the sky exist here, each teeming with life and traces of death. I’m reminded of the phrase, “Be still and know that I am God.” Here there is time and space to be still, to stand before the infinite without the trappings of entertainment, and search within and without for knowledge of God. I thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to touch your face and receive your message in quiet solitude here, where it is written in large script. Amen.
It began to sprinkle a bit during my walk this afternoon—just enough to make tiny dents in the dry sand. Each drop was a crater, sculpting its own descent into the white sand. This is a phenomenon I rarely see, for when it rains hard, all the sand is wet and the drops cancel out one another. But today I see the impact of one tiny drip, measurable in the sand, and I wonder about my impact on the world of people and nature. Sometimes, Lord, I am careless and wasteful with the world you’ve given into my keeping. I walk with heavy abandon, unthinking of the impact my presence has upon your creation. Recognizing that a single raindrop can leave its trace, may I strive to walk softly, to treat this earth more tenderly, and to tend with gentle affection the beautiful world you’ve given us. Amen.
A strong line of high winds and thunderstorms passed through last night in the deepest hours of darkness when the world seems most vulnerable and a house’s shell most fragile. I lay awake, watching the flashes of lightning, hearing the thunderclaps, feeling the impact of wind and rain against my windows. Living in a city provides a sense of protection with houses almost touching and wide paved areas impenetrable to rain. Here on the island each of us is exposed, open expanses for sheets of water and wind to explore, wide windows and doors for branches to crash, pine cones that strike like missiles.
A strong line of high winds and thunderstorms passed through last night in the deepest hours of darkness when the world seems most vulnerable and a house’s shell most fragile. I lay awake, watching the flashes of lightning, hearing the thunderclaps, feeling the impact of wind and rain against my windows. Living in a city provides a sense of protection with houses almost touching and wide paved areas impenetrable to rain. Here on the island each of us is exposed, open expanses for sheets of water and wind to explore, wide windows and doors for branches to crash, pine cones that strike like missiles.
I watched a gull today as he waddled before me, clumsily walking the water’s edge. His footprints were splayed into the sand, triangular shapes laid before me. I wondered why he walked instead of flying; why would one born to soar aloft choose instead the difficult and awkward task of walking? Then I began to wonder about myself. Why do I sometimes choose to live a life apart from God, even for brief moments when I could choose instead to be close to him? Why do I refuse to forgive myself when God has already forgiven me? Why do I reject God’s love when it is so freely given? Forgive me, Father, when I choose to walk clumsily on my own rather than soar by your side. Amen.
ch evening we regularly watch the weather forecast, letting it assist us in selecting the next day’s wardrobe and activities. I see storms blowing up from the west or cold fronts descending from the north. I read of strong winds moving in from the east or balmy weather reaching us from the deeper south. As I look at weather maps and hear the forecaster’s analysis, I think of all the forces that move over each of us every day, affecting our lives. Quarrels, petty betrayals, ill health, financial reversals, family divisions. We are so exposed, here on this human weather map! Please, Lord, have mercy on us all. May we see in you a refuge remote from surface patterns, deep, abiding, and eternal. Amen.
Some days, as I walk on the beach, the dolphins seem to be playing with me, dancing off shore, changing direction as I change direction, watching and entertaining me. I remember the day my husband and I put a deposit on our island lot. As we returned to the campground, we saw dolphins in the water, cavorting and playing, seeming to put their stamp of approval on the bold move we were making. How blessed we are! Our creator has placed us in a world intended for joy and happiness, a world first made perfect. Sometimes we glimpse that perfection and, like the dolphins, can only celebrate our creator’s greatness. I thank you Lord, for the dolphins’ dance and for the beautiful world you’ve shared with us. Amen.
Last night as I lay in bed, I heard an owl hooting softly in the darkness. I thought of the terror that ‘hoot’ must bring to the small and even larger creatures who live in harmony with us—crabs, mice, snakes, feral cats, young raccoons and possums—all must listen to that sound with fear in their hearts, burrowing deeper into whatever secure niche they’ve found. I think too, as I lay there, of the sounds I hear in the night that trouble me—an ambulance racing past, the shriek of a wounded animal, even voices from my past that accuse or blame me, voices that name sins I’ve committed. I thank you, Lord, for the secure niche you’ve given me, and the assurance that in your love I am forgiven. May I ask forgiveness of others and grant it to all who’ve wronged me. May my night be a time of peaceful rest. Amen.
ur bird feeder was the scene of an altercation this morning. The feed we buy has a few sunflower seeds, but mostly it consists of millet and other small grains. Unfortunately, the crows, raccoons, woodpeckers, and black birds prefer the sunflower seeds. They squabble and squawk at one another, refusing to be fair in the distribution of the rare seeds. Each wants only sunflower seeds; let the others have the smaller offerings. And so we hear verbal fisticuffs as they dive, attack, and scold one another. How like humans they are! Fighting, shrieking, and selfishly wanting only the best. Instead of being grateful for the gifts placed into our lives by a loving father, we struggle and battle to have all the prizes, resentful if we aren’t the winners. Forgive us our selfishness, and help me, in particular, to learn to share gracefully, thankfully, and eagerly. Amen.
‘Crabtracks’ is the name of our house, so named because we found ghost crabs had made intricate patterns in the sand when we initially visited our lot. We decided these were hieroglyphics, inviting us to stay. Today I noticed a large, deep ghost crab hole beside one of my pansies, almost exposing the roots. I love the flower, but I also love the crabs who lived on this land long before I arrived. And so I will leave the crab alone, free to excavate my flowerbed and make his home. I wish him happiness and success, respecting his native habitat. I ask you, Lord, help me respect all life in its myriad forms. May I willfully destroy nothing you have created—well, maybe with the exception of noseeums, mosquitoes, and fire ants. And perhaps Father you could use even these pests to teach me much needed patience. Amen.
Today as I was standing in line to check out, I heard the woman ahead of me tell the cashier, “This is my first and last trip here; there’s NOTHING to do here!” I was quietly shocked, and then I realized there is little to do here on the island, if ‘doing’ means being entertained. There are no theaters, bowling alleys or amusement parks, no nightclubs or miniature golf courses. Only the ocean, the beach, and the sky exist here, each teeming with life and traces of death. I’m reminded of the phrase, “Be still and know that I am God.” Here there is time and space to be still, to stand before the infinite without the trappings of entertainment, and search within and without for knowledge of God. I thank you, Lord, for the opportunity to touch your face and receive your message in quiet solitude here, where it is written in large script. Amen.
It began to sprinkle a bit during my walk this afternoon—just enough to make tiny dents in the dry sand. Each drop was a crater, sculpting its own descent into the white sand. This is a phenomenon I rarely see, for when it rains hard, all the sand is wet and the drops cancel out one another. But today I see the impact of one tiny drip, measurable in the sand, and I wonder about my impact on the world of people and nature. Sometimes, Lord, I am careless and wasteful with the world you’ve given into my keeping. I walk with heavy abandon, unthinking of the impact my presence has upon your creation. Recognizing that a single raindrop can leave its trace, may I strive to walk softly, to treat this earth more tenderly, and to tend with gentle affection the beautiful world you’ve given us. Amen.