Precious Lord, Let me Stand

Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand Day 6 (Of Lockdown) I have always loved London windows. They are Sound of Music windows: tall, draped with enough fabric that Julie Andrews could fling it about while she sang, could carve it into skirts and lederhosen. They are functional too, designed to …

Of Stars and Stabbing Moons

Summer and Winter, and Springtime and Harvest… This week, I dreamed of summer. Of landscapes drenched in sunshine and rain; of lush hills, floating past the window on long car rides. Of flowers. Daisies and roses; the lilacs of late May. Of the garden I helped plant and tend last year: it’s organized rows of …

Sanctuary

Sanctuary: a place of refuge It is eight thirty on a glorious London morning, the kind of morning I live for. My bedroom window faces a wall (thanks, city living), but I am in the corner of our building, and around the wall I can see bits of a budding garden. There is sunshine, the …

Ash to Ash

I will hold the Christ light for you, in the darkness of your fear. I will hold my hand out to you, speak the peace you long to hear.  The smell of ashes is distinct. It is a tang, something sharp and crisp. It clings to jackets and hats, infuses hair. For days afterwards, I …

Montmartre

Montmartre was a tomb. My Great Aunt left that out when she proposed the idea. Granted, that may have been because I (still) don't speak French, and our attempts to communicate usually involve a dictionary. She said "church?," I said "oui" and off we went, into a perfect Paris day. It was bright and sunny, …

The Voice of Elizabeth

Elizabeth became my voice when all/My praise was silence* This week I've come to a conclusion: we are way too judgmental of Zechariah. It's one of those stories I feel like I've known forever, the kind that only fifteen years of Sunday School can normalize. There's a man. He doesn't have enough faith, so he …

There’s A Way; There’s A Voice

Darkness and snow descend; The clock on the mantlepiece Has nothing to recommend Nor does the face in the glass Appear any nobler than our own With these words, WH Auden opens his poem, "For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio." They are striking words, in part because they are unexpected; in part because they …

For the Time Being

Beacon: a light or other visible object serving as a signal, warning, or guide at sea. The bowl sits in the middle of the room like a beacon. But it has no light. Not yet. Ringed around it, the members of my church seem small. I seem small, though the candle I hold is smaller …

The Hope I Hold

I sat in Mass a few months ago and watched a blackbird take flight over the tree line. Through the glass window, its wings caught the sky, which was a magnificent shade of gray against the charcoal form. That's a strange description of the color gray, which usually earns the phrase "meh" instead, but it's …

The Sacred and Rembrandt

Let me tell you a story. It's Lent. The middle of Lent, to be precise. The part of Lent where cutting things out of my life has lost any sense of novelty and turned into deep longing. I know this feeling is part of the point of Lent, and yet my thoughts are turning from …