Giving Voice to Gratitude

There is wisdom in Easter lasting for 50 days. It takes a long time for the good news to sink in, to penetrate our bones. Lent, in some ways, comes more naturally to me: to lament, to turn inwards to God, to sacrifice. Joy is more challenging. I need all 50 days to practice living into celebration.

Brené Brown speaks to this challenge in both her books and her new Netflix special, The Call to Courage. The show kept me company as I folded laundry last week. I was half-listening to Brené while I ran through a to-do list for promoting This Life That Is Ours in my mind. Promoting a book is new work to me, and I often feel anxious about what I could and should be doing. However, when Brené described the difference between people who live vulnerable, authentic, whole-hearted lives, and those who don’t, she had my complete attention.

“The number one difference,” she said, “is that whole-hearted people let themselves experience joy.” They don’t run from it and they don’t catastrophize it, she explained. Instead, “they practice gratitude.”

I realized that I had been so worried about all that I could be doing for the book that I hadn’t paused to experience the deep goodness that already existed. Today, one month after the release of This Life That Is Ours and two weeks into the Easter season, I am pausing to be grateful for all that I have received, to savor the graces, and to practice joy. I am writing this list to say thank you to YOU, for the part you’ve played in this journey, and to invite you to make your own litany of gratitude.

A Litany of Gratitude, an Incomplete List

I am grateful…

For each person who came to each event – nearly 150 in all! For the gift of time and open hearts.

For the venues I was in, for the way they so lovingly held the launching of this book.

For the food and the hands that prepared it, and the joy my dad and my husband found in working together to set up the events.

For my mom and my sister taking care of my children, so I didn’t have to.

For my children, generously celebrating and practicing patience at long events.

For the beautiful extra touches my mom provided, the flowers and tablecloths and custom cookies which matched the cover of the book. 

I am grateful…

For the gifts I’ve received: the wine and flowers and brownies, the handmade Celtic mug, the necklace, each a tangible marker of celebration.

For each person who has bought a book.

For the privilege of signing books for people I know and people I don’t.

For the ways the book has already been shared: as a gift, through word of mouth, through social media posts, and Amazon reviews.

For the ways I hear through each of these things that this work is important. 

I am grateful.

And I pray for the way this book is making through the world. I pray over the current of love that flows from its words to the hearts of its readers. I pray the pages will be a channel through which the Holy Spirit flows. May the book be a good companion to each mother it meets.

Amen.

A Pause

What might appear on your list of gratitude? What gifts and graces in your life long to be named? How might you practice joy this Easter season?

A Favor

If you have read This Life That Is Ours, I have a favor to ask: could you take a few minutes to rate and review it on Amazon and/or Goodreads? Reader reviews are an easy way to share about the book and help others to find it. (You don’t have to have bought the book from Amazon to review it there.)

THANK YOU – for the gift of your time, for reading along with me, for joining the celebration.

May Easter continue to unfold for you. May this season be one of both deep gratitude and deep joy.

The Invitation of a Busy Advent

                I tend to feel tension in Advent. I desire it to be a time of quiet, of listening, of waiting. I want to sit in the darkness with the single candle flame that expands to two, then three, then four, waiting for full radiance to come in Christ’s birth. Attending to the mysteries of the season has seemed to beckon me to dark, still, womb-like waiting.

                Yet this longing for quiet anticipation plays out within my context, where December is always busy. I squeeze directees into the first three weeks of the month so I can take off time to be with family. I finish out year-end projects. I plan Christmas gifts for immediate and extended family members. I go to as many seasonal celebrations as I can. And inevitably I feel tired, overwhelmed, and pulled in too many directions.

                Often this tension leaves me feeling frustrated, as though I am failing at Advent. I can’t figure out how to get space to “do it right,” and all I can do is write off this year and hope that the next year will be different.

                The next year is never different.

                This year, I’m hearing a different invitation. As I reflected on Mary’s pregnancy, the Holy Spirit nudged me to look more closely at how Mary spent her days. For possibly the first time, I really saw what those final weeks of her pregnancy were like for her: preparing for her journey, packing up anything she might need knowing her child might be born before she returned home, traveling the rough and dusty roads, moving as quickly as her swollen body would allow. It was not a time of stillness and retreat. It was a time of constant activity.

                What might the season hold for me, if I enter it embracing the activity and the movement? What if, instead of resenting it and wishing it away, I saw it as part of preparing for Christ’s coming? Could I keep my internal gaze fixed on what is to come within the busyness, like Mary placing her hand on her belly as she traverses the distance between Galilee and Bethlehem?

                I think this might be the difference between being grounded and being centered. I am not rooted down, resting in place. Instead I am holding a still center within the movement. Maybe this shift will let me release the resentment. Maybe I can let go of how I wish this time would be, and instead encounter the God of Things As They Are.

                May you journey well this Advent. May this season of watching the glimmers of light grow to incandescence contain exactly what your soul most needs. Peace to you in the stillness. Peace to you in the busyness. Peace to you, right where you are.

Peregrinatio: To Be a Holy Wanderer

This is the last of our four-part series on Celtic spirituality. Thank you for exploring the rich heritage of the Celtic tradition with me!

There is a tradition in Celtic Christianity of the peregrinatio, a pilgrim who wanders without destination. This vein of holy traveler does not occur in other strands of spirituality. It contrasts with the pilgrim, who sets out with a particular destination. The peregrinatio hears an invitation within her own soul to set out, not knowing where God might lead her. It is intriguing that this comes out of Celtic spirituality, for these are a people deeply connected to both the land and to God. There wasn’t a sense that they needed to travel to find God elsewhere. Rather, the journey was a way to deepen in relationship with the Lord, to practice complete trust and surrender. The journey of the holy wanderer is a powerful metaphor of the interior journey, of the wilds within our own souls that God invites us to explore, and of the way a relationship with God is a journey into mystery.

Print of The Mysterious Boat by Odilon Redon

St. Brendan the Navigator is the most famous of the peregrinatios. St. Brendan set out in his currach without oars, trusting the Holy Spirit to fill the sails and lead him wherever he was meant to go. His story has captured my imagination. I have a painting of his boat that I use as an entry point to prayer. I imagine myself in the boat and I ask the Holy Spirit to fill my sails and lead me where She will, to points unknown. I feel my soul fill with hope and possibility as I practice trusting the Lord with my journey. In my interior life, I am a content peregrinatio.

That is rarely the case in my exterior life. When I find myself in situations where the outcome is unknown and I am wandering without a destination, I feel anxious and worried. I want to take control and rush things along to an outcome. Will I get the job I hoped for? Will we need to move? What will the test results show? When the direction of my life is unclear, I often forget how to trust and find my hope in letting the Lord be my guide. To be without destination is an attractive concept and a difficult reality.

I see in the tradition of the peregrination an invitation to be in these unknown situations in a different way. I am learning how to reframe these exterior unknowns as opportunity to journey with the Lord. They remind me that God is both leading the way, and is the destination, and is the path that I travel. When I feel the anxiety and fear creep in, I remember St. Brendan’s boat, and I ask the Holy Spirit to help me to trust that my sails will be filled.

There are different ways to play with this concept of peregrinatio. Like me, you could pray imaginatively with the imagery of a boat at sea. Can you picture yourself in that vessel, riding the waves? What are the uncertain waters that you are experiencing in your life? What is your sense of God within the scene you enter? Another way to practice would be to set out for a walk without a destination, to let yourself physically wander. Notice as you walk, where God might be present within the wandering. These are just two possibilities. I hope you find time to play with this concept of the holy wanderer, and to deepen in your own spiritual journey.

For reflection: Where in your life are you being invited to live in the not yet known? What journeys are you currently taking that do not have a known destination? What might God be saying to you within the mystery?

St. Brigid, Weaver of Opposites

A hand-carved Celtic knot, a gift from March's Celtic Spirituality Retreat

I love the intricate twists and turns of the hand-carved Celtic knot that I keep on my desk. I follow the lines with my fingers as I cradle it in my hands, not knowing where the loops will take me or when I will return to the beginning. The Celtic knot is a symbol of mystery, and one of the best-known symbols of Celtic spirituality. John O’Donohue, in Anam Cara: Spiritual Wisdom from the Celtic World, describes the Celtic connection to the knotted spiral:

The Celtic mind was never drawn to the single line; it avoided ways of seeing and being which seek satisfaction in certainty. The Celtic mind had a wonderful respect for the mystery of the circle and the spiral. The circle never gives itself completely to the eye or to the mind, but offers a trusting hospitality to that which is complex and mysterious.

This circular intricacy, the comfort with the complex and the mysterious, reminds me of St. Brigid. The patron saint of weavers, she weaves within her very being many opposites. As John Philip Newell writes in his book The Rebirthing of God: Christianity’s Struggle for New Beginnings:

Brigid of Kildare was said to be the daughter of a pagan chieftain and a Christian woman slave. She was born at dawn on the first of February while her mother (who worked as a dairy maid) was standing in the threshold of the household dairy. So it is that Brigid was born neither slave nor free, neither indoors nor outdoors, neither pagan nor Christian, neither in the winter or the spring, neither at day or at night. Brigid, therefore, was a liminal figure -- a woman of the margins and the thresholds.

In my own life, I’ve come to think of this woman of margins and thresholds as the patron saint of the both/and. Just as the Celtic knot weaves a complex pattern that cannot be easily untangled, Brigid weaves into a beautiful pattern concepts that are usually considered opposites: Christian and pagan, day and night, winter and spring, woman and (possibly) bishop. When I am feeling stuck, unable to reconcile two seemingly conflicting options or ideas, she reminds me to step back and look for a way to hold and include all that is before me. When I find myself thinking, “Either I could….or I could….” Shifting my gaze from my dilemma to St. Brigid invites a breath of possibility, and invites me to look for the potential both/and, to weave together my own opposites.

In this Easter season, we are also reminded through Brigid of the mystery of Christ’s rising. She points towards Jesus, who is the ultimate both/and, fully human, fully divine. St. Brigid shows us how to weave these seeming opposites, humanity and divinity, and to contemplate them within the person of Jesus. St. Brigid is an entry point to the mystery of our faith.

She is a model for us of Celtic spirituality, which holds opposites in friendship. Of this friendship, John O’Donohue says in Anam Cara, “For our sore and tormented separation, the possibility of this imaginative and unifying friendship is the Celtic gift.” In these polarized times, St. Brigid and Celtic spirituality offer a breath of fresh air. St. Brigid reminds us of the expansiveness of God, of the way God is not easily defined or limited or placed in a box. I feel the deep gift and necessity of this in my own life, to release my belief that I have all the answers or always know what is right.

I wonder, what opposites are you carrying in your life? Where are you experiencing tensions and the pull of either/or? What might it be like to spend time with St. Brigid, and allow her to reveal to you the possibility of both/and?

On Thin Places

On St. Patrick’s Day 2018, I had the privilege of leading a retreat on Celtic Spirituality in my hometown of Springfield, OH. I’ll be sharing a series of reflections on Celtic spirituality that are inspired by that sacred time, beginning with thin places.

I first visited Ireland at the end of high school. My parents planned for this trip for years, and there was a sense of excitement and pilgrimage to this much-anticipated visit. I fell in love with the land in those weeks, with the green hills, the grey mist, the ocean met by rough-faced cliffs. There seemed to be such mystery and magic to the land, as if it stored secrets that I longed to uncover.

I was experiencing what the Celts call a “thin place,” a place where the veil between the sacred and mortal worlds is worn thin. Thin places are suffused with the holy. This is an illuminating concept for Celtic spirituality, for in many ways it is a spirituality of thin veils, of transparent membranes, of both/and. It is a spirituality that embraces and holds in close contacts things that are often considered to be opposite, like heaven and earth.

Thin places are where God draws close, where heaven presses near. They are often experienced in nature,  where creation inherently radiates God’s love, and in places where prayer has been practiced for generations, so that sacred conversation now permeates the place. A thin place is anywhere you easily experience the presence of the divine. Ireland is one such place for me; my own backyard, where I watch my children clamber and run and laugh and play as the sun sinks lower in the sky, is another. Sometimes thin places are exotic locations of shared pilgrimage; sometimes they are mundane, encountered in the course of our daily life.

We can experience thin places in particular locations. We can also encounter thin places in relationship, in the people with whom we share life. We meet thin places within those people who seem to instantly draw us into deeper waters, the people who shine forth God’s love to us.

Thin places invite us into a physical, embodied experience of the divine. We know our thin places by the way our soul leaps in recognition, by the way our hearts beat a bit faster as the Holy Spirit dances within us, by the way the hairs on our arms stand up, by the way our God who often seems so distant suddenly feels as near as our next breath.

I wonder, where are your thin places? What places do you experience as holy? Are there relationships where the veil between the ordinary and holy seems particularly thin? I hope that you may find time and space this month to explore and savor these sacred places in your life.

A Blessing For Holy Week

I confess to you that I am arriving to this Holy Week distracted and frazzled. I had such high hopes for Lent, for what I would give up, for what I would do, for how I would spend time with the Lord. Some of these have worked out, but many of them haven’t.

Although I am rushing and collapsing into the week, I know I come in time. There is still time, in these next days, to draw close to Christ. I can still quiet my heart and mind and let Jesus be the center. This week we are invited to journey with Jesus, to walk alongside him as he approaches the cross. We are invited to offer him the attention and love and companionship that he offers us every other day of the year.

One of the ways I join Jesus is through a sense of wonder. I wonder what that last week was like for him. He clearly knew what was coming and hoped against it and yet walked forward faithfully. What was it like to be in his body that week? To feel his feet stepping firmly on the earth and count his footsteps? To wash his hands and marvel at the calluses and creases, the marks of a life that was coming to an end? How do you be present to life when you are confronting death?

These are some of the questions I hold, as I join him on the road. I hope for you to find your own questions, your own sources of wonder, your own ways to come alongside him this week. And I so offer you this blessing, to seal your holy journey.

A Blessing for Holy Week

However you arrive here – 
Centered and prepared,
Distracted and rushing,
Robust or fragile - 
It does not matter. 
It simply matters that you are here, 
At this holiest of weeks. 

This week has been waiting for you.
Can you feel the weight of it?
There is a slowness, a solidity to it. 
These days ask you to slow down with them. 
They ask you to let the weight hold you in place, 
That you may be fully present, 
That you may center yourself in Christ. 

The same Jesus who companions you
Is waiting to be companioned. 
Can you join him…
As he enters Jerusalem?
As he washes the feet of his beloved friends?
As he breaks bread and pours the cup?
As he eats one last meal?
As he waits for the betrayal of his disciple?
As he prays in the garden, begging the Lord?
And that is just the beginning of his walk…

May you hear the invitation of this week. 
May you move slow with the weight of it. 
May you arrive at Easter
Centered in Christ. 

The Discover Brothers

My sons love The Wild Kratts. The PBS kids’ show features the real-life brothers, Chris and Martin Kratts, who start each episode introducing the kids at home to wild animals in different parts of the world. As they describe the amazing features of these animals – their ability to leap high, run fast, or fly far – they begin to imagine what it would be like to have these “creature powers” for themselves. They become more and more excited, and finally turn to each other, shout, “What if?” and become cartoons.

Declan and Ronan are so inspired by The Wild Kratts that they’ve developed their own imaginary show, The Discover Brothers. The Discover Brothers explore the outdoors, and when they get excited, they turn to each other and shout, “I wonder!” And then they, too, become cartoons. As Declan will tell you, “It’s animazing! Get it? Animated and amazing?”

Their playful sense of imagination is animazing. My Discover Brothers are silly, and funny, and wise. They have discovered the wisdom of curiosity, the way it creates life and frees us and opens us up to new possibilities. I’ve been contemplating the wisdom of an “animating phrase” this week, the power of words that can animate us, that can shake up our expectations, help us to relax our grip, and open us up to surprise. “What if” and “I wonder” are good phrases to invite into areas of resistance and pain. When you notice negative emotions rising, when you are frustrated or annoyed or bored, try inviting curiosity in as well, exploring what is beneath the emotions, and what the invitation within them might be.

My own animating phrase is, “What are you up to, God?” This playfully worded question reminds me that I don’t have everything figured it out. When I am feeling angry or just annoyed, remembering to wonder about God’s presence and God’s invitation is freeing, and helps me to harbor curiosity and an openness to surprise. These animating phrases aren’t magical, and they don’t make the hard things disappear. They simply loosen our grip, and create a little space for wonder.

I invite you to play with this idea of animating phrases this week. What words might breathe life and openness into your days?

The Gentleness of Candlelight

In his blessing "For Light," John O'Donohue writes:

When we look into the heart,

May our eyes have the kindness

And reverence of candlelight.

As a writer and as a spiritual director, my life's work is to gaze into the heart, to seek out the quiet, hidden places where God speaks. As John O'Donohue so beautifully wrote, candlelight is just the right amount of light with which to explore these interior spaces. When there is too much light, we become overwhelmed and blinded, unable to comprehend what is right in front of us. Too much light is painful. And too much darkness? Is just that - dark, lonely, and often frightening. And so I travel by candlelight, creating small, gently lit spaces in which to sit and to wonder. The gentleness of candlelight is the perfect light with which to explore our own sacred stories, our individual tales of how we experience God in our lives, the invitations we are hearing, and the ways we are responding. 

I feel self-conscious even writing those words on this second day of February 2017. The gentleness of candlelight? When our world is blazing with the intense light of the public realm?In our charged political climate, it feels like the important stories are the BIG stories: the ones unfolding on a national and global scale. Those are the stories that demand our attention and our energy, and rightly so. This feels like such a strange time to be starting a blog that focuses on our individual sacred stories. But maybe that is exactly why this is the right time to start this blog. The bright light of the world around us makes it challenging to see what is within. The big stories can drown out our own stories. We need spaces of quiet, of rest, of wonder. We need some silence if we are to hear God speak.  

I hope this blog will be that kind of space for you. I'll be posting once a week or so, sometimes with original blessings and prayers, sometimes with stories from life with my three kids who are also my best teachers, and sometimes about the way God is speaking to me through what I'm reading. May my words create room for you to explore your own sacred story. May we each find enough silence to hear the small, still voice of God. I'm looking forward to this journey with you, and I'm holding a candle to light the way.