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Casual Holiness

About a year ago I was on my way into a church to attend a meeting. As I approached the door I passed a woman sitting on a red, overturned milk crate near the door. She had dark hair, and she was leaning forward, her bottom coming off the crate, her hands reaching just off the edge of the sidewalk and toward the asphalt of the parking lot. She appeared to be slowly falling forward, tumbling off the crate in slow motion. I had stopped to hold the door for a man who was entering the church just behind me, and as I watched, he approached the woman on the crate. "Here's two of them," he said, handing down a carton of Marlboro Light 100s. "Have a good day." I realized then what the man with the Marlboros must have recognized immediately: the woman had no doubt been reaching for a discarded cigarette butt that someone had tossed down on their way into the church. I felt awed by the man's simple act of compassion. Without the slightest trace of judgement or distast...

The Subtle Work of Love

“It is amazing how many loving desires arise from the spirit of a person who is accustomed to this work.” The Cloud of Unknowing In my best and truest moments what I most want is to grow more and more “accustomed to this work” of loving, of peacemaking, of being a small reflection of God’s light. It is not glamorous work; in fact, it is often barely noticeable except by a few of those who benefit by it. More challenging, I often don’t notice it myself, though I am the one doing it (or trying to). Only God can see the whole of this lifework of sanctification, and that must be for the best. If I were aware of the process any more than I am now, I would likely be as overwhelmed by my failures and missed opportunities as I would be falsely assured by my successes. Better for now to walk by faith and not by sight.

A Sabbath Day

I am thinking of the mulberries we picked today, nearly black knobby fruits, their juice spilling so easily from thin skins. I held a branch down while you picked them double-fisted, dropping them into the empty bottle where they crashed, spurting tiny jets of juice. The girls ate them by the handful, stuffing the dark sweet berries into their small mouths, purple smears like bruises blooming on their hands, legs, cheeks. We had hoped for ice cream but were foiled, and returning from that failed trip we found the trees, dangling their fruit in offering. We ate, and it was good. It was very good.

The Mundane Way

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