a prophetic voice-

   Spent a few hours at one of my favorite places this morning, writing. For some reason, my creativity seems to find expression when I am away from home, away from the familiar places I usually inhabit. And, with pen in hand- yes, I actually put pen to paper, rather than using a computer for creative writing- I put my feelings down, surprising myself, as usual, with the results, as I bounced all over the place emotionally. And so, I' m daring to share them with you, always a risk for a writer, a poet...(deep sigh, gulp, share...) the wren singing at the top of its voice each morning tiny wren mighty voice daring to sing     its own sweet song welcoming the day daring to be freely,     fully itself no holding back no second guessing warbling an invitation to this often-reluctant human- be yourself! lift your voice! be daring! make the most of it, no matter what what baggage am I STILL carrying?...

I've been going through some of my journals and notebooks lately and have come upon poems which were written at a variety of times in a variety of places. So, dear reader, I thought I would share them with you, as a gift for your Advent pilgrimage. hope springs Re-member re-covery re-storation    so many re- words...    so many beginnings again re-newal re-surrection    speaking in tones both soft and sweet    both truthful and terrible re-minding me    that life moves ever onward    with many stops and starts    and new beginnings which are not new    at all but simply are placing one foot in front        of another yet again-               in re-signation                    ...

I suspect it is often through our own   self-reflection in life's fun house mirror   with its distortions and trickery   making us believe that what we see   is real- and true- and so,       worth defending zealously, unaware       and uncaring that       she sees a different image,       he experiences a different truth...   and instead of driving us to our knees,   this perceived holiness        drives us to war with one another,        while Divinity weeps...

reading the Bible It is not in the book but in the being that we find spiritual truth... and yet scriptures are revered...elevated to a holy place, words cherry-picked and                          chosen, used as weapons and as warnings, not as wisdom or as welcome... words quoted, cited, spoken with a towering authority-      and all the while, the very ones who claim the words      promote fear and hate, exclusion, war...      while words of love, acceptance, and forgiveness      get lost somewhere...forgotten... and the One called God,       the One called Love,       the One Creator of us all            gets pushed aside and      ...

Another year passed... another year gone... another year older- perhaps a bit wiser, but perhaps not. And the spectre named Grief lurks in the shadows, never far from sight or mind. but on days like today, oozing out into the open, a slimy ribbon staining the corridors of the hours with an indelible, insoluble mark of pain and loss. He would have been fifty-two today, my golden boy, my firstborn child. Instead, I sit here with a misshapen heart, a piece eternally missing- though I have learned a heart can mend, can still beat on, sharing love and hope, blessing and peace, even when a part is gone, forever gone. For family and friends abound; children and grandchildren fill my life and so my heart with joy and love and laughter, and through it all, through passing years, a smile persists through veils of tears, a smile of gratitude and wonder, of hope and gentle joy, even as my mother's heart weeps quietly for my precious boy.

Do I still have questions about God? Even now? At seventy-four? Of course I do... about the why and who and how... the why-nots and the no-ways... The wondering and the wandering never end... even as my earthly end looms large, well within my sight- And then I see the verdant green of trees    towering high above me hear the familiar call of the scarlet cardinal,     the small brown wren, and the chatter of     the ever-present squirrels watch the children riding bikes down my     quiet street see my neighbor lovingly tending her lovely     garden hear a beloved voice on the phone learn of earthquakes and wildfires and     raging floods and the many helping     hands offering aid And I know- in spite of still-unanswered     questions- that I have seen...am seeing-     each day- the face of God.  No further explanations necessary.

The end of the year 2015 approaches, and for the month of December, I have been using a lovely little booklet of writing prompts, courtesy of Jacinta and Cyndi of "Snapdragon Journal", an on-line literary magazine ( www.snapdragonjournal.com ). Faced each day with a meaningful quotation and an equally-meaningful question, I have been writing...sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, always from the heart, and today, I'm sharing some of these scribblings with you, dear reader. Merry Christmas, Happy Holiday, Féliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel.   The Year's Last Red Light I stand in the last red light of the year, watching as the almost-setting sun paints the sky in glowing hues aware that I have journeyed far and long and wondering just how long           sunset will last.        wondering when the light will go            and darkness come  ...

Sometimes, when I put pen to paper, nothing comes. But at other times, I am pleasantly surprised and the words just flow from my heart... like this morning. Eyes wide shut... Sitting on the blue loveseat in my living room listening to classical music coming from the radio in the next room lulled and cooled by the gently-oscillating fan, I am suddenly overcome by weariness, my eyelids growing heavy, as I am drawn toward sleep, my body weighted down with the torpor caused by too many sleep-disturbed nights. I had intended to read a bit and write, to attend and pray, but all my good intentions are coming to naught as I succumb, and my eyes close. change of life... My daughter has been in deep despair, her spirit grieving over her daughter's move to the other side of the country. This separation feels complete to her, a rending of the cord which has linked them fully for these many years. Now the link has shifted to a husband, a partner ...

no answers... Who? What? Where? When? Why? Questions float to the surface      of my mind perpetually only to be shoved aside by      still more questions...           and surprisingly few answers It is the state in which      I find myself most often...      walking on unstable ground      amidst the shifting mists of time... Past, present, future melding together      into the inseparable mix      of Eternity nothing more... There is nothing more that I can do, nothing more that I can say. Here I am just as I am being who I am            because I know no other way Being true to this singular self           true to my experienced truth         ...

I ask the questions, give the answers Listen as they repeat the answers Back to me, to the congregation, To God, to all of creation, to angels and archangels And the whole company of heaven "I will, and I ask God to help and guide me." Youthful voices making eternal promises Setting their intention, deeply meant, to be sure- And I know the testing that will surely come The rocks and brambles on the path Which will tangle and grasp, trip and challenge Not an easy road they have chosen, I know, And I smile at their youthful determination And breathe a blessing from my heart

I look at my hands, once quite lovely with smooth, unblemished skin and see instead a mesh of veins quite visible beneath the thinning, wrinkled skin, the nails ridged and refusing to grow, splitting in spite of all the supplements I take, organic vegetables I ingest Only their palms appear unchanged, their working surface relatively wrinkle-free, though the thumb mounds have lost their youthful fullness and veins appear where once only pink, rosy flesh was visible They tell a story, these hands of mine, of love gained and lost and given... of heartache and heartbreak and heartfelt joy...of gratitude and fervent prayer...of supplication and giftedness...of sorrow felt and comfort given...of meals cooked and served and beds made and children's wounds attended... They have touched and held and felt so much, these hands of mine, conveying to my mind and heart messages from the world around me, love letters from my daily life reminding me of what a gi...

On Mothers' Day long years ago at our small German Lutheran church in our small town everyone received a flower- carnations, either pink or red- their pungent odor censing the air red for those whose mothers were still living pink for those whose mothers had died brilliant red singing of life tender pink sighing of death The ushers handed them out from two vases filled to overflowing with the blooms handed them to every one who climbed the stairs  to the sanctuary on the second floor handed them to men and women, girls and boys, since each and all had a mother who had given them life, who had borne them, gladly or sadly, into this world a reminder and remembrance, a way  to honor the sanctity of creation,  to honor the holiness of every human life,  to honor the ones who had served as the crucible  for each life present that day. And though this was far beyond my child's understanding, I loved taking flower...

Awake...alert to possibilities Enshrouded in hope Prodded by pinpricks of daring A voice variously whispering, singing, shouting Yes, you can! Aware that only if I let go of    security...certainty...routine Will I ever FLY

Putting one foot In front of the other Baby step by baby step Progress- or so we call it                                   dream it                                   imagine it Often measured in centimeters Until we are caught unawares By finding ourselves in a Totally different place

Despair has a seductively enticing voice      as it whispers its lies  drawing the aching soul into its  velvet tentacles of promised rest                                    release from pain                                    nevermore hiding its hideous face behind     a veil of virgin delights                    paradise lost and regained all the while cackling with a witch's horrid laugh only the damned can hear

I call you "God"... I call you "God"-    that one whom I can neither understand nor explain       who dwells in enshrouded mystery       yet manifests in my life       day after day    that one whom I know even as I am encompassed by       the Great Unknown       who fills and enlivens and empowers me       in ways both terrifying and glorious I call you "God"-    for no other human word fits-    yet even this one fits badly,    since those three small letters hold within their grasp       meanings both familiar and strange    bear definitions which vary from person to person,       time to time, place to place, even day to day       within my own experience. I call you "God"- ...