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tiny waltz


tiny waltz

and somehow
a day worth
has slipped into
night without
leaving words
to describe
how it felt
and I have
spent far too
long staring
at a screen
as though the
sheer silence
of sitting
would shape my
and I have
far more than
I have saved
but that’s true
most any day
but I found
this little
waltz of a
poem and
I’ll leave it
here in hopes
it finds you


how are you?


how are you?

is the throwaway question
in need of redemption
when asked
it should be followed
by a pregnant pause
the questioner
willing to be the midwife

we have let ourselves
settle for hit and run
for lots of reasons
we mean well
we want to know
–I’ve got to take this

i know you’re not good
I’m not either
everybody hurts
to say it out loud might
mean we’d just stand there
holding on for dear life
that would be a good day

life is full of incidental
contact waiting for
a few well-chosen words
that make room
for love to be born
when we had just stopped
for a cup of coffee


good conversation


When I had my first knee replacement, a church member called about a week after the surgery and said, “I can help you,” and so we asked her to come to the house. To say she is a physical therapist feels her short; she is a healer. Her visits were a big part of my successful recuperation. As I have prepared for my second surgery, which comes up next week, I have been in touch with her. Over the weekend, we were at the same pizza party and she said she had something she wanted me to do that might sound odd. I was all ears.

“Before the surgery, I want you to have a conversation with your knee. I want you to talk out loud and tell it everything is going to be okay. Tell it that you are going to have surgery, that it is going to think it is going to die, but it won’t. It will hurt, and it’s a big deal, but everything is going to be okay.”

I am planning to follow her advice. And it might be worth saying to more than just my knee.

My depression is unrelenting. My job is going through some difficult changes. My knee hurts. This morning as I journaled, I found myself saying, “Things are rough, and they may get rougher, but they aren’t going to kill you. It will hurt, and it’s a big deal, but it won’t always feel this way.”

And also with you.


harvest moon


harvest moon

I posted a picture
of the moonrise over
Long Island Sound and
a friend in Arkansas
wrote, “It was really bright
at our house too!”

Another friend in
Carolina told me
she is talking to
a group in Australia
who feed hungry people
about ways she can help

I have one more
from a friend who
took my words about
sandcastles to heart
that love is what lasts
“Time to deliver a pie.”

If there were room
in this poem for
you to write back
you would have
stories to tell
wouldn’t you?


building sand castles


Part of my Sunday morning ritual is to pour a cup of coffee and watch CBS Sunday Morning until it’s time to go to church. I’ve watched the show on and off since the days of Charles Kuralt. It is just the right mix of calm and questions. Not a bad prelude for worship.

This week, one of the segments was on the final art installation of Cristo, who was known for his gigantic displays–wrapping buildings or taking over places like Central Park–all over the world. None of his works were on display for more than two or three weeks. He paid for them himself so he could retain control. Jean Claude, his wife, was his collaborator until her death in 2009. He died in 2020 with a project to wrap the Arc de Triomphe in fabric underway, so his associates completed the project.

One of the things they discussed in the segment was the consistent critique of his work over the years was that it wasn’t truly art because it was temporary. What it brought to mind was the one trip Ginger and I made to Paris in the spring of 1991. We went into Notre Dame and attached ourselves to a tour group that was standing in front of one of the rose windows as the guide explained that it was the “new” window that had been installed in the 1500s. Since then, the cathedral burned. It is not only the fabric wrapping the Arc that is temporary.

One of the folks I look for when I get to church is Julie. She is a poet and an actor. I told her about what I had seen and how it felt and she said one of her former directors used to say, “We’re all just building sand castles.” Her comment sent me searching for a sculptor I learned of years ago that built fantastic pieces out of driftwood, but he built them where the water would gradually dismantle them as the tide came in. I couldn’t find him again, but I did find Andres Amador, a sand artist who uses a rake to create intricate geometric patterns on the beach at low tide expecting they will get washed away.

Temporary and significant are not mutually exclusive.

Texas songwriter Sam Baker wrote a song called “Waves” that paints a picture of love and grief. I couldn’t help but hear the song as I watched the tide roll in over Amador’s artwork.

so many years so many hardships
so many laughs so many tears
so many things to remember
‘cause they had fifty years

and now the kids have got their own kids
and their own kids, they are grown
she told him not to worry
said he’d be fine when she was gone

he walks down to the ocean
bends to touch the water
Kneels to pray
he writes her name
in the sand
waves wash it away

Denise Ackermann says that we must remember that we are a body rather than we have a body, which says to me that embodied faith is a temporary work of art, a masterpiece in the making. It’s what made Mr. Keating tell the boys to seize the day: we will not be here forever.

Jason Isbell’s song “If We Were Vampires” does as good a job as anyone driving that point home.

if we were vampires and death was a joke
we’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke
and laugh at all the lovers and their plans
I wouldn’t feel the need to hold your hand

maybe time running out is a gift
I’ll work hard ’til the end of my shift
and give you every second I can find
and hope it isn’t me who’s left behind

it’s knowing that this can’t go on forever
likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
maybe we’ll get forty years together
but one day I’ll be gone
or one day you’ll be gone

One day, yes, but today we’re here.

I have often said that one of the things I loved about cooking is that I get to create temporary art that drew people to the table and asked them to stay. I work hard on my plates so that they look and taste good, but they are an artistic invitation to stay at the table and create a performance of togetherness. And then we go on to whatever comes next carrying the memory knowing that it mattered that we were there on that night for that meal.

One of the persistent lessons of the pandemic is that nothing is as permanent as any of us imagined. I don’t know of any of our institutions, those things in our lives most focused on self-perpetuation, that have been not been shaken. The sustaining forces are not housed in those places. Where I find the tenacity that offers me hope is in the temporary art that I call family and friends, those who keep showing up and reaching out even though none of us knows how long our exhibit will run.

Then again, that is not really a lesson unique to the pandemic. That’s been the story all along. We’ve always been building sandcastles.

My, aren’t they beautiful.


melodies of mercy


As I journaled this morning, the word mercy worked its way to the top. And it struck me that mercy and merci might have something in common, which they do etymologically. Gratitude and kindness share the same roots. As I wrote, I thought of Mary Gauthier’s song “Mercy Now,” which has stayed close to me throughout the pandemic.

my church and my country could use a little mercy now
as they sink into a poisoned pit it’s going to take forever to climb out
they carry the weight of the faithful who follow them down
I love my church and country, they could use some mercy now

every living thing could use a little mercy now
only the hand of grace can end the race towards another mushroom cloud
people in power, they’ll do anything to keep their crown
I love life and life itself could use some mercy now

In the mid-eighties, Bruce Cockburn released “Lovers in a Dangerous Time.” I listened to it again this week in the light of all that is going on around us and I heard it in a new light–and then I found this cover by Shawn Colvin that is one of a series of recordings she did from home during the pandemic.

don’t the hours grow shorter as the days go by
you never get to stop and open your eyes
one day you’re waiting for the sky to fall
the next you’re dazzled by the beauty of it all

when you’re lovers in a dangerous time
lovers in a dangerous time

these fragile bodies of touch and taste
this vibrant skin, this hair like lace
spirits open to the thrust of grace
never a breath you can afford to waste

when you’re lovers in a dangerous time
lovers in a dangerous time

It is no secret that Jason Isbell is one of my favorite song writers. “Traveling Alone” is a cut from his first solo record that has taken on new meaning for me in these days when we hunger for connection.

mountains rough this time of year
close the highway down
they don’t warn the town

and I’ve been fighting second gear
for fifteen miles or so
trying to beat the angry snow

and I know every town worth passing through
but what good does knowing do
with no one to show it to

and I’ve grown tired of traveling alone
tired of traveling alone
I’ve grown tired of traveling alone
won’t you ride with me?

Taylor Goldsmith is the lead singer of Dawes and a pretty good songwriter in his own right. Someone who loves me sent a link to his song “Didn’t Fix Me.” It has been on heavy rotation around here.

I went to see a healer
with that mic strapped to his face
talked about which habits to surrender
and which habits to embrace
and for the next few days or so,
I was feeling pretty good
but It didn’t fix me

I even started volunteering
with the local Sacred Heart
we feed the homeless on some weekends
we pick up trash in all the parks
and even though we’re cleaning up
the whole damn neighborhood
it didn’t fix me
it didn’t fix me like I thought it would

I hope these songs offer some mercy for you as well.




A few nights ago, I quoted Gareth Higgins: “When we tell a diminished story, we make a diminished life.” I went on to talk about what the word diminished meant.

My friend Jeff offered this comment in response:

Another use of the word: “Diminished” chords beg to be resolved because of the dissonance- I think about it like going from off balance to balanced; making chaos into order. The important part is that it’s moving on . . .

I loved the connection, but what hung in my mind was the word resolve, so I went looking to see what I could learn. I found several definitions related to different fields.

In music, as we said, dissonance resolves into harmony.
We can resolve to take a different course of action or make a change.
In medicine, to resolve a condition is to cause it to subside or heal.
In chemistry, a substance is resolved or separated into components to be better understood.
In physics, something seen from a distance resolves into a different form when seen up close.
In mediation, to resolve is to settle a conflict or a problem.
Then we have the noun resolve that is a determination to do something.

When I went back to the earliest Latin roots, I saw the breakdown: re + solve: explain again, figure it out one more time.

I know. That’s a lot of word play, but there’s a lot going on in that little word:


That’s what I love about words. They create possibilities. Madeleine L’Engle used to caution that our vocabularies shrink during wartime, which means our options do as well. The dictionary of violence only has a few pages. The dictionary of hope is encyclopedic.

I’m weary tonight. I am not finding as many words as I would like, but I can hear in my mind the movement from off balance to balance. “It’s like The Hollies’ “Air That I Breathe,” Jeff said. I will let them sing us out.


sketching the landscape


This morning I started a new book, or I should say restarted; it is another that has laid fallow for some time. The book is After the Locusts: Letters from a Landscape of Faith by Denise M. Ackermann, a South African feminist liberation theologian. The book was a gift from my friend Kenny.

In the introduction, Ackermann says, “After the Locusts is about my efforts to discover what is worth living for in troubled times.” She wrote the book in 2003. Each chapter is a letter to someone in her life. The letter I read this morning was to her granddaughters. Early in the chapter she says,

To help me find my way through many questions, doubts, and discoveries, I want to imagine that I am sketching a landscape. Unlike professional cartographers I do not want to be tied down to the certainty that, provided the measurements are right, this sketch will be a reliable guide in all circumstances. This is not an accurate map. It is really like a giant picture with different landscapes and figures, swarms of locusts and fields of flowers, different colors and symbols; it requires imagination, even guesswork, and it is always provisional.

I got as new car about a year ago and, for the first time, I have a screen in the dashboard that lets my plug in my phone and use the map feature. All I need is the address for my destination. Not only will it provide directions, but it will even reroute the trip when it gets word of an accident or road construction. Much in the same way that I no longer know anyone’s phone number by heart, I don’t know directions to many places either. Getting lost is becoming less and less of a possibility–or at least that’s the illusion created by my device. The other casualty is that I am no longer required to remember how to get somewhere–unless I make a point of remembering.

As Ackermann writes about how she wants her granddaughters to know what matters most to her, she also talks about remembering.

Guided by a memory that often fails me, I want to mark our different histories and identities and what the mean for me as your grandmother. Memory is not fiction, yet once I begin to recall emotions, events, and places, I wonder–is that true? How much of memory is invented or rearranged? Did that happen or am I remembering being told it did? Fragments, tainted memories, stories retold too often are all I can offer.

I read her words after I returned from an early-morning pre-op appointment with my orthopedic surgeon. (I have a left knee replacement on September 29.) We talked through things I needed to do between now and then, what to expect at the hospital, and then what to expect afterwards. He is the surgeon who replaced my right knee two and half years ago. I said something about feeling easier because I knew what to expect and he said, “Yes, and I find that most of my patients say they had a harder time with the second one. I don’t know if that is true, or if they just can’t remember how much the first one hurt or how hard the recovery is from this surgery.”

I remember it hurt and that rehab was hard, but my strongest memories are walking around the town green and Ray from the hardware store coming to cheer me on. I remember the first time they got me up to walk after my surgery that I was aware the it hurt to walk but it was not the same pain that made me have to use a cane.

As I journaled this morning, I came to the realization that this onset of depression is more severe than what I thought at first. I have a better understanding of what it does to me and I feel like I have worked hard on developing better tools to deal with it, and this time it is taking me out. When I finished writing, I went to tell Ginger about my insight. She started nodding before I had finished talking and said, “This is worse that it was twenty years ago.”

The sense of feeling like I am walking around in a concrete suit or treading molasses in an endless lake that is deeper than I am tall is not new, yet the strongest memories of twenty years ago are walking with Ginger and feeling held by her tenacious love for me, even in the middle of the mess.

My father’s birthday was September 13. He would have been ninety three. There are about fifteen years of our lives together that were difficult for us both. We didn’t know how to talk to each other and when we did we mostly did damage. We both learned how to offer more grace than judgment to one another over time, and I am grateful we had time to figure that out. These days, the memories that rise to the surface are ones that connect me to him. I have caught myself over the past couple of months starting any number of sentences with, “My Dad used to tell a story about . . .”–so much so that Ginger commented, “You’re missing him, aren’t you?”

How much of a memory is invented or rearranged?

To re-member is to put the memory back together again, and I think that happens much like the sketching she described and less like the precision of the professional cartographers. Her comparison makes me think of James Cowan’s novel A Mapmaker’s Dream, a story about a fifteenth-century monk who decides to draw the definitive map of the world without leaving his cell. News of his projects attracts travelers from all over the world who want to tell their stories, which requires of him to come to terms with a world he cannot quantify.

Six centuries later, Denise Ackermann says of her sketch, her map of memory and meaning, “It requires imagination, even guesswork, and it is always provisional.”

Yes. Yes, it does. Thank God.


on and on the rain will say


As friends of mine are keeping the fast of Yom Kippur, I learned about a Jewish holiday I knew only by name: the Festival of Booths, or Sukkot (which is the Hebrew word that means booths). The week-long observance happens in the fall. This year, it begins next Monday, September 20. It came up in one of the essays I read this morning in The Impossible Will Take Awhile: Perseverance and Hope in Troubled Times, an amazing collection of writings put together by Paul Rogat Loeb.

Rabbi Arthur Waskow wrote “The Sukkah of Shalom” about a year after 9/11/2001 speaking to both the attacks and the way Americans responded to them. He explains that a sukkah (a single booth) is a fragile hut with a leafy roof. It is intended to be temporary and vulnerable. He goes on to recite one of the evening prayers said throughout the year: “Spread over us your sukkah of shalom–of peace and safety,” and then he asks,

Why does the prayer plead for a sukkah of shalom rather than a temple or fortress or palace of shalom, which would be more safe and more secure?

Precisely because the sukkah is so vulnerable . . . The sukkah reminds us: We are in truth all vulnerable. . . . There are only wispy walls and leaky roofs between us. The planet is in fact one interwoven web of life. The command to love my neighbor as I do myself is not an admonition to be nice; it is a statement of truth. like the law of gravity.

It seems like this is the week for my reading to take me back to some treasured old songs. Remember Sting singing,

perhaps this final act was meant
to clinch a lifetime’s argument
that nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
for all those born beneath an angry star
lest we forget how fragile we are

on and on the rain will fall
like tears from a star like tears from a star
on and on the rain will say
how fragile we are how fragile we are

At their roots, fragile means “liable to be broken” and vulnerable means “wounded.” That takes me to a small poem I found in Lord of the Butterflies, a book of poetry by Andrea Gibson that came in the mail today.

1. to put on
your best outfit
and feel
like you’re dressing
a wound.

One of the contemporary definitions of vulnerable is “open to harm,” which leaves some sense that we could choose to be open, that we could risk in order to love one another. I circle back around to Rabbi Waskow saying the command to love one another “is not an admonition to be nice; it is statement of truth, like the law of gravity.”

Then I go back to the prayer: “Spread over us your sukkah of shalom.”

And I think, “Wait–I grew up singing

a mighty fortress is our God
a bulwark never failing

Jesus repeated the same words as the Rabbi–love your neighbor as you love yourself–so he wasn’t calling us to build bulwarks around our hearts. When did we decide faith was a fortress instead of a fragile hut with a leafy roof?

As far as my depression goes, I am learning (again) that I can make myself strong enough to fight it. I don’t mean that I think it will take me out; I mean fighting is the wrong metaphor. I cannot make myself impenetrable. I cannot make myself unwoundable. (Though I think I just made up a word.) To live through and with the depression means to make myself open to harm and to take shelter in the sukkah of those who love me.

Waskow closes his essay with these words:

The choice we face is broader than politics, deeper than charity. It is whether we see the world chiefly as property to be controlled, defined by walls and fences that must be built even higher, even thicker, even tougher; or made up chiefly of an open weave of compassion and connection, open sukkah nest to open sukkah.

Whatever we build where the Twin Towers once stood, America and the world will be living in a leafy, leaky, shaky sukkah. Hope comes from raising that simple truth to visibility. We must spread over all of us the sukkah of shalom.

Life is hard. That was true before the pandemic. We are all wounded. We are all vulnerable. On and on the rain and pretty much everything else will tell us how fragile we are. And I will say again what I have said over and over these past few days: we are not alone.

After I wrote the “failure to thrive” post, someone I have known since the early days of the blog to say they were dealing with depression in ways they had not before and were thinking about going on medication. Today when I saw my doctor and he suggested I go back on antidepressants, I thought of what this faraway friend had risked in telling me. Tonight after supper I picked up my prescription. I have taken the meds before and they have helped in their season, but I will also admit to open the bottle and take out the pills feels a little like a defeat. It certainly is a tangible reminder that I am “liable to be broken.” So it matters to know I am not alone, even though on and on the rain will say . . .


a better story


I am happy to report I finished a book today.

After I wrote my Morning Pages, I turned to the past page of How Not to Be Afraid and read the last chapter and epilogue, as well as the blessings Gareth Higgins uses to close the book, in good Irish fashion.

I read with a pen in my hand, not only to underline but also to write words and lines from the book in the margins so I can find them on return visits. After I got to the end, I leafed back through the book to read some of the things I had recopied. The heart of Gareth’s book turns around how we tell the story of our lives, both individually and together, along with the idea that there is a better story to tell than the one we are telling right now. One of the things I rewrote in the margin was

The stories we tell shape how we experience everything. When we tell a diminished story, we make a diminished life.

I started the book in early June, right before I went to be the camp pastor for Wilshire Baptist Church’s youth camp. The book was my primary sermon fodder for the week, and those sentences were a part of my sermon the first night, along with a question adapted from something else Gareth wrote a few pages later:

How do we tell a story that makes the world less broken and more beautiful?

Asking that question three months ago with a group of teenagers in the Ozark foothills was one thing; asking it tonight in the middle of difficult days is another because I feel more in touch with the brokenness of things and, because of that, I am more attune to the need for a more beautiful story.

To diminish something is to “make it seem less impressive or less valuable.”

How we tell our stories reveal how we experience the world and ourselves in it. As I think about these last few days, I am aware of the ways in which I have told a diminished story. Part of the reason I have not written as much on this blog, for example, is I have let myself tell a diminished story about it. I have told myself that only a handful of folks are reading it. Yet, when I looked tonight, my “failure to thrive” post has over nine hundred views and thirty one comment. I know those are not huge numbers in the social media universe, but they are life-changing for me, and not because of the totals. The story they tell me is one of connection, of belonging, which is the most valuable story I know. It is a story that makes the world less broken and more beautiful.

I have written a lot about my depression over the years. Much of the writing was a search, on my part, for metaphors that would help me get some sort of grip on this part of me that doesn’t feel like part of me–this diminishing force. One of the stories I have told before came back to me as I have felt the outpouring of love and support from you.

Almost twenty years ago to the day, Ginger and I were getting ready for church. I was struggling to find the energy to even get dressed. I knew I was depressed, but I had no idea what was happening to me. Right before we left for church, she said, “I need to ask you to do a hard thing this morning. I think you need to ask for prayer yourself; I can’t do it for you.”

When the time came in our service for prayer requests, I mustered up whatever it was I had to muster up and said, “I need prayer. I need help. I am really depressed and I don’t know what to do about it,” and I sat down. At coffee hour after worship, five people came up to me and said, “I feel the same way but I had no idea we could talk about it out loud.” I had one of those pay-attention-this-is-important moments as they spoke. I realized I had found my first foothold in my free fall: if I would tell the story I would know I was not alone.

One of the stories we can tell that makes the world less broken and more beautiful is that shared suffering creates the ties that bind. We are all hurting. The diminished story says we need to keep it to ourselves. The better story is, as Mary Oliver writes in “Wild Geese,”

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.

Many years ago, Billy Crockett and I wrote a song about friendship and what it takes to stay friends. Actually, a couple of them, but this one, “Friends at Last,” said

when the snow falls on your roof
and my world feels colder
when you know without any proof
that you have my shoulder
when the fear of pain comes to break us
it’s the years of strain that will make us
friends at last

In the middle of our mutilated world, we have beautiful stories to tell and to hear of the tenacious power of love and what it means to belong to one another, and to the world. Mary Oliver ends her poem with these words:

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

I love to tell that story.