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Daily Dose (Jan 21 – 24)

TUESDAY JAN 21 —

I can tell you this; I do miss my morning conversations (and yes, homilies) with the sheep on Vashon Island.
And I loved their look that asked, “Well, do you have a story today or not?”
And today, it did my heart good to remember one visit, telling them, “I do have an old story. It’s about a lost sheep.” And that seemed to perk them up. (But then, we preachers always see what we want to see.)
“This shepherd had one hundred sheep. And one of them was lost.” I stood silent a little while, wondering if the story would make them uncomfortable. “And the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go out and find the lost one. He brings him home.”

This has not been an easy week for me. Lingering illness. And the news, yes. And many conversations (phone and email) about our world (and our place in it), and how it is easy to feel, or to be, quite literally, lost. And lost is not just a GPS malfunction. Too many know what it means to be disconnected, discounted, diminished, demeaned. Lost.
Okay… Here’s what I love: In the story, the shepherd doesn’t blame the lost one. Or give advice. Or admonish. Because to the shepherd, that sheep is not just a number, but a face, a name and a story.
The shepherd knew that some stories are too heavy to carry alone. That every one of us at some time in our life will need the loving arms of justice, mercy and unmerited grace.
And here’s the deal: some days we are the one lost.
And some days, we are the hands and feet of the shepherd.
Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
People: I will, with God’s help. (The baptismal covenant in the Episcopal Church.)
Because some stories are too heavy to carry alone.
My good friend Ed Kilbourne wrote a song called Promised Land. I can’t carry a tune, so I read it to the sheep. They didn’t seem to mind.
“There’s a place they call the promised land where people live by grace
The leaders are their servants, the last ones win the race
And those who love are wealthy and those who hate are poor
And honor’s won by making peace, not by making war
And everyone’s invited when the kingdom feast is spread
They remember how they got there in the breaking of the bread
They pass a cup around the room to every tear stained face
And drink a toast to Jesus as they sing Amazing Grace”
Some days we are the one lost.
And some days, we are the hands and feet of the shepherd.

Today we are remembering the incredible influence Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had on our country. He was a true beacon of kindness, compassion, equality, and justice. As we celebrate his life and teachings, let’s remember the power of empathy and the importance of community.
The Talmud reminds us, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”  

WEDNESDAY JAN 22 —

When life feels heavy, we forget that we are all wired to be replenished.
And care of any kind, begins with self-care.
And there is healing grace in receiving the gift of self-care.

I like Joseph Campbell’s reminder, “You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.” (from, The Power of Myth)
Can you tell me, where is that place (or those places) for you?
And can you give yourself permission to go there?

Gratefully, what’s at stake here (with this sacred necessity of pause) is not another “to do” list. It is an invitation to savor the pleasure of slowness,
moments of stillness,
even silence,
and allowing them work their magic.
And yes, there is a part of us that protests, “But what if it is not my skill set? And what if my world is a wee bit too stir crazy to even pause?”
And I smile writing that question, knowing of course that “too stir crazy” is all the more reason—and yes, grateful invitation—to pause.
To let our souls catch up with our bodies. To be at home in our own skin.
And let us not forget: it is from that self—the grounded, at home self—that kindness and light spills to the world around us. Yes indeed, even when we’re sure it is not enough.

I enjoyed reading this from Denise Roy. A great reminder to carry with us through our day.
“Let us keep reminding each other to breathe, to smile, to treat ourselves and one another with kindness.
Let us hold each other when we need support, and let us challenge and remind each other of what is truly important.
Let us take care of ourselves so that we don’t hand down our unfinished business to the next generation.
Let us laugh together, and never lose our joy, and let us take care of the children — our children, all the children.
Let us mobilize our fierce and passionate mother energy on behalf of all beings on this little blue-green planet we call Mother Earth.”

THURSDAY JAN 23 —

Care of any kind begins with self-care. And from that place of self-care, we spill light and kindness to the world around us.
Today I received this question, “How do we stay kind during these times? I am deeply struggling.”
Okay, this I do understand at my core. Spilling kindness does sound easier on paper.

As we’ve honored Dr. Martin Luther King this week, I want to channel his spirit.
On a Saturday morning in 2013, I stood in the kitchen of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church Parsonage, the home to the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his family from 1954 to 1960. By the time the Montgomery bus strike was achieving both success and national attention, Dr. King began receiving telephone death threats (as many as 40 a day).
“One night very late around midnight—and you can have some strange experiences at midnight—the telephone rang.” Dr. King relates the story in a later sermon. “On the other end was an ugly voice.”
“For some reason, it got to me. I was weak. Sometimes, I feel discouraged… You can’t call on Daddy anymore. You could only call on the Something your Daddy told you about, that Power that can make a way out of no way.”
And at that kitchen table, he prayed. “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right… But I must confess… I’m losing my courage.”
King explained what happened next: “I could hear an inner voice saying to me, ‘Martin Luther, stand up for truth. Stand up for justice. Stand up for righteousness.'”
Maybe that’s what clicked for me.
When I see acts of courage I see heroism, and I don’t see myself.
Instead, I see how far I have to go. Or I see how far short I have fallen.
And I miss seeing that heroism is the light inside each and every one of us, visible and life-giving in the small steps along the way. In small ways honoring the Talmud’s reminder, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”
So yes, I do understand tired. And I do understand discouraged. And I do understand the end of my resources.
And thank you Dr. King for the reminder. And thank you to all who spill light—of justice, mercy and humility—along the way.
Some stories are too heavy to carry alone. Let us remember that we are on this journey together.
“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” Martin Luther King Jr.

With the freezing temperatures around the US, ponds that seldom if ever see ice, are frozen, and the invitation is palpable. I’ve been seeing wonderful photos of people—who’ve dusted off their skates from the attic—and are out skating and yes, playing hockey. I’m smiling big. Remember ice hockey as a boy, on the frozen lake by our Michigan house, me pretending to be Gordie Howe.

FRIDAY JAN 24 —

When life feels heavy, we forget that we are all wired to be replenished.
And care of any kind, begins with self-care.
Let us not forget the healing grace wrapped around the gift of self-care.

In her book Open Spaces, Gretel Ehrlich talks about the concept that space can heal. That space—created by stillness, calm, silence—represents sanity. Mercy, what a gift. Stillness and silence can be a fullness, rather than a void. It can allow the mind to run through its paces without any need for justification. It can let us recover—grab hold of—those parts of our self which have been so scattered, so disparate, throughout the week.
To sit still is a spiritual endeavor.
To sit still is to practice Sabbath–meaning literally, to quit.
To stop. To savor uncluttered time.
To be gentle with yourself.
And yes, to waste time with God.
And more than ever, we need to honor and embrace these open spaces.
The bottom line? I’m no longer chasing what I assume will fill empty spaces—including distraction and noise and disruption—in order to make me something I am not.
Replenishment begins here, “I am enough.”
In conversations this past week with potential clients (organizations and groups, some religious, some not), each of them asks me the same question, “What is your primary theme? What matters the most right now?”
My answer: The power of pause. The permission to make space that can heal.
Because sometimes, without even knowing it, we need times and space to decompress.
We need times and space to be at home in our own skin.
We need times and space just for puttering and futzing.
We need times and space to live quietly.
This is not easy in a world where we’re urged to carry a paradigm with the daily quiz, “What did you do today?” As in accomplish. And please tells us, you didn’t waste your time.
I recommend Dominique Browning’s book, Slow Love. She lost her high-profile job as the editor of House and Garden magazine, her beloved house in Westchester, her sense of purpose, her sense of proportion and her sense of self. “I am long past due for a personal renovation,” she writes, “but my toolbox feels empty.” What she discovered is that when the toolbox feels empty, that’s the best time for savoring healing space.

Yes. Healing space an invitation to the sacrament of the present moment. To be here now. Fully. Sadly, when we see this kind of invitation as an assignment, making sure we “get it right,” we miss the wonder. The giddiness. The awe. The replenishing stillness.
And here’s the good news: from that “power of pause” space, we are saturated (I love that verb) with the capacity and wherewithal to spill kindness and empathy and compassion and replenishment to the world around us.

Tomorrow night I’ll be on Vashon Island with friends celebrating Burns Night, our annual time to enjoy Scottish traditions and applaud the renowned poet Robert Burns (born January 25, 1759). The night a classic combination of haggis, neeps, tatties and a warming dram. And a night for Vashon music, with entertaining recitals of some of Burns famous work.

Prayer for our week…
I sometimes forget
that I was created for Joy.
My mind is too busy.
My heart is too heavy
for me to remember
that I have been
Called to dance
the sacred dance of life.
I was created to smile.
To Love.
To be lifted up
and lift up others.
O’ Sacred One
untangle my feet
from all that ensnares.
Free my soul
that we might
Dance
And that our dancing
might be contagious.
Hafiz 

Photo… “Hi Terry. We traveled to South Padre Island, TX, last September. I am normally fearful in high places except through a camera lens. My paradigm shift. I photographed this gorgeous sunset from a fourth story balcony. The beauty led me beyond my fear.” Patti Suler… Thank you Patti… I’m so grateful for your photos, please send them to [email protected]


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