Holy Scribbling

~ Backyard Theology ~

Any window can be a sacred window. It isn’t what one sees as much as how one looks at it. Observing life’s comings and goings through a sacred lens discovers the “holy” in the stuff of ordinary living.

As I sit in my old kitchen, gazing from my sacred window once again, I am both startled and refreshed by this scrappy yard. The giant pecan tree, naked now, save the thick ivy covering trunk and limbs, stands with bare vines and tall cedar to allow glorious sunbeams to break through in scattered patches.

Suddenly, through the gray skies behind the pecan tree, there bursts a shining—bold Light clearing its path and resting squarely on my face. Illuminating me. Reassuring me. Healing body and soul.

And I know, O God, that you are One with our ragged world, yet so far above it—immanent, yet, transcendent. Powerful theology discovered in my bedraggled backyard!

Simple Solitude

Just me this morning, Lord.

All by myself.

Why do I love it so,

this sitting by my window

that lets the tension fall

from me like unlocked shackles?

With visceral precision my body

loosens as I gaze across from

tree to field to water.

Though fleeting and unstable,

the morning’s contentment

settles over me gently

and I give thanks

to God for something

so simple as this precious

window-spot.

Coffee and Prayer

My Cup is hot,

wrapped with both hands,

steeping in warmth.

Aromas reach my chilly soul

and all is good.

Dark coffee.

Bold.

Rich.

Pure.

Just how I like it.

Forever the perfect companion,

whether in lively relationships

or deepening solitude.

Coffee is slow.

One cannot hurry coffee.

Its mystery must be . . .

sipped.

savored.

pondered.

contemplated.

Reminds me of God.

Window Scenes

Gazing through the dirty window

I strain to see the fuzzy images

looking back at me.

How blurred the landscape appears,

dimmed by dried splotches of rain and dust

collected on the glass.

With squinting eyes, I wonder . . .

“Could that be a bluebird?”

But how would I know, for it appears

to be the flat silhouette of a

mere “gray” bird.

Dingy clouds cover the sky—or,

perhaps, I am peering at a clear

blue heaven through a

cloudy window.

And my mind?

I know now why my brain

is full of foggy thoughts

and indistinct images; for

this is simply what happens

when one looks at life

through a dirty window.

Watching Him

He stands at the window looking out at the world

quietly observing what most of us miss—

a flutter of leaves from flitting warblers,

egret sailing through the morning mist.

loving the earth;

loving the sea,

he embraces each scrubby bush,

each reed,

each coastal tree.

lowliest creatures elicit a grin

while he watches from the window.

It is cold now.

inattentive eyes see all as dormant;

yet, peering deeply, he uncovers a spark,

a bud, a wiggle, a hinting breath of activity

casually overlooked by those of us with

lesser patience and lesser acuity.

Is this his prayer,

this silent seeing of quiet things?

the hidden, the obscure enriching his

contemplation of humanity’s place

tucked inside the woven web of Creation?

It is his pared-down way of watching and

listening to life’s rhythms that makes his

gazing and reflecting seem limitless.

and the window summons his prayer.

Holy Rhythm

Stand in the morning light

open to its warmth

open to its focused rays

beaming into hearts

every morning.

Stand in the darkness of night

open to the vastness of sky

open to the shining stars dotting

heavenly dark, bring rest

every night.

Holy rhythms.

Light-Dark-Light.

Wake-Sleep-Wake.

Life-Death-Life.

Separation

Brown and brittle oak branch

Hangs by a single woody fiber,

Broken off from its life source.

No nourishment of food.

No life-giving water.

Disconnected.

Dying.

How like myself.

Separated from your

Life-giving food of love,

Do I not also turn dry and brittle?

Disconnected from my life source

Am I not just like the oak branch?

For only a little while

Can I hang by my thread

Without your love,

Without your completeness.

For without being rooted and

Grounded in the Whole,

In the life-breath of your Being,

I, too, die.

Dead Tree Haunting

What is it about the dead tree

standing sleek and bare

in the center of the field

that captures me?

Lone crooked branch

still reaches outward

beckoning my soul

to the mystery of solitude.

A mingling of sorrow and beauty

painting images in my mind

of memories long forgotten

brought to life by

the dead tree.

Broom Trees

Little girl peering from her window

Imagined the pine tree tops

Were brooms turned upside down

With thousands of soft bristles

Sweeping clean the sky.

Today, gazing upward to scan the

Line of trees swaying about me

I am convinced that this is

Still true.

Serenity

Quietness awakened me

this morning as gentle mist

hovered across the water and

dawn’s first light

eased through the vapor

catching the droplets in a

glowing web of softness.

Silent.

Pure.

And today I live immersed in

complete serenity.

Winds

Holding fast to their anchor

Tethered leaves tremble

As the winds blow and swirl.

God’s breath?

Grounded beside the tree,

I, too, tremble with rushing

Winds of the Spirit.

God’s breath.

The Leaf

Single maple leaf

Sits on a layer of air.

Hanging in the wind.

Aloft and still.

Solitary.

Waiting for the

Fall.

Coastal Mystery

Leaves rain down

in crazy clouds

as March wind gusts

shake the live oak branches

left nearly bare as they

wait, only briefly, for

new green to emerge.

I watch the small gold leaves

sail down, thinking,

it is all backwards

how God mysteriously

programs the salty-air oaks

to think that fall

comes in the spring!