Pilgrim Song (Psalm 121)

I look up into the crags as the storm approaches,
fearful of the slippery steps, aching feet weary already.
Will you help me over them?
Your ways are high, too high for us . . .

Yet as the wind blows fierce in my face,
I am reminded that you made the wind and the crags,
you made these feet.

If it all seems too much, I know you will build a strength in me I have never known.
The steeper the crag, the stronger my foot will be.

You, my Strength, are my Keeper
You will keep me on your path
Sheltering me from the driving rain
Creating moments of refuge beneath your wings

Your breath is at my back, and it is stronger than the gale.

And when I am weary and worn, I will sing
For your joy is my strength and your strength is my song

Your presence is a Pilgrim with me.


~lg

Radio

A grown man cries on the evening radio, reliving 9 year old horrors, and I want to turn it off, turn to a country station, anything. I am not used to this kind of emotion, springing from this kind of description. There is too much evil in the world, I think, scrubbing a pot fiercely in the kitchen sink. How we excel at breaking each other, building a junk pile of lives smashed to pieces so we can climb on top and play king of the hill.

I am grateful, so grateful, for my own safety, for the peace of my family, the security of our home. But the contrast is stark. How many mothers and children will die before they can ever wash the supper dishes without fear?

I stare across what seems a great divide. Do they resent me? Envy me? Pity me? I look into their eyes, willing my heart to leave a place open for them, even though all that rushes in may be a sense of helplessness. I will mourn with those who mourn, and leave the radio on.


~lg

Holymotion

God is motion

He is the heart that ever beats, the dance of three-in-one
The breath that creates, renews, recreates within his lungs
The mouth that forms the word that flings the light

He is the will that moves to send the Spirit to overshadow to put on flesh and blood

He is life laying down, over and over
Love lifted up on a cross
And in that eternal moment all things hold together

He is the hand that reaches out and draws us up through the wound in his side
Up through his veins and into the life of God
Into the circulation of Spirit, Son, Father

And in him we live and move and have our being


~lg

a word from the wild

There’s a wildness in God’s mercy
He is a fire, a storm, a flood
the roaring rapids that tear at your spirit
making your heart ache to be swept away
by thoughts higher, too high
by love deeper, too deep
by a current swifter than your stagnation
and stinking pools of complacency
He is the Spirit

Be of courage, quivering heart
Jump,
     jump,
         jump…
Don’t fight the river,
clinging to slippery rocks of false security
In the centre of the whirlpool
you will find the peace you crave


~lg

planting beauty

It’s not the way I usually would have done it

The apple tree sat waiting

In its plastic pot

Roots circling round and round

Without any room to breathe

I wanted ideal ground

But our “back 40” was less than so

Ground ridged by rocks and weeds

A pile of twisted rusty metal

neglected museum of days gone by

A heap of brush sprawled and sticky

like a shock of unkempt giant’s hair

A collection of broken glass, old medicine bottles

and the evidence of beer drunk in secret

A jumble of dirty plastic, torn and tattered

but never decomposing

I wanted to clear away all the ugliness first

Prepare a perfect environment for our darling sapling

A smooth lawn, a clear view, a clean start

But that was more than a few weeks’ worth of work away

I was almost loathe to do it

Behind the brush heap I pulled up weeds and grass

Collected more fragments of the last few decades

We dug a hole in the middle of it all

Sharp spade cutting into red clay

Filled it with rich, dark dirt harvested from the sea

And there

Surrounded by the brackish heaps

of our pioneer work in progress

We planted beauty

And there it blossoms even now

Unfurling roots and leaves, deep and high

Peeking over the giant’s mop top

Waving to the kitchen window

Happy only to be given a place

Yes, I will give up my stifling idealism

And give beauty a place to grow

~lg

Letters to Arden - May 6, 2010

Written eleven days before Arden's birth

Dear baby,

Today was the first warm rain of the season! I went out to run some errands in preparation for your arrival, just as the first gentle drops started to fall. There was a light, fresh breeze, mingling earth and sky in a delicious springy smell. You would have loved it! I can’t wait for you to experience the wonderful world and all its simple joys. The leaves should be out on the trees by the time you arrive. You’ll learn that green makes such a difference in the look of things.

We’re buying a new house just after you arrive too. It’s a big old house in Wheatley River. I’m excited for you because you’ll get to discover life beside a river. Rivers have their own music. So do oceans and streams . . . what fun we’ll have learning all their songs!

God has created such delightful things. If you look closely, you’ll be able to see glimpses of God’s face in the flowers, His nature in nature. He loves us so much! The best thing about living in the world is meeting its Creator. It’s only through Him that you will understand life and find fulfillment. He knows you already, more than I do or ever will. But I hope I will do a good job of introducing you to him, of helping you know Him as Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Jesus has made our humanity such a grace filled existence. I’m so thankful He has entrusted you to your Father and I. We love you already!


~lg

the hidden root

There was something growing in my heart
Almost hidden in a corner
It had been pruned and trimmed many times
But I secretly watered it
Its sharp and twisted roots took hold
Till I couldn’t imagine living without it

It imitated nobler plants
At times flowering with pleasing petals
But when I peeled back the bark
It was rotten at the core

And so when spring came
I took a walk with the Gardener
And he helped me understand
That it was not rooted in love
That it had never born fruit
That I must pull it out with my bare hands

And oh how it hurt
But I grabbed hold of that thorny stump
And pulled with all my might
I fought those stubborn roots with blood and tears
Till I felt his calloused hands close around mine
And with the strength of two thousand springs
We uprooted it

Now all that remains is a fragile plot of earth
Loose, broken, empty
Ready for something beautiful


~lg

momentary prayer

Today I don’t have time for a long conversation
Just moments when you are on my mind and in my breath
I open the windows and let your breezes blow in
Noting your beauty in the sun’s pattern on the floor
I scrub baby toes and musty cupboards
And this work is my worship
This peace in my heart is prayer
These are the moments of our communion


~lg

Letters to Arden - April 23, 2011

Dear Arden,

Today is Holy Saturday. You are too little to know what this weekend is all about, that today was the day the world fell silent as the grave. It is a busy weekend of worship and presentations and cleaning and reflection. But all that is on hold this afternoon as I take you in my arms. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you are inconsolable. Are you teething? Do you have a tummy ache? Are you getting sick? I try nursing, I try bouncing, I try distracting you with toys, I try a nap, I try cookies, I try funny faces, I try Tylenol, I try giving you to Daddy and leaving the room, but nothing works. You cry and contort in pain and discomfort.

Finally I scoop you up and take you to the kitchen, where the washing machine is spinning and the floors still haven’t been mopped. I turn on the little stereo and its glowing blue light grabs your attention. I put the iPod on the Passion week playlist and turn it up. The music begins – Come and Mourn with Me Awhile, How Deep the Father’s Love For Us, Sing to Jesus. I dance and sing and rock and your sobs turn to whimpers. You couldn’t possibly know what these words mean, yet as I sing the story of the cross over you, you soften in my arms. I sing them by heart and with all my heart, embracing these moments of broken worship, soothing you somehow with Christ’s sorrow. You settle into quiet rest, and still I sing, praying these words will find their way into your bones and blood, that they will grow with you till one Holy Saturday they will spill out of your own mouth like tears of praise.


love Mommy

The graspable God

Jesus
You were a real flesh-and-blood man
With carpenter’s hands and dusty feet
Who ate and slept and cried
The graspable God

I find myself longing to touch you,
The human-God you
Even just the hem of your garment

I get how people want to be near the places you were
God-touched places, where physical and spiritual fused together
To touch someone who touched someone who touched Peter who touched you

You embraced the ones you loved
Washed their feet
Let them wash your feet with their hair

Now we cannot cling to you
The closest we can come is a piece of bread, a sip of wine
To remind us that the living bread once lived on earth
By your invisible Spirit and by faith we hold on

But one day
One day I will have eyes to see you
Hands to touch you
And lips to kiss your feet


~lg

a Narnian moon

Sometimes when the moon shines through our open window
And the wind blows across the fields
Playing the dry stalks of last fall like so many wooden flutes
We hear Susan’s horn in the distance
And smell the salt spray against Cair Paravel
Then turning to you I catch Magnificence in your eyes
And the squeeze of your hand stirs a gentle valiance within
For a brief moment our hearts beat with the blood of a far off country
And our eyes turn with longing to the closet door


~lg

Single-Handed Theology - Where Are the Children?

Single-Handed Theology: one hand in motherhood, one hand in theology, each inspiring the other.

Tonight, while nursing Arden before bed, all the while humming old hymns and drinking hot lemon tea, I was considering the relationship between Christ and the church. In a sacred mystery I am not sure I understand, the apostle Paul identifies Christ as the husband and the church as the wife. That got me thinking – where are the children?

We’ve got all sorts of relationships pictured in the Bible, relationships that exist among God and between God and humanity. There’s God the Father, and His Son, with the Spirit as the bond of love between them (to use Augustine's analogy). There’s Christ the bridegroom, winning a bride for Himself, the Church. The Spirit may also be seen as the chemistry, or divine electricity that draws and binds each to the other. (Of course the Spirit is also a person, not simply a force, with whom we have a relationship with as well, though He is always handing us off to Christ.)

Surely the greatest romance of all time would find fulfillment in the natural outcome of marriage, that is, offspring. We are God’s children, but the Church as she is now has borne no children.

But of course. The marriage has yet to happen. The Great Wedding is an eschatological event, and we are still the betrothed, not yet a wife, not yet a mother.

When I thought of this, a little tingle of excitement ran through me, and it wasn't the lemon tea. Sometimes when we think about the end of this world, or life after death, or eternity in heaven, we struggle to imagine what on earth we’ll be doing. (And yes, there will be a new earth too, as well as a new heaven.) Getting to the Marriage Supper of the Lamb seems like a pretty ultimate arrival in and of itself. But just think, we will be marrying Jesus, the One by whom and through whom all things were created! With such a creative husband, I wouldn’t be surprised if our union brings about some kind of new life. I’m not thinking of more human children, or a race of demi-gods, but something alive nonetheless, something that will recreate the church anew as baby recreates a woman from the inside out.

Perhaps we will experience a glorious motherhood, perhaps there will be things that need our nourishment and our love, love which has been made perfect through the fires of tribulation and resurrection. Perhaps we will be the co-creators we were meant to be. Perhaps the Spirit will birth new life in us as a surprise wedding gift. Who knows?

There is a reason a veil hangs over our faces as we look past the future into eternity. But you know what they say. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes . . .


~lg

Empty Me

A song for Lent.

Hunger

In fasting
I am stripped down to hunger,
to desire, raw need.
What are these cravings that gnaw at the pit of my stomach,
directing my heart and mind and hands,
eating into my dreams,
demanding to be fed?

In fasting
I must face hunger,
look into its greedy eyes,
and deny it,
deny myself.

In fasting
my soul growls at God,
honest in doubt, honest in need,
empty
with no bread or wine in sight,
only an invitation to "Follow Me."

~lg

Secrets of the woods

Do you wish to hear a secret?

Put on your boots and go into the woods

Go as a child would

Running and skipping with eyes full of wonder

There you will find a certain grove of trees

And a little patch of moss in the centre

Plant your feet into the earth and

Stretch your arms up to the patch of blue

Now close your eyes and breathe

If you stand very still, very patiently

Your eight year old ears will open

And you will hear once again the murmurs of the forest

The trees are speaking

Telling the story of the deepest mystery

The rising of sap in the spring

And the origin of the colour green

~lg