My how the year has flown !

My hubby has started blogging every Monday.  He writes his reflection on the upcoming sermon passage, then lets it percolate until Friday when he writes the final draft.  He may do stuff intermittently, but I don’t know.

So I now receive his blog, and, low and behold, I find that I have a blog, too.  One long abandoned as work and other things carried my attention away.  I think I only started this blog because I wanted to comment on his, and having a WordPress blog made it easier.

His toes are much clearer now.

Barefooting it

These are my hubby’s feet. He played basketball til he was 60, so I’m mighty proud of those toes. His entire blog, from beginning to end, shows me how God never gives up on us.


Barefooting it

During the times of centering prayer at the Desert House of Prayer, we are invited to remove our shoes, to sit shoeless and to walk around the room shoeless. This invitation hearkens back to Exodus 3, when Moses drew near to the burning bush and God said to him, “Take off your sandals for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”
Years ago I often went about barefoot, but after a couple of painful bouts with plantar fasciitis, I now wear orthotics in my shoes that have been specially molded for my feet. So I nearly always wear shoes. I am particularly conscientious about wearing shoes (rather than sandals) in the Arizona desert where it is always possible to step in striking range of a rattlesnake or a scorpion. Being so used to wearing shoes, but sitting there shoeless and walking around the room shoeless, I got to…

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Let there be. . . .

Let there be. . . .

How I am like church. I am a re-maker of broken things. I am a therapist. In the lives of used up, worn out people I see the seeds of potential, the germ of hope. People are like jar candles, they never burn evenly. They get off center, leaving behind, often, a huge chunk of wax, unconsumed. At home I gather up the bits and pieces of odd wax, full of blackened match heads and unused wick–then remelt, merge and recast new candles. For wicks I take a plain white emergency candle, or half of one, and set it down through the just cooled, soft wax.
Oh how that is like God. Sometimes I get all fired up–my heart angry at the way church claims righteousness at the exclusion of others. And then, as my ardor and anger cool, God slips a new wick of life into this burnt out old mess of ego and love.
For I do love. Imperfectly, but in great abandon…
When I am not too tired.
When I am not too afraid.
I open my eyes, open my ears, and see God’s handiwork.
And my candle wax, in a simmering water bath on the stove, previously burnt out debris sinking to form a black, crusty sediment at the bottom of the jar–is the church–bits and pieces of potential light all thrown together, simmering in Your love and grace, mingling colors and textures, awaiting the essential oil of your grace and the insertion of an emergency candle to again give light to the world.