On Friday mornings, on the corner of Pleasant and Union Streets in the heart of Brunswick, Maine, Nancy stands next to a picnic table the children of our congregation painted in vibrant colors.
When I was a little girl, the closet in my bedroom had a back door. You pushed through clothes, unlatched a hook, and behind the door was a dark tunnel: a slanted crawl space that ran the length of the house.
Worship has been much on my mind recently, not necessarily the liturgy or the music or whether to be online or in person for Christmas services, but mostly I’ve been pondering the innate human need to worship, and its various manifestations.
The idea of being wrapped up, especially as the nights grow colder here in Maine, evokes a sense of coziness and warmth.
Back when my middle-aged sons were little boys, another young mom from church handed me a copy of Thomas Merton’s Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, […]
I think we need a virtual army of intercessors, led by this patron saint of desperate causes, to help us through our own current “difficult time.”
I smile as the 4-year-old shows me Butterscotch, her much-loved bunny; Butterscotch proceeds to die two days later, and I cannot help or hold the child in her grief.
Howard Thurman writes, “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.”
Students found the idea of a week in silence more alarming than a week detoxing from substance abuse, but as full time high school English teachers, my husband and I treasured the time in silence and prayer.
“Grandma, where’s your mean picture?” asks my seven-year old grandson.“Mean” picture? Our house is full of family photos, paintings, icons – but I can’t think of any “mean” pictures.