Pierre Teilhard de Chardin May 1, 1881-April 10, 1955

This morning, the beginning of a day off work, I walked into my office, lit two candles while singing the old hymn, “Come Holy Ghost,” and sat facing the small collection of sacramentals surrounding the Bible. Having long neglected the practice of Lectio Divina and quiet prayer, I came again to, if nothing else, rest in the presence of God. The plaque above the bookcase reminded me that on the days I do not do this God is no less present to me. (Called or not called, God is present.)

I take comfort in that, not only for myself, but for all humanity, for all creation. Holy Presence animates all and in some way draws all to Unity. I believe that, though I confess ignorance of its workings.

Praying morning prayer, I discovered that today is the fifty-seventh anniversary of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s death in New York city, 1955. An priest and theologian, he was also a renowned scientist in the fields of paleontology and geology. In the late sixties, I began to read his collection of essay’s and prayers, “Hymn of the Universe.” Joining his faith and science, Teilhard wrote about evolution in its latter stages as a conscious choice, a choice of community and love, a choice that will lead all creation to union with the Love.

I have not read Teilhard de Chardin for a long time. Today, I took out some of my books and looked over them, finding what spoke most strongly to me by looking for underlined passages and notes in the margins. His seeing of all things as “sacred,” as the earth and human society as “home,” as the place to transform as we work out salvation not for ourselves alone, but for all, these insights speak to me still.

These two quotes were favorites:

“Nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see it.”

“The day will come when, after harnessing space, the winds, the tides, and
gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And on that day, for
the second time in the history of the world, we shall have discovered fire.’ (“The
Evolution of Chastity,” in Toward the Future, 1936, XI, 86-87)

Today, I am drawn to another. To one that calls to us in a sorely divided nation and world. One that calls for vision. For choosing to see….

“Seeing. One could say that the whole of life lies in seeing — if not ultimately, at
least essentially. To be more is to be more united — and this sums up and is the
very conclusion of the work to follow. But unity grows, and we will affirm this
again, only if it is supported by an increase of consciousness, of vision. That is
probably why the history of the living world can be reduced to the elaboration of
ever more perfect eyes at the heart of a cosmos where it is always possible to
discern more. Are not the perfection of an animal and the supremacy of the
thinking being measured by the penetration and power of synthesis of their
glance? To try to see more and to see better is not, therefore, just a fantasy,
curiosity, or a luxury. See or perish. This is the situation imposed on every
element of the universe by the mysterious gift of existence. And thus, to a higher
degree, this is the human condition.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: The Human
Phenomenon, trans. Sarah Appleton-Weber, p. 3)

The Easter mystery of Jesus’ death and resurrection, if believed, compels us to participate in transforming the world, not for personal salvation, but for the final realization of union of all in the Community of Love, Who is our God. Our participation is possible because the Spirit, the creative Presence dwells in each of us, as Jesus promised. It it that power that enables us to choose “to see” as Teilhard says. Continued spiritual evolution must be chosen.

As Telihard says, we must “See or perish.” We must see Christ in one another. We must seek unity and solidarity, not division and discord. We must stand with those who are marginalized and remember that we move forward together or not at all.

Which brings me back to my simple efforts this morning to renew the practice of quiet prayer and pondering the Word in Scripture. Sometimes I must be still to recognize the Easter Presence and respond to it. I must clear my head to see the Risen Christ in the world around me and to embrace the journey of all as my own.

“Sorrow” by Auguste Rodin 1881-1882 Reading reports of the trial of Monsignor Lynn, the first Roman Catholic church official to be tried in the US in the sexual abuse scandal, I remembered a column I wrote two years ago that dealt with the issue of hierarchy culpability and the need for accountability and repentance. During that Holy Week news of widespread abuse in Europe and Ireland was making headlines. The column was never printed. I knew it would not be, yet I had to write it; I had to put into words the betrayal and frustration I, along with many other Catholics, felt.

Two years later, the news again is of complicity and cover up, but this time, an official of the Church is on trial. I say it is about time. The monsignor’s defense claims that he passed the information on to the now deceased Cardinal Anthony Bevilacqua and others in the Philadelphia archdiocese. No matter. The cardinal is now beyond the reach of civil law, and the defense is the same “passing the buck” that we have heard for over a decade. Civil authorities should have been contacted. The Monsignor could have spoken out. As Rowan Williams, head of the Anglican Church, said two years ago in an interview, when forced to choose between protecting itself and revealing secrets that could damage their image, Christian institutions have chosen the former. He continued, “We’ve learned that that is damaging, it’s wrong, its dishonest and it requires that very hard recognition…which ought to be natural for the Christian church based as it is on repentance and honesty.”

Again the news surfaces during Holy Week, when Good Friday offers theGood Friday offers an opportunity for the Church to admit wrongdoing, repent, and ask for forgiveness, as all Christians are encouraged to do. Will this Good Friday pass as it did two years ago without church hierarchy taking advantage of it? I imagine so. Until it is grasped, and Church leadership is honest with itself and with the world, its credibility is lost and more faithful will find other communities to join for worship and Christian life.

………………………………………………………….Old Man in Sorrow by Vincent van Gogh

Below is my unpublished column from Lent, 2010….

I write this column at the beginning of the Triduum with a few things on my mind. First is today’s feast, the liturgy celebrating the Last Supper and the institution of the Eucharist. I love this liturgy, and attended faithfully until a decade ago when I was “smoked out” by a priest overzealous in his use of incense. As billows of it rolled down the center aisle, I made my way to the closest exit and spent the remainder of the service waiting in the car for my husband. I have attended sporadically since then, always on the lookout for celebrants who insist on using “large gestures” when a smidgen of the smelly stuff would do.

Still, I love the feast. Eucharist is at the center of my spirituality. In times of distress and struggle as well as of quotidian and joy, the desire to receive Communion often is what drew me to church. The scholastic attempt to explain the presence of God with transubstantiation, “substance,” and “accidents” had nothing to do with my experience of the Mystery. Why try to figure out how the “glorious impossible” is possible? I prefer to dance with the mystery of the Holy One’s longing to bring us to union in a most ordinary and extraordinary way. I, and I venture many other Catholics, rely instead on personal experience of the sustenance and strength that floods my being when I share in the Eucharist.

The next day of the Triduum is Good Friday, a time for prayer and reflection on the suffering and death of Jesus as well as on our sin that contributes to ongoing pain and evil in the world. I often am aware of emptiness – Jesus is closed up in the tomb, not yet risen to flood the world with light and hope. Once, walking through the woods on Good Friday night, I stepped on a board that had been left near a narrow creek, perhaps for use in crossing the water. One end of the board leapt up when my foot came down on the other. It seemed tense, eager. I stopped and looked around; the whole wood seemed to be waiting. That is Good Friday’s gift: awareness of emptiness and the need for God to fill it up.

This Good Friday, newspapers report sexual abuse scandals breaking out across Europe. Many Americans are saying “enough already,” having gone through a similar flood of revelations. Some think the Church is being attacked, but I see this as a “Good Friday” event. It is time to face the reality again. We hear familiar outrage against the priests who have committed the crimes and the “zero tolerance” stance that the American Church has taken. What is rarely heard, and in my opinion what must be heard, is acceptance by the hierarchy of their part in enabling the scandal to reach the proportions that it did by shuffling offending priests around under a veil of secrecy.

Today’s news (Gillian Flaccus, AP) reveals a letter written in 1963 by Rev. Fitzgerald, head of the Servants of the Holy Paraclete, an order that treated pedophile priests, warning Pope Pius VI of the danger of returning these men to ministry. The Pope had requested Rev. Fitzgerald to write the letter after the two had spoken in person about the situation. What is particularly disturbing is the rather offhand way Tod Tameberg, a spokesman for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, dismissed papal responsibility by saying the Pope probably never saw the letter. How can that be, if he requested it? Was the request disingenuous? If not, why was he not given the letter to read. I know such correspondence passes through the hands of secretaries. Understandable. But why would the Pope not have read the opinion he asked for?

These statements, these realities make many Catholics feel betrayed, not only by the priests who committed such acts, but also by those in leadership roles who will not accept responsibility for their complicity. This is surely a Good Friday experience for the Church.

A well-spent Good Friday leads to the celebration of Easter, which is brightening our days this week. I wish a blessed, happy Easter for all. I hope for a resurrection and time of renewal for our Church, which, after owning sins of commission and omission as we all must, will enjoy the new life of Easter.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen I slipped into the pew a little late and noticed the lovely palm branches. Some people held them in their hands, some had laid them on the seat behind them. A few secured them with the hat clips on the pew backs, relics of days when hats were ordinary attire for men. They were not the long slender palm buds that my father had woven into crosses or interesting cone shapes when I was a child. These were the dark green leaves of the Emerald Palm and this was first time I had seen them.

As the familiar passion story was proclaimed, my mind wandered. When the story told of Jesus standing before the high priest, I thought of people today, standing in a court room, perhaps with families and supporters attending; perhaps the accused were alone. What dread fills their hearts? Remorse for the guilty ones? Anger for those wrongly accused? What fear for those who love them?

I thought of the emotions of those gathered in support of Travon Martin’s parents in Miami. Thousands gathered. I wondered about the family and friends of George Zimmerman in the face of a growing movement and escalating tensions across the country. I thought of all those in our prison system. I thought of the obscurity of most of their cases. And I thought of Jesus.

Who could have imagined, in his day, that this drama played out in a garden, a courtyard, a place of execution, would become what I imagine is the most told story in human history? A first century preacher, betrayed by friends, given over to authorities motivated in part by fear, ambition, and ignorance is an unlikely hero.

I listened as the story continued. I thought of those fighting other battles, suffering other indignities and injustices. “Everyone struggles with something that can strangle the spirit if not the body. Most of them I will never know. Most stories do not extend beyond family and intimates.”

So, what comfort the passion story? Jesus has walked in our shoes or sandals. His bare feet were cut and bruised by life and death. God knows our plight. God shared it then. God shares it now. The comfort? We have a companion on our journey who understands how pain and suffering transform as much as love and joy. Perhaps more. We haver a companion who has walked the path and knows it ends, not it death, but in life. When we see only darkness, our Companion reminds of that light will come. Has come. Sometimes, Jesus even lends us his eyes to see. What counts is the journey and what happens to us along the way.

I slip out of the pew early to drive to work as so many do, even on this holy day. On my way out of church, I take a palm leaf from the basket by the main aisle. I will be busy today with people walking their journeys. My prayer is to reflect our Companion’s hope and compassion. To be green with life, like the palm in my hand.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready/to break my heart/ as the sun rises,/ as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers/ and they open— / pools of lace,/white and pink…”

from “Peonies” by Mary Oliver

Spring has come early this year. Dogwoods that bloom on Mothers’ Day are already holding crowns of pink and white blossoms. Magnolia flowers have come and gone weeks ago along with crocuses, snowdrops, and grape hyacinths. The May flowers are here now, and the earth, soft and fragrant, calls out to be opened and trusted with seedlings and plants.

Still, I am cautious. I have seen 13″ of snow in April. Yet, this spring feels like it is here to stay. I could not resist and I planted some peonies from my parent’s home. I have the perfect place: A long strip of ground running along the south side of my brick flat. I pulled fistfuls of weeds to make room. The earth gave them up easily, having softened in rains and warm days. Using a borrowed shovel, I turned up a patch of ground large enough to hold the plants, just a few inches high.

Now I wait. I don’t know if they will bloom this year, having been moved from their fifty-year old place between our family home and the neighbors to the north. Maybe they will spend a year keeping memories of blossoms bowing down from sheer weight of their delicate pink lace and deep red silk. Maybe they, too, need time to grieve the passing of an era. No matter. I will wait with them, finding memory and promise in the green and red stems, the deeply notched leaves.

One day, I will gather their blooms, as when I was a child looking for something beautiful to place at our homemade May altar. Mary, I was sure, would savor the glorious explosion of petals and fragrance as I did

London School of Economics crest Yesterday I walked a couple of blocks to the local parish’s Lenten fish fry. My sister had recommended it saying the fish was good and the people friendly. My refrigerator was empty and enjoying at least one Lenten fish fry sounded like a good idea.

On my way to the stone church hall, I passed patches of bluets splattered beneath huge trees hung with swelling buds. A close look at harshly trimmed shrubbery growing along stuccoed walls that separated high priced condos from the ordinary sidewalk revealed honeysuckle in bloom. Brave, those flowers, or naive: What of a sudden burst of winter? We have had them before, in April. Winter, denied, shows up for one final display reminding us it can come if it wants to. As I walked, scents of spring filled the air, mingled with birdsong, and I hoped winter would stay where it has hidden these past few months and save its bluster for next year.

The line at the parish hall was long…out the door, donw the entrance steps and into the parking lot. I stood behind a couple who were chatting with friends who had already eaten their fill. Children played at movie making in an area behind the rectory garage: “Take two!,” one shouted at the others, and a young girl posed, looking like she was preparing to sing.

I looked at the sweatshirt of the man in front of me. It was green and emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest: A beaver, old books, and a scrolled banner that read:Rerum cognoscere causas. I studied it and pulled on five years of Latin to translate.I came close: To know the causes of things. As a way of starting conversation, I asked the gentleman where the sweatshirt came from. “The London School of Economics,” he replied. “Our daughter goes there, but don’t ask me what the Latin means.”

“Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea,” I said, and shared my rusty translation. While his wife and I chatted, he called his daughter on his iPhone.

“You were close,” he said. “She said it means “To Understand the Causes of Things.”

The conversation continued. I learned their daughter was finishing her graduate year inin London, that Latin was not a favorite high school subject for him, and that they had moved into the neighborhood not too long ago. We carried our plates piled with delicious fried perch to a round table and joined two couples who were just finishing up. The two husbands had attended a car show, and their wives, happily, had not. We shared pleasant table talk, and I decided that if my work schedule permitted, I would return again before Easter.

On the walk home, I pondered the motto of the London School of Economics. Sometimes we can understand the causes of things. Science helps in that regard concerning physical phenomena. Yeast makes dough rise when I make bread; the spinning of the earth, its tilt and orbit contribute to our experience of light and darkness, changing seasons, and constellations marching across the sky.

The mild winter and untimely blooming of honeysuckle are another thing altogether. Some propose climate warming. Others argue continuation of natural cycles.

But what of other things? How does one understand the causes of violence in the world, or poetic genius, or longings of the heart? What about a God who enters into the very life she created? Or a God that suffers?
What about the sudden rupture of old heart wounds, or the inability to let go things that are harmful to our souls?

There are age old puzzles of doing what we don’t want to do and of evil, of what comes after death. There are immediate ones like why why I can never buy the right amount of groceries for one or why faith once fecund is dry as old bones.

I unlocked the side door and entered my kitchen, hung up my keys, and took a deep breath. Theology is sometimes referred to as “faith seeking understanding.” I guess it is the seeking that counts.

PHOTO: Syria Under Government Crackdown, Elizabeth Arrott public domain Seek the Lord while he is still to be found, call to him while he is still near. Let the wicked man abandon his way, the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn back to the Lord who will take pity on him, to our God who is rich in forgiving.
Mid-morning reading (Terce) Isaiah 55:6-7 © Universalis

Yesterday while at work, I caught a bit of television coverage of the continuing massacre in Syria. The video was heart wrenching: bodies of children, of families, huddled in death against blood-stained living room walls. I offered a prayer as I entered our fitting rooms to clean them out. On the other side of our department, I again checked on fitting rooms. The television there broadcast a different channel. This one showed a young woman, ecstatic over her game show winnings. People were cheering and the game show host was pleasant as ever.

I couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling that the juxtaposed visuals stirred in my soul. I felt slightly ill for the remainder of my shift and even on the drive home, the images stayed in my mind. Massacres have happened throughout history, but in this era of instant communication, disturbing images are flashed into our living rooms (and department stores) all day long. Bombardment with the world’s horrors can numb us to their reality, mixed as they are with the mishmash of media offerings.

What can a person do? I prayed for the victims, for the perpetrators, for those in powerful positions, that they might intervene to stop this senseless terror. But my prayer seems small and ineffectual in the face of evil. The rest of the world seems to roll right along, as the game show reminded me. The feeling is a bit like the astonished disbelief I feel while driving in the funeral entourage of a loved one and noticing that people are going about their routines. How can that be, when the world has suffered the loss of my beloved?

In today’s gospel, Jesus casts out a demon and is accused of doing so by the power of evil. Here we find the well-known response:‘Every kingdom divided against itself is heading for ruin, and a household divided against itself collapses.’ Jesus casts out evil with the power of God, of Good, of Compassion.

God’s presence alone can stop this unspeakable evil. How can we, can the leaders of the world, bring that Presence to bear? I don’t know. I write emails to government officials; I sign petitions. Today’s psalm from Terce reminds us that the Lord is still near, that God is rich in forgiving. So, I continue to offer my prayer, and try to bring that Presence to the people and places in my life. This seems futile, but today’s gospel ends with Jesus’ words: ‘He who is not with me is against me; and he who does not gather with me scatters.’

Perhaps enough small bits of Holy Compassion gathered together by people throughout the world will make a difference.

PHOTO: Syria Under Government Crackdown, Elizabeth Arrott public domain Seek the Lord while he is still to be found, call to him while he is still near. Let the wicked man abandon his way, the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn back to the Lord who will take pity on him, to our God who is rich in forgiving.
Mid-morning reading (Terce) Isaiah 55:6-7 © Universalis

Yesterday while at work, I caught a bit of television coverage of the continuing massacre in Syria. The video was heart wrenching: bodies of children, of families, huddled in death against blood-stained living room walls. I offered a prayer as I entered our fitting rooms to clean them out. On the other side of our department, I again checked on fitting rooms. The television there broadcast a different channel. This one showed a young woman, ecstatic over her game show winnings. People were cheering and the game show host was pleasant as ever.

I couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling that the juxtaposed visuals stirred in my soul. I felt slightly ill for the remainder of my shift and even on the drive home, the images stayed in my mind. Massacres have happened throughout history, but in this era of instant communication, disturbing images are flashed into our living rooms (and department stores) all day long. Bombardment with the world’s horrors can numb us to their reality, mixed as they are with the mishmash of media offerings.

What can a person do? I prayed for the victims, for the perpetrators, for those in powerful positions, that they might intervene to stop this senseless terror. But my prayer seems small and ineffectual in the face of evil. The rest of the world seems to roll right along, as the game show reminded me. The feeling is a bit like the astonished disbelief I feel while driving in the funeral entourage of a loved one and noticing that people are going about their routines. How can that be, when the world has suffered the loss of my beloved?

In today’s gospel, Jesus casts out a demon and is accused of doing so by the power of evil. Here we find the well-known response:‘Every kingdom divided against itself is heading for ruin, and a household divided against itself collapses.’ Jesus casts out evil with the power of God, of Good, of Compassion.

God’s presence alone can stop this unspeakable evil. How can we, can the leaders of the world, bring that Presence to bear? I don’t know. I write emails to government officials; I sign petitions. Today’s psalm from Terce reminds us that the Lord is still near, that God is rich in forgiving. So, I continue to offer my prayer, and try to bring that Presence to the people and places in my life. This seems futile, but today’s gospel ends with Jesus’ words: ‘He who is not with me is against me; and he who does not gather with me scatters.’

Perhaps enough small bits of Holy Compassion gathered together by people throughout the world will make a difference.

Like the Water-Wendell Berry

LIKE THE WATER
of a deep stream,
love is always
too much.
We did not make it.
Though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all.
In its abundance
it survives our thirst.
IN THE EVENING WE COME DOWN TO THE SHORE
to drink our fill,
and sleep,
while it flows
through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us,
except we keep returning to its rich waters
thirsty.
WE ENTER, WILLING TO DIE,
into the commonwealth of its joy.

Thoughts of thirst, water, and joy stay with me these days. I think I am thirsty for many things, but it mostly boils down to God.

I attended Mass with a friend this morning, for the first time in a couple of weeks. It felt wonderful. The readings brought forth images of a thirsty desert people drinking water gushing forth from a rock, and a Samaritan woman entranced by her conversation with an interesting Jewish man who promised to give her living water, water that would forever quench her thirst. Naturally, she was curious.

Dry myself, I sat in the pew and let the words soak me like rain. I loved hearing about the complaining people who reminded me of myself, wondering if they had come out into the desert to die. No, no. Love would not bring them that far only to allow them to perish from lack of water. No. For the beloved, water from a rock.

Or eavesdropping on a conversation between a thirsty Jesus and a woman who had a bucket to draw water from Jacob’s well. I could imagine holding a bucket up to my lips and taking long deep drafts of water that would slide down my throat and drip from my chin. An abundance of water.

The physical water would be good enough, but today I was inundated with the abundance of Love as well. The drink that slakes the longing for what is complete and whole. The Holy Mystery.

I gulped down the words and the sermon, delivered by an unusually gifted preacher. I felt the hands that held my own when we exchanged peace. I savored the host and relished the warmth of the wine. I rejoiced in reconnecting with a friend I hadn’t seen for over thirty years, and common friends that rejoiced in the reunion.

A friend and I shared homemade baba ghanouj and quinoa pilaf. We took a long walk along neighborhood streets soaking up sun and discovering a small park.

I called a friend at his monastery to see how he was doing. (Too much lifting at 90. He is tired out!)
My daughter and her friend came over bearing gifts of unbelievably delicious cup cakes made with lots of butter, cream, Baileys, Jameson, and Guinness in honor of St. Patrick, of course.

Love always IS too much. But today, I am luxuriating in its abundance and offering prayers of gratitude for the joy that it holds for us all.

PHOTO: Elizabeth van Balen Delphia – Bean Creek Funny how a piece of mail that arrived late could be just on time. Two weeks after the beginning of Lent, a one-page reflection on a program for the season appeared in my mailbox. Sent from the Benedictine Abbey in North Dakota, Assumption Abbey, it contained exactly what I needed to jump start my already waning efforts at keeping Lent. I had begun the season with a half-hearted intention to refrain from eating candy or desserts and a more sincere plan to regularly post Lenten blogs.

The candy and desserts fast was easily broken when I had dinner at a friend’s home and was served something sweet. Benedictine hospitality would see the dilemma and come down on the side of reverencing the host. Of course, after breaking the fast once, I could find lots of reasons, perhaps not so Benedictine, to indulge. There was the potluck at work to raise money for a summer food program for children. I had to taste a couple of the goodies. And then a coworker bought a Godiva raspberry filled dark chocolate bar and offered me a couple of squares. You get the picture.

I have been somewhat more successful with blog posts if I compare my success to the number of Advent posts, though they were so few that the victory is hollow. So what was my problem? Two weeks in, Lent was a bust and to be honest, I didn’t mind that much.

Then Brother Alban Petesch’s reflection was dropped in my mailbox. His suggestion that nurturing a sense of joy and gratitude is a Lenten practice hooked me , and I read on. He contrasted happiness and joy. Happiness , like ripples on the surface of a stream, can sparkle and shine, but comes and goes. Joy, on the other hand, is like the strong deep current that keeps the stream moving no matter what the surface shows.

Actually, I thought, the deep current CREATES the stream, doesn’t it? I mean, without that motion moving the water along you don’t have a stream. You have a pond or something else.

The image hit home. I have been struggling with happiness lately, or perhaps more accurately, with its fickle nature. I am fine, and then something happens (or doesn’t) and tears come and water the empty hole, amazingly heavy, that is lodged somewhere between my heart and my stomach. I say “water” because the thing seems to be growing.

That “deep down” current is what I am really longing for. It is God’s Presence within, no matter what is going on without. It is Spirit that creates me, like current makes the stream. I crave that Presence and not eating sweets isn’t helping.

Usually, the abiding sense of the Sacred, comes naturally to me. A gift, but not without cost. In her book, “Still,”Lauren Winner recalls a friend remarking on his wife’s similar natural receptiveness to God’s presence: “…to be naturally anything can make one not have to undergo the training necessary to make that which is immediate a habit” (102).

Lent is a time of training. Perhaps if I linked not eating a proffered delicacy with a prayer of gratitude, giving up sweets might help me feel the strong current pulling at my heart. Or maybe waking up each day and giving thanks, being present to those in my life and responding to their need rather than dwelling on my own would be enough. That’s a problem with happiness: It keeps one drowning in “self,” in past and future, abandoning the only reality – present.

I look at the amazing photograph my sister took one winter in Northwestern Ohio, and ponder these things. How many surface layers of that stream were frozen and caught on trees and plants along its bank? Over the winter months, the creek shrank, less water flowing, more given up to surface ice, going nowhere.

In the spring, the ice will melt and perhaps once again become part of the stream. Perhaps the solid pools of water will be sucked up by thirsty roots. Either way, Bean Creek keeps flowing. The deep down current does not die in winter. It courses on still, not visible perhaps, but keeping the waters alive.

In my winters, Presence abides, offering joy. Engendering hope. Calling forth gratitude. Happily, I still have four weeks of Lent to go!