Of Wooly Worms and Such

Last Sunday I was in West Virginia for a family reunion, which reminded me of another like gathering I hosted back when my grandson Rowen was just a tiny little guy.

He was fascinated by a wooly worm.  He pointed at it and laughed.  He put his finger close to it, almost touching it, then he’d pull back and laugh some more.

But when I picked up the furry critter and put it in his hand, he threw it down and burst into tears, only a few moments later to start the whole thing over . . . pointing, almost touching, laughing.

Rowen was flirting with the wooly worm . . . like many of us when it comes to God, Rowen liked the idea of the wooly worm much more than he liked the wooly worm himself.

Like many of us when it comes to God, Rowen wanted to get close to the wooly worm, but not too close . . .

The question begs to be asked, what is it that we so fear from something or someone we instinctively know is inviting, interesting, even fun?

Why do we pull back . . . from wooly worms?  From God?

Let There Be Water

My imagining of God's imagining in creating this thing we call water:

Water, said the Creator.  Now that will take some time.  I think I’ll make it solid, liquid, gas, a trinity of a thing.  It will be separate and distinct but when it comes together, it will be a unity of one-ness that no one can distinguish one drop (that’s what I’ll call each speck of it) from another.  

And ice – what a powerful, beautiful, wondrous thing that will be.  I think I’ll capstone this planet thing with ice.  But in between there shall be oceans and oceans of this, my most amazing creation of all.  From it shall come all life.  Water, rather than dust, shall be the evidence of my lasting creativity.

And then there shall be rains – not one, but many.  Soft sprinkles, so light, so delicate a touch that they shall barely notice it.  And plenishing rains that shall bring forth the greening of things.  And rains mixed with wind that make a soul bitter when it forgets the deep things that have need of the rains too.  And drops thrown so forcefully from the heavens they bounce and bounce again when they meet with solids.  And monsoons and typhoons and spring rains and sheets and drizzles and dreich drenching droplets-of-it-filled days of nothing but rain and freezing rains and waters that hang in the sky deciding what they will be – some pouring rains, some fog – and torrential rains and phantom rains and cleansing rains – yes, rain shall be my masterpiece.

And with the rains, they shall know thirst.  That shall be their great mystery, the thing once unlocked that makes it all clear.  Oh, you, my creatures.  You are not earth.  Of the earth, but not the earth, you were made unlike the trees, for you were made to move, with the winds and the waters.  Planting was not intended for you.  I already planted my garden and you were not it.  You are the seed on the wind.  Trust the wind to take you where you need go and the waters will find you and you them.  Hold loosely the ground beneath your feet.  Go where the waters flow.  You knew this once.  Even I am not sure when you lost this knowing.  May the rains bring it back to you.

9 of My Favorite Color Moments

I don't have a (as in one) favorite color.  Color is my favorite color -- all color.  Here's my list of some favorite color moments.  I wonder what your favorites are?

1. Green as in the greening of my world when the spring and summer rains come and the grass and leaves and flowers and bushes burst with green.  I live in a bowl of green

2. The orange of fall leaves and pumpkins and curry spice in the market and the scarf Anna gave me

3. The blue bookends of sky and ocean from an airplane

4. The yellows and golds of the pine boards of my bedroom floor reflecting the shades I choose to be surrounded by

5. The brown of fresh-baked bread and crunchy dead leaves underfoot

6. The red of fireworks and tomatoes and that favorite dress and my too-fast car

7. The dark almost-black brown of the rain-soaked earth

8. The white of a wedding cake and sheets hanging on the line and cloud kangaroos and unicorns on a clear day

9. The kaleidoscope of color that is love – the grey of my Grandma’s hair, the brown of my son’s eyes, the same brown as my own, the black and tan Guinness and my dog Scruffy (may he rest in peace), the peaceful blues my mother is surrounded by (they match her eyes so well), the white stripe on a skunk’s back, the clever and amusing design of a God more creative than my imagination can embrace, as peaceful alternative to confrontation, warning all comers that there’s a cost to getting too close, for that, too, is love.

Perfection Is a Piece of Mail

Isn’t a piece of mail a wonder?  I sit at my kitchen table and look out the window and see the tiny country post office across the field.  In the morning and later this evening, a truck will pull up dropping off or picking up the day’s collection of mail to deliver to parts unknown to me.

How many hands that letter or bill will pass through before arriving at its intended destination, I cannot say.  But that it all works so well, that it almost always gets where it’s meant to, is a wonder.

Every system that must work perfectly in order to work at all is a wonder.  Much of life doesn’t work that way.  I can open a bag neatly or tear it and still get to its contents.  I can usually be a few minutes early or late to an appointment and be none the worse for it.  I can miss a few pushes on the swing and momentum will still carry you for a time.  Nine times out of ten, even if I miss my target chopping wood, I will not chop my foot off.  Life carries lots of margins for our errors.

But everyone must work in perfect concert for this piece of mail to get to its destination.

The wonder is that it does not fail more often.  Perfection is not, or so we believe, what we humans do best.  And yet here we are, receiving our daily mail with nary a thought how truly amazing that is.

Maybe we’re better at perfection than we thought.

"My" Sacristy

Clergy robes are useful things, I think, but I wear mine in a perpetual state of hotness.  Thus when I begin my ‘duties’ as a minister on Sunday mornings in Headwaters, I delay putting on my robe until I get out of the car.

There, on the side of the road, most times I throw on the robe and scurry across Rt. 250 and head into the chapel.

This Sunday, I took a pause.  As Joe and Cynthia exited their cars at the same time, Joe observed, “nice sacristy”, as we all took in the beauty and wonder surrounding us in these highland mountains.

I’m with Joe: it is indeed a very nice sacristy.