Liminal Space

“What is growing in my garden? Wheat stalks between the iris and roses!” For years I’ve wanted to grow wheat to experience bread baking from seed to loaf. Researching various types of wheat berries and the best environment for them to grow, wanting to “do it right,” I never got around to preparing the perfect plot. So, nothing happened…until this morning’s moment of awakening. I recalled creating a video for virtual VBS last summer, July 2020, demonstrating the process of making bread. After recording a clip on our patio, I tossed the wheat berries aside into our garden.

All year long these seeds slept, germinated and were transformed in the dark earth, without any effort of my own. All I did was cast them away, then Mystery took over. One definition of “broadcast” is “to scatter or sow (seed or something similar) over a broad area.” How am I called to broadcast God’s love? Dear Lord, grant me the courage to step aside in humility and embrace the darkness. Through this prayer of deep listening, infuse me with your grace to be secreted within. Guide me to do your will, trusting that if I do my part, you will take what I’ve given and “accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine.” (Ephesians 3:20)

Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. John 12:24


As I journeyed
to the middle of the labyrinth,
the path was hidden by
crunchy remnants of leaves and twigs;
of my life.


Approaching the center,
my breath slowed
as I chose a trunk to sit on.

There I sat.

I sat with open eyes,
at the old ash tree in front of me.
Gnarly roots
deeply grounded in the earth.
Its thick trunk covered with ears of bark;
wrinkled, weathered skin.

I wonder what it heard from the
silent prayers of my heart?

adorned with wind chimes and messages, speaking truth.
The remaining leaves,
preparing to drop,
still held on.


As I wound my way
out of the path,
Wisdom spoke.

Fragments of leaves and dead twigs,
tears shed from the tree.
Each step a prayer
for those who traveled before.

What is mine to do?

Grace walked with me
as I noticed:
the familiar
was no longer scattered,
for we are all from the same Source.
The way home
has always been

It was I
who needed

October 3, 2020
Mercy Center labyrinth

Rice of Life

The magenta amaranth was drooping in the grain arrangement displayed for World Communion Sunday. I was tempted to harvest more. I likely hadn’t watered the amaranth enough, and it was front and center among the sorghum, rice, millet and sesame. Then I awakened to the beauty of the plants in all stages of their lives; grains dying to new life. Bread. Bread looks and tastes different in other parts of the world, and I find beauty in that too. I have allowed my deepest self to be touched by flavors unfamiliar to me. By trying new spices, grains, and recipes from other regions, my senses are awakened and I learn about other cultures more than any book I’ve read or class I’ve taken. The practice of baking bread has become prayer for me, and I feel and smell God’s goodness in every loaf. Bread is life and bread is love. But love means nothing if it is not shared. Love abounded on World Communion Sunday as more than sixty church members shared global artifacts and linens, photographs, stories, served as hosts, and offered bread created with their own hands. I loved seeing children and adults moving to the energetic beat of the bongos. I’m sure God was smiling and dancing along as well.

Bread of Life

Touching a Cloud

Brother Placid is a monk from Latrobe, PA, who convinced me to join Facebook in 2017, to share my stories of faith. A gifted person in many ways, with a keen eye for seeing the sacred in the art of photography, he recently posted a photo from Saint Vincent Archabbey entitled “Touching a Cloud”; a reminder to me that we are all connected. So I messaged him a few pictures I took this morning of the thick clouds at Saint Meinrad in Southern Indiana. As I walked back from Vigils and Lauds, the deep fog reminded me of a blanket spread out over all creation, touching me, you, and people around the world.

When I first visited Saint Meinrad Archabbey five years ago, I was very nervous. On the drive here the puffy clouds brought me great comfort, like a cloud of witnesses. This morning, surrounded by clouds, over, under, and beside me, I felt blanketed in God’s love. Dear God, Help me to be God’s blanket for others.

Let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, so that those who love your name may exult in you. ~Psalm 5:11

Disrupt Me

I am at the Benedictine monastery this week on retreat with God. Arriving with no expectations, I’ve learned that my own agenda disappoints me and gets in the way of deeper growth. So, I’m trying not to be disappointed that my room is as far away from the bell tower as I’ve ever been before. I would have been fine with that on my first visit here, several years ago, when the bells kept me up all night as they resounded every fifteen minutes. But that disruption transformed a piece of me that has never left. Why is it that I now want those same bells with me day and night? Maybe because the bells remind me of God and how he disrupts our lives, and that is not a bad thing.

Today I am listening to God in the raindrops. Steady, gentle showers, gusts of water pellets, transforming life, meditative droplets trickling down the windowpane, peaceful; watering thirsty trees…and me.

Awake, my soul!

How Can I Keep From Singing?

She came thirsty and a bit nervous. Our group warmly welcomed her. Amidst silent prayer after reading the psalm, something was happening. God was there; we felt it. Then she sang. And oh, did she sing! I’ve heard her lovely voice before, but this was different. This was not a performance. It was an offering and a prayer; enough to make those present tremble. Her voice calmed our fears, and we felt embraced by God’s loving arms. When the music stopped, we sat in silence. No words were needed. She had begun with a quavering voice and ended with confident conviction.

The song of the Spirit has stayed with me ever since; calling me to keep singing any way I know. And it isn’t perfect; it never will be. Yet it is perfect in God’s eyes.

My life flows on in endless song,
above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the clear, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife,
I hear that music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?
What though my joys and comforts die?
I know my Savior liveth.
What though the darkness gather round?
Songs in the night he giveth.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that Rock I’m clinging.
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?
I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin,
I see the blue above it.
And day by day this pathway smooths
since first I learned to love it.
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,
a fountain ever springing!
All things are mine since I am his!
How can I keep from singing?
No storm can shake my inmost calm
while to that Rock I’m clinging.
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?

~Pauline T.; Robert Lowry, 1869

Tommy’s Doubt

My brother, Tommy, recently died. When a loved one dies, sharing stories with family and friends can be very meaningful and healing. I’ve been listening to memories of how he touched people’s lives in ways I didn’t know. I have also shared my own stories. One of these times was at his funeral. When I don’t have words, many times I express myself with music. So I played a piece on the piano that had been going through my head since the news of his death. It’s a piece he practiced over and over when he was a young teenager. Many of his friends had no idea he played the piano.

When our daughter was in town after graduation, she was searching for something and came across a cassette tape of herself playing piano at age seven. Finding our tape player in the basement, I dusted it off and brought it up so we could listen to her tape. But there was already a tape inside. It was of a Palm Sunday program our family offered at church in 1983. Pressing “play”, we heard my mother on the piano. Then Tommy played a piece, which made me shudder, because it was the exact same piece I played at his funeral. After our mother’s death in 1986, Tommy slowly stopped participating in things which had previously brought him joy, such as music and tennis. I believe that if we bury our gifts from God, we will not be able to find deep joy. Someone in my prayer group today felt as if striving for joy is a bit frivolous and selfish, which led to a discussion about joy versus happiness. Some people seem happy when they are really hurting inside. I think of joy as deeper. I can still feel joy even if I am having a bad day. Looking for God in both good times and bad has brought me a sense of peace and joy that shines through all darkness and brings me hope in resurrection and new life.

I will always remember how deeply my brother searched for God. One day when Tommy seemed open to deeper discussion, I took a risk and told him how unusual it was for me to see butterflies every day for a week: But all he said was, with his sarcastic tone, “That’s like when you buy a new car and then you see the same kind of car everywhere.” He wanted clear answers and never understood how simple it is. God is so close. He is always with us. We have to be willing to open our hearts and listen, look for God in everything, and be willing to embrace his mysterious ways.

When I walked an outdoor labyrinth in January, walking in, I thought of the winding path of my life. I walked over twigs and stepped on pine needles, bumps and frozen spots. The gently falling snow created the environment of a living snow globe. Walking out, a thin, spotty layer of snow covered twigs and rubber mulch in the path. The mess of winter was not covered by the white flakes completely, but enough for me to think of “new life”…baptism by snow! Then a tiny, sharply cold single snowflake touched my lips. I suddenly awakened and felt it as a kiss from God. To someone else, maybe it wouldn’t have seemed as special. But for me, that day and that moment, it was a kiss from God. And I’m holding on to that.

There’s an App for That

My brother-in-law, who lives in Northern Sweden, has a Northern Lights app. When visiting him in December there was a break in the clouds during a time when there was a higher chance of seeing this mystical phenomenon. We dressed in layers, set-up our chairs and blankets, and turned off all the house lights. Then we waited. And we waited. I didn’t really know what to look for. Or even what part of the sky to give my full attention to. I saw lots of shooting stars though! There we were, the four of us, waiting in the dark with heads looking up to the skies. More clouds rolled in and covered up our chances of seeing any lights, so we moved inside and enjoyed hot chocolate and Fika.

When I am searching for something, but don’t know quite where to look, I look everywhere. There’s an app for many things, but some things require more energy and aren’t easily found. I hope I remember, every day, to be as thorough and alert when searching for God.

Got Milk?

I am embarrassed about something. But before the big reveal, the story…I grew up loving graham crackers. They bring back fond memories of Sunday school and campfires. I decided to make them from scratch; something I’ve been eager to do for awhile. So, I made sure all ingredients were in order and mixed the dough to let it rest overnight. I began to wonder what graham flour actually is. Embarrassing drumroll reveal…there is no such thing as a graham plant. I thought about how silly that sounded, but it’s true. All these years I thought it was a special grain. I had to find out what graham flour was and why it was named graham.

Well, graham flour is a form of whole wheat flour including all parts of the wheat berry (endosperm, bran and germ) and is a bit coarser grind than whole wheat flour. The endosperm is separated out and ground into a fine flour, then the coarse bran and germ are mixed back in. This type of flour was invented in the 1830s by Sylvester Graham, who tried to promote healthy food. Graham crackers are typically sweetened with honey. The version I made also includes molasses. When I removed the first batch from the oven, my glasses fogged up, so I was fairly certain they weren’t dry enough to create a nice crisp crunch when bitten into. So back into the oven they went.

Next embarrassing drumroll: my baked graham crackers came out so hard, a dog could have chipped a tooth (maybe that’s why they’re called “crackers”?). So, I enrobed each square in a thick layer of melted dark chocolate, thinking that might soften their rock-hard interior. Wrong again. I had to hold them in my mouth long enough for them to soften, but the chocolate sure tasted delicious!

Final attempt to save them: I used my chocolate chopper on the entire batch. It was a total body effort. At a mere one-quarter inch thick, the crackers were more difficult to chop than a three inch block of chocolate! I then poured milk over them, and after ten minutes I could eat them like a crunchy dessert cereal. Yes, I will try to make graham crackers again, but next time I’ll try soaking the graham flour in liquid overnight before baking. Maybe there’s a reason it’s called “stone ground”?

I am amazed at how much a good soaking does. When my soul is dry as dust and my interior is rock-hard, I know it’s time to be filled with God’s living water and breath of life. But I must make room for God and allow him in, or I will remain dry. As Ash Wednesday approaches, I am reminded of our frailty in that that we are all made of dust and to dust we will return. During this season of Lent, what might I say “no” to so that I can say “yes” to God?

No Whey. Yes Whey!

I got a new toy last week. A yogurt maker! As I passed by the discount table it kept looking at me. First, I glanced at the pictures on the box, then I wandered around a bit more. I strolled by the table again, picked up the box and examined it for a price, trying not to look too obvious. No price. Hmmm. Now I was really curious, so I asked. The salesperson was very knowledgeable, and I thought to myself, “I do eat yogurt every day for lunch but probably would not make it without the help of this machine.” I walked away with a new appliance.

Since then I have experimented with different cultures, three kinds of milk, and various mix-ins such as blood orange simmered in honey, lemon, blueberries with orange zest, and Luxardo cherry (mmmm). I learned how to drain the whey to make Greek or Icelandic-style yogurt. After draining several batches I wondered what I could make with the leftover whey. It seems like such a waste to pour it out. I found a recipe for cinnamon whey biscuits, got up in the middle of the night to bake them, and they are delicious. I’m smelling them now fresh from the oven. What was old is new again! I wonder what other things in my life I toss aside waiting to be transformed.