Monday Meditation

Last week, I shared about how my natural linear thinking impacts my ability to walk life’s journey:

Instead of taking just that next step, trusting that the way has been laid out before me with precision and care to lead me in the way I should go–instead of walking in the wise way, I walk in the worried way.

When I sense that I have strayed from the wise way of walking, I find myself drawn to the labyrinth.  At these moments, the labyrinth becomes–for me–chiefly an embodied prayer.  The metaphor is clothed in tangible reality.  I take actual, physical steps with my flesh-and-blood feet along a real-life path.  I breathe slowly and deeply. I slow my pace to match my breath.  Breathe.  Step.  Breathe.  Step.

As I walk, I allow myself to notice what comes up on my journey toward the center, be gently present with whatever arises–without judgment or solutions or analysis–as I rest in the center, and finally choose to release it into God’s hands on the journey back out.

Embrace the Nonlinear Journey

As I walk the labyrinth, I gradually realize again and again that the invitation of the labyrinth is to embrace the nonlinear journey: full of twists and turns and doubling back, circling right back to the starting point–but not quite. Although I feel like I’m back in the same place again, I’m actually still moving forward along the same path, the only path, the only way to the center–where the presence of God is waiting to reveal just a little more of the true self.

Time and again I surprise myself that I still walk with the expectation that my destination is the center.   The center itself is not the goal, not the destination, not the end point. In the labyrinth walk, the center is only the midpoint.  A pause along the journey, a moment of rest, a breath.

Then begins the journey outward, walking the path again, placing footsteps upon footsteps, back and back again to where I started.  Back to the beginning–back in the world, crossing the threshold once more into the space of ordinary walk.

Except this time, I’m changed in some way.  This time I carry with me all the steps I’ve taken along the twisting way, all the breaths I’ve breathed, all the precious moments in the center and along the path of my intentional walk.

The Beauty of the Labyrinth

The beauty of the labyrinth practice, for me, is that its wandering, meandering, nonlinear path toward and then away from the center constantly draws me back to grace and invites me to make room for compassion with each step, each breath.

Walking with compassion means allowing myself to be in a place I’m disappointed about, to accept myself as I am and where I am in this moment, to stop trying to be where I’m not.  Walking with compassion means releasing control and choosing to stop striving so there is space again for grace.

Even if I find I am short on grace for myself in these moments, the labyrinth invites me to choose to trust that the grace God is always extending toward me is sufficient.

So my prayer for all of us, fellow pilgrims, is that we might breathe, step, and walk this journey with compassion toward ourselves and with the intention to create space in ourselves to receive and rest in God’s grace–always sufficient, always more than enough.

In last week’s Monday Meditation, I mentioned that I sometimes feel like I’m walking in circles:

Sometimes as I walk this path, I feel like I am just going around in circles, always finding myself back where I started with nothing to show for my trouble.

I tend to be such a linear thinker, imagining that this path I’m walking on life’s journey is a straight line, the shortest distance between two points. When I come to a bend or an angle, any slight degree off what I imagine to be the shortest, most economical, most correct way forward, I freak out.

The Worried Way

Instead of taking just that next step, trusting that the way has been laid out before me with precision and care to lead me in the way I should go–instead of walking in the wise way, I walk in the worried way.

I stress.  I struggle. I try to somehow make the next step I take straight even though the path I’m walking is not.  Suddenly, I’m not participating in the work God is doing by simply showing up and allowing God to do the work. Now I’m the one working hard, all the while rejecting the way forward because it does not fit my limited expectations.

Now I’m striving.

There is no grace in striving. No tenderness, no mercy, no room to begin again as St. Benedict encourages us in his Rule of Life.

This is where the true beauty of the labyrinth practice comes in for me.

Invitation for the Moment

To be continued next week!  For now, I invite you to ask yourselves where in your life you are striving right now.  Where are you rejecting the way God is inviting you to move forward in your life because it does not fit your expectations?

How might you let go of that expectation and welcome God’s leading in its place?

When I was in school, I often babysat for families and churches on the side to earn extra money.  I’ve watched a lot of kid’s TV shows over the years, and my favorite by far was Veggie Tales.  I enjoyed their creative characters, lighthearted plots, and silly, catchy songs just as much as the kids did.

The Intimidating Wall of Jericho

Recently, the lyrics from one of those old silly songs came back to me in my prayer time.  The characters are out in the desert, walking and walking in circles around the intimidating wall of Jericho while being taunted from above:

Keep walking, but you won’t knock down our wall.
Keep walking, but she isn’t gonna fall!
It’s plain to see that your brains are very small
to think walking will be knocking down our wall!

Here’s the scene for those of you unfamiliar.

The Walk Is Not The Catalyst

We’ve been talking these last few weeks about the invitation to walk and that each step we take on the path toward God demonstrates our intention to open the door and let God enter the hidden places within to bring healing and wholeness.

Sometimes as I walk this path, I feel like I am just going around in circles, always finding myself back where I started with nothing to show for my trouble. But like the march on Jericho, the walk is not the catalyst for change at all.  The walk is the intention.  The walk is the sign of trust and of participation in what God is doing.

Keep Walking

It is not my job to will cracks into those walls with each step I take.  It is God who brings the impenetrable walls crashing down after the silence and waiting.  I have only to take a step, and then another, and then another –holding space for myself in the silence where God is doing all the work.

And that is my prayer for each of us, fellow pilgrims, that we will keep walking the path toward God, keep holding space for ourselves in our times of silent contemplation, keep trusting that God will bring to completion the good work begun in each of us–as God has promised.

May we all keep walking!

I’ve never been much of a gardener.   Despite my best efforts, my thumb has been closer to brown than green.  But I do have a couple of house plants that have managed to survive the various moves to different cities and states in the past few years.

These are hardy plants that seem to find a way to stay green and growing whether they get too much water or too little, too much sunlight or too little.  Whether the rambunctious puppies knock over their pots and spill the soil across the carpet or they battle with wildflowers for enough soil for their roots, these house plants have continued to do what they do–clean the air, brighten their surroundings, and somehow–magically– sustain themselves by making their own food out of light.

Each Leaf Faces the Light

Sometimes I will take a house plant that has been sitting in one position for a while and turn it around in the same spot.  Now all the leaves are  suddenly facing the darkness, their undersides exposed. Then I watch as each leaf bends, leans, and shifts–slowly turning back toward the light.

In the moment, with the underside of each leaf exposed, the plant seems vulnerable and struggling.  But given enough time and enough light, each leaf will inevitably turn.  They can’t help themselves.  It’s how they were created to be.

I can’t turn the leaves myself.  My pace would be too quick and forceful, and the leaves would break off their stems and lose their vital connection with the whole plant.  Instead, I have to wait and watch, allowing the leaves to turn at their natural pace and trusting that they will again face the light.

Slow Turning toward the Light

God is light, pure light… – 1 John 1:5, The Message

I sense a shifting in myself these days, a slow leaning, a gradual bend as I continue the contemplative spiritual practices that are bringing the most life  in me in this season: centering prayer, lectio divina, and walking the labyrinth.

Like the house plant, the deep, hidden places within me are slowly turning toward the light as I pursue this course on my journey.  I am gradually realizing the places within me that are facing the wrong way and beginning to shift toward the light.   I am learning not to rush the process but to lean into the natural pace of healing and restoration.

Keep Leaning In

God’s invitation remains open to me to keep leaning into the light with these baby steps, to keep being willing to be willing, to keep trusting that God will remain God–gentle and tender with me–even when I am frustrated and impatient with myself.

God is inviting me to trust that this path I am on will eventually lead me to the place where I will discover that my irrational heart is at last ready to let go of my harsh expectations for myself and instead to really trust God to care for all the most precious, hidden places within me.  I’m not there yet, but I am on my way.

What is God inviting in you today, my fellow pilgrims? How are you leaning toward the light?

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In last week’s meditation, we talked about how God respects our boundaries even when we do not and remains true to God’s character even when in our limited understanding we expect God to behave otherwise.  God knocks at the door of the hurting, hidden places within us and waits patiently and faithfully until we are truly ready to open the door.

As You Open

I was praying with Paul’s prayer for the Ephesians recently and quite unexpectedly found my attention drawn again to the metaphor of the door:

I ask him to strengthen you by his Spirit—not a brute strength but a glorious inner strength—that Christ will live in you as you open the door and invite him in. – Ephesians 3:16-17, The Message

This time, I noticed, the metaphor is not conditional as in Revelation (“If anyone hears my voice and opens the door…”) but instead assumes that the door is already being opened and that God is already being invited in (“…as you open the door and invite him in.”).  Again there is the promise that God will indeed come in, but this time, the waiting is over.  God’s patience has paid off.  The door is  being opened, and the invitation is being extended.

Intention is Enough

I realized that just my sincere intention, just my demonstrated willingness to become willing, was in itself a beginning to open the door.  At the very least, the door was unlocked, and my hand was on the handle.

Like the labyrinth walk, each step we take toward God is an opening of the door, a turning of the handle, an unlocking.  Our intention is enough. Our movement in the direction of God, however small and halting, is enough to answer the knock and begin to open the door.

Reach Out

God is always saying to us, “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock.”  My prayer today is that we may hear God’s voice of love and set our intention and our orientation toward the door, trusting that even our smallest and most uncertain response is enough to begin to open the door and say, “Come on in.”

The fruit is hanging on the branch, my fellow pilgrims, ripe and ready for the taking. Reach out with me, even just a little, toward the healing and wholeness that is available to us all.  That little bit is all it takes to begin to receive all that God has for us–that fullness of joy we have been promised!

I loved reading The Chronicles of Narnia series as a kid.  One of the scenes that always captured my imagination is when the elusive Aslan appears at the White Witch’s castle and begins breathing on the various characters she had turned to stone.  As Aslan breathes on each stone figure, the stone fades away, and each character returns to life!

In a recent prayer time, the image of Aslan breathing on the stone figures came to the surface again along with a line from the great old hymn, “Be Thou My Vision”:

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
still be my vision…

I sensed God’s invitation to become more aware of God’s heart within me: soft, alive, expansive, receptive, and best of all capable of holding others’ hearts within mine as my heart is held within God’s.

I’m reminded of the prayer Jesus prayed in John 17:21-23:

The goal is for all of them to become one heart and mind—
Just as you, Father, are in me and I in you,
So they might be one heart and mind with us.
Then the world might believe that you, in fact, sent me.
The same glory you gave me, I gave them,
So they’ll be as unified and together as we are—
I in them and you in me.
Then they’ll be mature in this oneness,
And give the godless world evidence
That you’ve sent me and loved them
In the same way you’ve loved me.  (The Message)

This is my prayer for myself and for each of you, fellow pilgrims, that God might breathe new life into each of us to soften and enliven the portions of our hearts that have turned to stone.  As we become more fully aware of God’s presence within us, may we realize our capacity for moving into true community with one another–authentic community that catches the attention and captures the hearts of those who have not yet experienced God’s heart for them.

May Aslan breathe on the hardened places in each of us today, my friends, that our hearts may remain in the heart of God and expand to hold the hearts of others.

Beginning this week, I’m excited to share a new ongoing blog series called Monday Meditation.  These posts will be relatively short (I hope) snippets of inspiration for the week ahead, drawn from what comes up for me in my personal prayer practices.

I remember one birthday of mine, when I was turning about 11 or 12, opening presents with my family.  Part of our birthday ritual was hiding presents around the house and playing “hot-and-cold” while the birthday girl (or boy) tried to find them.   On this particular birthday, I opened the hall closet door (hot! hot!) to find a large box covered in crumpled wrapping paper reused from last Christmas.  Upon opening, I discovered another, slightly smaller wrapped box inside, and then another, and another, and another, until I found myself on the floor in the hallway–surrounded by piles of ripped paper, cardboard boxes, and my family’s smiling faces–holding a small, misshapenly wrapped object in the palm of my hand.  I pulled apart the last bit of paper to reveal a small keychain with a silver-backed heart attached.  “You put your thumb on the heart, and the color changes to tell you your mood!” my younger brother explained excitedly.

That birthday keychain is long gone now, but so many years later, I still remember the fun and surprise of opening box after box with my family looking on with laughter and anticipation.  I realized, looking back now, that the real gift my brother gave me was the experience of spending my birthday with people I loved who loved me, searching for a hidden surprise, and finding it in an unexpected and delightful way that made me feel thought of, cared for, and celebrated–just for having come into existence!  That old mood-heart keychain was just a sweet souvenir, a small takeaway that I could hold and use to remember the real gift.

Recently, I was meditating on the gift of God’s presence and found the memory of that long-ago birthday to be a gentle reminder to seek after and savor the experience of being in the presence of God.  Out of that time may come a little kernel of wisdom, a realization, an inspiration to do something or change in some way–but those takeaways aren’t really the point.  They are nice souvenirs, tangible or intangible reminders of the real gift we receive when we seek God: encountering the Holy in the present moment.

And really, isn’t that what we’re all after, we pilgrims on this journey of ours?