School is starting. Supplies are being stuffed into brand new backpacks. Children are standing on porches being asked to smile as their parents try to savor this moment as school starts again. Everything is new again.

Epiphanies have a similar sort of shine. They come with the radiance of a fresh perspective. In his earliest draft of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the Irish writer James Joyce described epiphanies to be “a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself.” Borrowing language from the church, Joyce tried to explain how people change. Everything hinges on that beautiful moment where realization leads to profound change. These realizations, he wrote, “are the most delicate and evanescent moments,” which “seems to us radiant.”

The American writer Virginia Woolf doesn’t bother with churchy language but points to “moments of being” that change the story. These moments call us out of the more mundane parts of life, inviting us to find fresh meaning and wonder. To discover the beauty that is there without having to bother with any further search. This is tricky though. There is no mention of God, but something that is realized while holding another’s hand in the park. Somehow there doesn’t to be anymore than this, though it’s not quite clear what this is. It could be love or mere pleasure. It could be simple gratitude for existing butit is described in her novel Mrs. Dalloway with the power of light, where that epiphany comes in “the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.”

These writers have expanded what the church meant. The Greek word epiphaneia, means “manifestation” or more simply “revelation.” It is grand. Or it could be grand when God becomes fully present. We hope that for our children beginning a new thing, praying that there will be some glory in this turning of the year.

The story changes. There was the second grader that was there only a few months ago, but that child has transitioned into a full grown third grader. New things will emerge. Wonder never ceases.

This is the part that literature misses because all those narratives focus on the before and after. It is a singular event that changes everything. It is one moment where everything changes, which might be said for how the church explores this possibility.

It could be argued that the Epiphany comes once when the wise people complete their journey. They get to Bethlehem to witness the wonder of God’s full and complete presense. As the story goes, in Matthew’s gospel, they fall down on their knees in complete awe. They are transfixed. It is one moment that changes everything as every hope is revealed in this tiny savior.

It’s the festival that is celebrated on January 6th. It is the day when that full manifestation of God is (finally) revealed. It happens only that once.

Except that it keeps happening. Thirty years later, as a group of people gather at the edge of the Jordan River, epiphany announces itself again. There is another beginning. Another transition where it needs to be said again. This is the one. This is what you’ve been waiting for all along. It’s right here. Epiphany is found again as Jesus emerges from the Jordan River, fresh from the waters of baptism, to announce that there is still more glory to be revealed. Still more light that needs to shine.

The epiphanies don’t stop there. Jesus argues with his mom, insisting that his time has not yet come. She dismisses this notion. They are at a wedding. There is no more wine and she instructs her boy to do his thing and show them all who he really is.

Epiphanies continue as Jesus invites Philip into discipleship, which Philip cannot do without dragging along his friend Nathanael. Nathanael doesn’t believe that “anything good can come out of Nazareth” or seemingly anywhere else. He is certain of it. Until, he experiences something that can’t be explained. Something clicks in what Jesus says so that Nathanael can only exclaim, “Rabbi, you are the son of God! You are the king of Israel!”

There is no miracle. Nothing big has changed except for Nathanael who has just begun a mystical journey, or so suggests the theologian John Shelby Spong, where he pushes beyond the boundaries of what he thinks he knows into “a new level of consciousness.” It is not a conversion experience, but an opening to “see [himself] as a part of who God is and to experience God as a part of who they were.”

There’s no shortcut to this kind of discovery. It is not tied to any kind of calendar, inside or outside of the church’s feast days. It won’t just happen because school has started again. Epiphanies are not guaranteed.

It’s supposed to be big and obvious. Or so we want to believe. Epiphanies are so immense and overwhelming that the change is instant. There is no adjustment period or even some small space to contemplate all that has just happened.

The etymology of the word suggests the rising sun at the dawn of a new day. It is that kind of beginning where wonder can only come from above, though it confounds us now as much as it did to ancient astrologers. It might have been what the wise people were up to. They were charting the movement of those heavenly lights, trying to pinpoint something important that they knew was coming. Or at least, they hoped something was about to happen.

That one bright light confirmed their hope. They were expecting it. It was only a matter of time before it was finally revealed. Epiphany is the language of appearance, asking us to steady our gaze. It is not the language of sudden change, but it is instead a slow paying attention to what is happening right in front of our eyes.

It does not happen in one moment but settles into our spirits so that nothing appears as it did before. There was still so much more that could still happen. So much more that would happen and will still require some adjustment. There will be more transition because change is never isolated. Change is the only constant, and we may have no more clarity than we did before that bright light.

Whatever it was, it called us to attention. It made us believe that there could be another beginning. There is always more to the story.

If you’re not sure what part of the story you are in or if you have ever had an epiphany, I’d love to pull at those holy threads with you. Click here to learn more about my practice of spiritual direction.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the weather. Maybe because it has been so rainy or just because I’m eager to get outside and explore and my body just won’t let me. I am walking again after being injured this spring, but it hurts. It’s slow. I often feel like I’m missing out though we were lucky to have one of my favorite people visit when the weather finally changed. Summer showed up last week and we were outside every moment we could be. Mosquitos did make us hide inside in the evenings though.

Lillian Daniel famously bemoans the spiritual but not religious people that celebrate the God of sunsets. They see God on the beach and in the mountains, and it seems to her that they assume church people are locked inside. They never notice the wonders of this world. The natural world is, after all, celebrated in scripture. The trees clap their hands. The rivers dance. All of these wonders call church people like me to praise. To notice how God is being in the world especially when there are fires and floods. How is God here now? What does it mean to pay attention when we are forced inside by air pollution and raging heat? How do we still find God in nature?

I was asked this question by email this morning and wanted to include some of my response here too. Because there is worry and fear when the world is changing and we need voices that encourage us to hope and dare us to see the world anew.

Here are a collection of books to consider the wonder of nature while it’s still summer and perhaps the sun is still shining where you are. (It’s definitely raining again here.)

I know there are more good books on this topic that I am missing. It seems that there is another book being published every day that I want to read and so I know that I missed something good. What would you add to this list?

Leave a comment

If you find yourself wondering about the impacts of climate change and what activism for our natural world looks like right now, I commend to you the good work of the BTS Center who are encouraging dynamic and exciting conversation on this very thing. You might experiment in their earthbound practices, listen to their podcast or sign up for one of their many programs.

I read about their offerings and wonder if I could offer something similar, but we all have our thing. We all are playing with a thousand different metaphors and trying to untangle the wonder that is our story. It’s what I love about spiritual direction and if you are interested in delving into that possibility, my calendar is open.

New directees will need to add the coupon code FREE to book your first appointment but I just learned how to actually offer a refund. So no worries if you forget about this gift. I would love to see your name on my calendar. If you have no idea what in the world that would look like but find yourself kinda interested, check this out. I am also thrilled to answer any of your questions.

Holy Threads Booking Calendar

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

And then, it happened again. It continued throughout the day which resulted in my neighborhood Facebook pages to explode in anguish over the loud noises. One reply not so helpfully advised, “This is what happens when you choose to live near a military base. Get used to it.” People can be so thoughtful on the internet.

These are comments I always read, though I know I shouldn’t. My body tenses. My mind soars with worry. My husband never leaves for the day to tell me that he’s going to shoot off cannons. I find out when the house shakes. I grab my phone to ask if he is safe though I know he won’t answer until the exercise is over. I know that he has to focus on these loud explosions of artillery.

Sometimes, it isn’t his unit that is out there in the field blowing things up. He will come home and show me a video of a cannon firing, beaming with pride. He echos what I read earlier in the day in the comments. Because it is always there. No matter what military base we live near. (This would be my fifth installation, if it matters.) It doesn’t matter what region of the country we inhabit, when the cannons fire, someone will type into the comments with pride and glory, THE SOUND OF FREEDOM.

My husband repeats this line with pride. He loves this work that he has done for twenty years. He is so proud.

In the neighborhood Facebook group, it always appears in all caps. Every letter is elevated as if it is shouting that glory of “rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air.” It’s often accompanied by a fireworks emoji though the term SOUND OF FREEDOM is more often meant to refer to jets that have broken the sound barrier. That sound shakes the very ground below my feet and I can’t help but wonder what sound freedom should make.

These comments are not new. They haven’t only just emerged after it was said that the military personnel should be nothing more than trained killers. I’ve been seeing this same comment appear for the entire time that I’ve been married into the military.

Our national idenity has been limited to freedom that can only come through warfare. It is not just something to defend and protect. It must be fought for with ammunition and rockets. It seeks to destroy every opposing force. Those cannons remind us that we will win that war, though it seems to me that freedom is a quieter power.

Even when there are still masses yearning to free, could freedom be heard with greater gentleness? Must it boom and shake? Might it stir and inspire? It could come as a whisper, a hint of a promise that has long been forgotten but still deeply felt. It evokes something within the imagination that maybe was learned in history books. Maybe even realized in the pages of sacred text when it wasn’t celebrated as something only meant for individual gain. A star-spangled banner gently blowing in the breeze off in the corner of that worship space to remind those gathered that this is the land of the free and the brave, even though freedom is not guaranteed. It is not shared. It is promised, but has never actually been achieved.

I do not add this comment to those Facebook threads. I know better but I want to suggest that maybe freedom doesn’t come with power and might. Maybe it doesn’t come with annihalting other civilizations or the slaughter of innocent lives. It doesn’t come with explosions but echoes through the words of Julia Esquivel (as translated by Ann Woehrle) in They Threatened Us with Resurrection:

It is something within us that doesn’t let us sleep,
that doesn’t let us rest,
that won’t stop pounding
deep inside,
it is the silent, warm weeping
of Indian women without their husbands,
it is the sad gaze of the children
fixed somewhere beyond memory,
precious in our eyes
which during sleep,
though closed, keep watch,
systole,
diastole,
awake.

The poet suggests that such a threat comes because the guerillas “do not know life (poor things!).” They cannot hear freedom. They can only fight for it because it doesn’t live inside them. It is not pounding within them, fixed in their memories as something precious, but exists somewhere outside their reach.

They hoard it and protect it so that it only serves some, forgetting that there are other people that share their humanity. I wonder if I am guilty of that same sin. I am certain that somewhere I have failed to live up that challenge, but I am trying to listen with my whole heart. I’m trying to hear what sound freedom really makes.

The world is so heavy right now. It has been for so long and you might intuit all the news headlines that fueled these words. (And you’d probably be right.) I want to offer a tiny bit of relief. Maybe even a little bit of hope within this time. I created this SUMMER RELIEF KIT while I hit pause after spraining my ankle. My calendar is currently closed to directees but I wanted to offer something to explore while the world continues to burn. You can find that kit here for a mere $5.

Though I’m taking a break from my spiritual direction practice, I’m still writing. In fact, I’m writing a lot. Some more of those words might appear here. Or might not.

We are all struggling with the vocabulary that confuses our hope for this world. I certainly am. It’s one of the things I love most about spiritual direction. We get to spend time untangling all of those images and metaphors that don’t quite add up. If you’re interested in learning more about spiritual direction, click on the button below.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

The body knows. I can see it on my their faces when something unexpected appears. My directee has said something important. Something that they didn’t know they felt. Something so true that silence is all that can follow.

It’s startling and slows us down to wonder if that’s really what we do think. It was said and it felt true, but is that what I really believe? Is that what I want? What does my body know that I haven’t heeded? What is my body trying to tell me? How might I listen to what my body is trying to say?

The spiritual director version of this question, and the one I find myself asking myself right now, is, Where do you feel that in your body?

We are all stuck in our heads. Or think we should lead with big ideas so that this question can be disorienting. We don’t stop to think about our body’s wisdom.

We push aside those feelings wedged in our guts. That stab in our back. That heaviness that weighs us down so deeply. Sometimes it is expansiveness that our whole chest feels open and wide, ready for anything. We might not be able to explain it. There might not be words for it, but our bodies are trying to communicate with us.

Last month, in April, my body fell hiking on the ice. I badly sprained my ankle so that it required surgery. My mind wanted to push through and believe that it was OK. The doctors told me that my body was saying something else. It would need surgery. It would require a long recovery after surgery in which I wouldn’t be moving around as freely.

My body is asking me to slow down and take time to heal, and I’m doing my very best to listen. I sent an email to my current directees earlier this week to let them know that I will be taking a summer pause. I will be taking an unplanned break to focus on my body’s restoration.

I offered them this small gift of a Summer Relief Kit. (It was a free offering to my directees but tending for the spirit also has the annoying need to pay the heating bill next winter, but it’s a mere $5 if you are looking for something to feed your spirit.) In these few pages, there are a series of practices and reflection questions in these downloadable pages centered around this Ross Gay poem. It doesn’t include a body practice. Maybe that will emerge over the summer but it wasn’t something I could write at the moment.

I didn’t want this message to my current directees to appear without something that felt like relief. When everything else is out of your control, which isn’t intended to refer to anyone’s injury but a wild gesture to the state of the world right now, here are some things to care for your spirit because it’s hard. It might be easier to push through with all of the big thoughts and ideas, until we come to a crashing halt and our bodies insist that we pay attention to the wisdom living inside each of us. To wonder, maybe even out loud, what is my body trying to tell me?

I don’t really know what my body is trying to tell me. I’m not as young as I think. Ice is slippery. Anything and everything could happen. Healing could mean so many things. I haven’t the foggiest idea other than the fact that my body is telling my head that it needs some space. It needs to press pause. It needs space to recover.

Part of me is still dreaming. Part of me is still wondering what else the world. That part of me couldn’t quite slow down. It made a playlist and a reading list over on Bookshop.

That part of me thinks I should be writing with the hours I’m spending just sitting on the couch resting, but the wise and wonderful Howard Thurman instructs that what “the world [really] needs is people who have come alive.” That part of me doesn’t have all the answers. It wants to over-function. It wants to push through inserting some ableist notions of grace and healing, and there has to be more. There needs to be more so I’m hitting pause to create that space to come alive again.

If you were to click over to my calendar, you’d see that there only a few spots left in the month of May for spiritual direction before my children get out of school. A long summer pause follows through the months of June, July and into August. In the end of August, my calendar opens again to welcome regular opportunities to notice what is in our bodies and in our spirits. To share in the wonder of deep listening through spiritual direction after I’ve had some time to heal my body. I’ll look forward to being with new and old directees -- maybe that even includes you -- in the fall.

Until then, I’m sharing a piece of this summer relief kit that I wrote and then deleted from the packet. I offer it to you here to wonder about what season your body is in. What does your body know it needs right now? I hope you find the space that you need for this season.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

I’ve cried more than once in my own frustration. I have tried my best to vocalize what it is where that feeling is living in my body and how it is taking hold of me, but there are some feelings that are so big and so overwhelming. It feels like there are not enough words. Or not the right words. For my little girl, it’s hard to know where to even start with everything that has happened in the past month. Mommy fell during a hike. It seemed like she was getting better and then she sat beside me when the doctor said it would require surgical repair. The healing would be long.

My little girl is only eight. It’s an age I remember well because I, too, thought I knew lots of things. I was confident that I knew more than the adults around me. Or at least, that was true for some things. Sometimes I wanted to be the kid. I didn’t want to “have more expected of me.” That was said so much. It was enough to deal with the fact that my mom had died two months before my eighth birthday. My little girl is a lot like I was.

I remember those big feelings. I remember what it was like to have those emotions pushed away and denied. I had to be brave. I had to be strong. I had to push through for all of the other people in my life which is maybe no surprise that I found comfort in a worshipping community that was a little more honest with their feelings. Church people are far from perfect. I’m sure you already know this but the churches of my childhood allowed me to feel anger and sadness. They allowed those big feelings to topple into joy and delight without guilt. They made space for all those big feelings, as I’m trying so hard to do with my own children. Oh heaven, let me not repeat patterns that I’m trying so hard to break.

It wasn’t until I was much older that my first spiritual director (and honestly she was a bad fit for me) suggested that I pray through the wide array of emotions in the middle fo the Bible. In the Psalms, she advised, there is room for every human emotion.

As I sit on my couch for so many hours in a row, bored and endlessly frustrated, I’m spending my time working on my project with the United Church of Christ’s Living Psalms. I’ll look forward to sharing more about that one day soon.

Right now, I am awestruck by the words we can offer each other. I’m held in the wonder that there can be words that speak to the most unfathomable experiences.

I’m finding the wonder that God binds us together and whispers, ever so gently, “I know. I know.” God doesn’t promise that it will all turn out better in the end. This is the kind of faith I need right now. I’m not interested in any assurance that it will be OK. Healing may come. I hope it does and I get to be mobile again, but I don’t need anyone to play God and pronounce goodness when this particular moment sucks. Don't push me to what future hope there might be. Be with me here and now. I need God to cuddle up next to me on the couch to assure me that I’m not alone.

We are never alone.

This is the miracle. This is the grace.

One of my directees recently observed that it’s so much harder to see God moving through our lives when things are hard. We want the comfort. We want the grace but it feels like God is far removed from our experience because we are furious that we are not getting our way. I should be using I statements there, perhaps. I am not getting my way. I am mad that this happened. I am struggling to find God cuddled up beside me, even though I really, really want to believe that they are.

I used this living psalm for that directee after my own spiritual director used this version of the psalm from Nan Merrill’s Psalms for Praying. There are images in both of these versions that expand and redefine what the valley of the shadow of death might be. There are words that help to explore what this experience is like, as e.e. cummings once said of poetry, “poetry is a feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.” It puts us into our bodies and reminds us to pay attention.

I haven’t cracked a book of poetry yet with my daughter. I’m tending to my own heart first so that I can be better regulated. O Jesus, help me to be regulated. Help me to pay attention (and maybe even be astonished as Mary Oliver hopes) so that I can find words for all of my big feelings. All of these living psalms read like poetry. They are helping me to feel, without focusing on what it all means. Each word asks me to notice where the words strike my heart, and they are just too good not to share these wondrous gifts. This is not a full list of my favorites but a gathering of some of the living psalms that have helped me to pay greater attention to every big feeling.

As I continue to wander through these living psalms, I find myself wondering this question. I wonder this as a parent and a person with her own big feelings. I share it with you and look forward to hearing your deepest truth in the comments below.

What emotion are you trying to find words for right now?

Your emotions right now might also lead you to find these words meaningful:

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

Last year, I started writing a book about the unknown. I tried saying really smart things about that uncertainty until it was clear that all those smart things were not about just any unknown, but the particular certainty of grief. My mom died when I was seven years old. As Hope Edelman observed in Motherless Daughters, which I read for the first time as a teenager, my life has had a distinct before and after.

There was the time before she died of which I remember very little, and there was all of the time after she died. There is still much that is unknown to me here. It has been nearly forty years since she died and I’m still trying to understand this piece of my story. Poetry continues to be my companion as I attempt to name this aging grief. I’m sharing some that appear in my writing and others that I just adore. Some will be more familiar and some I have just discovered.

I’m also including some prayers. All of these prayers read like poems so it might not be necessary to separate them. Poetry becomes prayer. Prayer leads to poetry. These are words that have spoken to something deep within me. I pray these prayers and poems might do the same for you, whether you are grieving the world we find ourselves in or a loss of someone very dear to you.

Prayers for Grief and Loss

Poems for Grief and Loss

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

Are there poems or prayers you would add to this collection?

Please share those precious words that have been a balm to you in the comments below. I would love to add to this collection with your blessings.

If you are a poetry lover, you might love to find these other collections in my archives.

I will never forget my colleague standing on the chancel steps moments before worship was about to begin. I was a young pastor then and just caught the end of this conversation. He was listening to one of our dear members explain that her son was incarcerated over the weekend. It was Easter and his response was to proclaim resurrection. He didn’t leave any space for her pain. He announced triumph.

It knocked the wind out of me then and I felt that same blast reading my nation’s supposed leader proclaim a gospel of genocide on Easter Sunday. I won’t link to that post on social media. It’s gotten enough clicks. I imagine you’ve seen it whether or not you wanted to see it.

Still frustrated, I tried to sit quietly this morning with the hope that resurrection does carry. I am restless and discouraged. I am not sure there are words for this doubt that Thomas demonstrates so vividly. There are still questions. There is so much that hasn’t been done and still so much work to do. I feel that anxiety rise in me. My worry trumps my hope.

I am stubborn though. I believe hope is persistent so I stuck with that discomfort. I sat with it and felt all of the places it wanted to be. I noticed where it was stuck and paid attention to the struggle deep within my bones.

I asked for words because I love words. I need words especially when words are so carelessly being punched into the internet’s abyss. I found myself going back to the basics, turning my heart over in the words that Jesus taught his disciples to pray. He offered it as a model. It was a structure to lean on, not a prescribed set prayer that could be whispered as an incantation. It was meant to be a model for when it feels like there are no words. Here is how you try to find your way back to that holiness.

That might not sound like the prayer you grew up reciting, the one that you might be able to recite without thinking too much once someone else begins with the words Our Father…

All throughout Lent, my girls have been learning this prayer. We have been using the version recited each Sunday in the sweet little Lutheran church we attend here in Alaska. It’s not the version my grandmother taught me. Not the one that I can repeat from memory. It’s so unfamiliar that I have to read it in the bulletin every Sunday. I have to refer to it when I pray with my children.

I keep stumbling over the words which feels oddly as it should be right now. Because right now, I’m struggling to praise. I am wondering what the kin-dom is supposed to be and how I can help, if I can even help. I need help and I want to believe that this faith matters. Resurrection won't make all of the pain disappear. As observed, it’s the quiet, persistent practice of revolution.

Our practice might also mean that we need new words for these familiar prayers that call us back to basics. Or at least, that’s what I found in my prayers this morning. I found myself wanting to remember the words in the New Zealand Prayer Book but I couldn't call them to mind. I finally found the words and am sharing them here so maybe you’ll pray with me, believing that this grounding matters in our struggle for liberation and hope because the work of resurrection is a practice we dare to believe will change things.

As I was looking for these words, I found these newer translations of Jesus’ words that spoke to me, reminding again that we are always trying to find words to praise and wonder.

These words are the poetry that we recite to each other. We say them to our children and try to remake ourselves again into the hope we still believe is possible. I’m meeting with one of my directees this afternoon to share this practice — though I think I’m going to use still another version from the Women’s Book of Uncommon Prayers though I am also tempted to use this one to begin pulling at those threads together.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

• Do you have a favorite translation of this prayer that Jesus taught?

• What words are you using to ground yourself in hope right now?

• Are those words different from the words you offer to your children or grandchildren?

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

Poetry is one of my primary forms of prayer. It is how I begin most of my sessions in spiritual direction, believing that poetry, as Audre Lorde once wrote, “is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought.”

I collect poems and wanted there to be a place to find them all, so here are some of the poems to wander through this week from protest to praise where there are so often not enough words for our sorrow and hope. Savor them as much as you pray through the scriptures. All of the scripture readings for this week can be found here.

It is the beginning of Holy Week where Jesus first steps into Jerusalem on a donkey and perhaps also a colt. In the Gospel of Matthew, it is described like this:

A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” - Matthew 21:8-9

Though none of these events are chronological in the Biblical account, this is traditionally the day where we remember this intimate act, described in the Gospel of John with this tenderness:

Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’s feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. - John 12:3

Jesus spoke of his death many times, but the text for this day invites us to ponder that possibility again. These are some hard words that conclude with Jesus saying:

“The light is in you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them. - John 12:35-36

In the middle of this week, we turn our attention to the disciple who doesn't get it. We imagine him to be the bad guy. None of the disciples want to believe that such a thing could happen, but Jesus tells them it will.

After saying this Jesus was troubled in spirit and declared, “Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me.” -John 13:32

On Thursday, there is a meal the disciples share. Before bread is broken, and the cup gains new meaning, Jesus washes the disciples feet. The ordinary becomes extraordinary before Jesus retreats to the garden. He asks the disciples to stay awake while he prays. All of this comes with the reminder:

Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’ -John 13:33

In the end, Jesus breathes his last and dies. Mourning begins when Jesus is laid to rest. The final verses of the story in the Gospel of John explains:

Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. -John 19:41

The texts for this day reference the stone rolled into place, sealing away the body. There is uncertainty. It is not clear what will happen next though there are a few that do what needs to be has to be done, as the Gospel of John explains:

So Joseph took the body and wrapped it in a clean linen cloth and laid it in his new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock. He then rolled a great stone to the door of the tomb and went away. -John 27:59-60

Resurrection defies logic. It announces the wonder of God that can only be explained, at least in the Gospel of Matthew, in earthquakes and lightning. When the impossible has happened, and Jesus is risen from the dead, there is still space to wonder what it means and how any one of us might respond.

Then go quickly and tell his disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.’ This is my message for you.” -Matthew 28:7

This collection is far from complete. If there are poems that you would add to this list, please share those poems in the comments below. We need more words to speak to the wonder of God. I pray that you will live your life as one of those poems.

Sometimes, though, I am the one that is fearful. I am not only a spiritual director just as I was not only a pastor. Like other women, I occupy so many other roles. I am a mother and I am also a military spouse. Dear friends assumed that my recent anger was because of that particular role. It wasn’t. It was something else. It’s not that I haven’t been angry or worried or scared. It’s that I haven’t been sure how to use my words. I haven’t even been sure if it was safe to say anything at all. If you are living in the United States of America right now, I imagine you know why.

My husband has deployed twice since we first met in a wine bar near the church I was pastoring, but we have been talking more and more about if that could happen again. And then, this news hit today.

My husband is not a paratrooper. He is not yet deploying. I don’t know if that will be something that happens as I don't really understand how this all works. We have been together 10 years and all I really want to know is that he will be safe. I don't need to know how the military functions. I don't really care. I want to know that he will be safe. I imagine that is the exact prayer that those thousands spouses in North Carolina sent off with their paratroopers. Please be safe. I love you. Dear God, please come back to me. Let this not be the last time I get to tell you how much I love you.

I imagine that, like me, they have prayed this prayer before. I pray it when he leaves for an exercise. I mutter it softly when he comes home all excited that he’s going to jump out of a plane tomorrow. There are things that he does every day that put him in harm’s way, and there have been times when he has come home to say that there was a casualty. A mistake was made. A solider died in the field. We hold a quiet vigil as we embrace. For someone that day, that prayer was unanswered.

Thousands of paratroopers have gone off to fight in this war without any clear objective. They join marines and another 50,000 individuals already in the Middle East carrying out this mission that some of those military personnel are being told is all a part of God’s plan. O God, this scares me.

When everything goes smoothly, it is because of good leadership. It is because there is a clear mission that is clear to every rank. Everyone is able to do their part because the mission has been clearly defined, but that is not what this war is. These bombs falling on Iran fulfill some other purpose that is not being said. There are mothers that sent their children to school only a few days ago. They rushed them out the door and worried that they didn’t have their lunch. 150 of those mothers didn’t know this would be the last time they would get to tell their daughters they loved them. One hundred more spoke those words through tears, after finally reuniting with their children. Their daughters did not die. They are wounded, but they are alive. It was reported that it shouldn't have happened. Somehow, outdated targeting data was used. The missile was never supposed to land there.

I know, too, that there are members of the military that support these efforts. They align themselves to a theology that has allowed this to happen. People are always surprised to hear that I don’t hang out with many military spouses, but this is the main reason why.

My faith hopes for something else, and most of the time I don't quite have words for those prayers. It’s then that I scoop my daughters into my arms. I pull my husband close. I squeeze them tightly hoping that they knew that this is the love endures.

My whole body tensed, frozen in fury over a situation that I cannot possibly control. There is nothing for me to to do but tend to my anger.

In Christianity, there isn’t a whole lot of wisdom on what we are supposed to do with our anger. It’s not modeled. There might be some hints toward it in scripture. Maybe flipping tables reveals such rage. Or maybe that’s just the response we long to have to unjust systems that we cannot control.

I get stuck in thinking that I should have a particular response. Spirituality orients us away from such intensity. The goal is calm. It is peace that we are seeking. We are told to take it to Jesus. To accept that suffering is everywhere and just allow that feeling to drift off into nothingness. This anger will not go so quietly.

It has built up over years and it needs an outlet. I know, as I am sure you do, that this anger isn’t doing me any good. I know that there are important things that I need to do to process it, and I will do that part too. Prayer is never one thing. It is not one movement that resolves every tension in our bodies. There are no magic words to be said. Our bodies ease slowly into grace.

We need to release the toxins. We need some way to feel the intensity of this anger before we can really let it go. I need such release so I made a list. (It was actually part of what came out when I attempted #25 after I had done #27.) I offering that list here because I know my tradition does a terrible job of even naming anger. We leap too quickly into that calm, preferring quiet. Prayer doesn’t engage the anger. It diffuses it which some of these suggestions might do, but I am not interested in anyone’s calming techniques. This isn’t what my anger needs today.

Today, I need the feel that rage.

Here are some things I considered to notice how that anger is living inside my body.

1. Take your anger for a walk outside where the sun may or may not be shining.

2. Punch a pillow.

3. Scream into a pillow.

4. Kickbox with the air.

5. Blare loud music and dance.

6. Curse.

7. Splatter paint.

8. Lift weights.

9. Clench and unclench your fists, repeatedly.

10. Squeeze and release a ball.

11. Re-arrange one room in your home.

12. Take some glass from your recycling and shatter it. (This will involve clean up and it should be done outside, possibly with goggles.) Rocks and a mallet also work if you want to smash something with a little less clean-up.

13. Pound on a drum. A couple of wooden spoons and a stew pot could suffice for this jam session.

14. Go for a swim.

15. Run.

16. Call a friend.

17. Compose your frustration to your legislators. Send that email.

18. Knead a loaf of bread, even if you never actually put that loaf in the oven.

19. My girls tell me that Taylor Swift advises: Shake it off. (She’s not wrong.)

20. Play Hungry Hippos (but don’t invite your kids to play if you’re going to take your anger out on the game. That will lead to more trouble. This is odd and maybe dates me. I don't care. It works.)

21. Get a massage.

22. Rage clean on your hands and knees by scrubbing the floor.

23. Jump up and down. Trampolines are great, if you have access to one.

24. Throw a ball against a wall as hard as you can, over and over again.

25. Belt out your anger in song. Tori Amos is awesome for this.

26. Pick up a pen and paper and furiously write down everything you are feeling.

27. If words do not come with the intensity of your anger, scribble.

28. Schedule a session with your spiritual director.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

• What do you do when your anger seethes?

• What might you add to this list?

• How has your experience of church (or any other spiritual practice) taught you to deal (or not deal) with your anger?

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

It is a place that doesn't make any earthly sense. It is desolate and dangerous. It is not a place where life thrives especially when it appears again in the season of Lent. The calendar will tip that way again next week when so much seems to already have been scorched and burned. It feels like a place we have already been for so long so that we might be resistant. We might not want to go.

Reading poetry before a spiritual direction session this morning, I stumbled upon Jane Kenyon’s Full Moon in Winter. I picked up this book at Title Wave here in Anchorage a few weeks ago. This poem begins with the “remorse” that feels so familiar to this moment in time. It lingers “after anger and shouting.” There is enough of that. From that remorse, the poet notices her own shadow on the snow. There is a playfulness to it that she concludes to be “needy and full of desire…”

Desire is not reaching out for someone or something, as the theologian Wendy Farley describes it, but always leading us back to the beginning of every desire which is the love of God. Farley describes this movement as “a heart-energy that transforms the substance of humanity back into the divine image. Longing is not only for God; in a sense, it is God.” It is that desire is pulling me into the wilderness, wondering what it is most needed.

This Lent, it feels like there is so much that we could do. Maybe so much that we should do when there is so much wilderness around us. I’m wondering what it means to inhabit this space after we remember that we are dust. After we have claimed that nothing is eternal, we turn to to the Eternal One to dare to believe that there will indeed be new life. There won't only be death and destruction. There will be something that holds us together and reminds us to keep going.

All of these practices originate from the wild wonders I inhabit with amazing people in spiritual direction. Wilderness has been such theme of our conversations lately. If you find yourself wanting to explore this place for yourself, please message me for a free first session. I would love to explore this place with you.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

1. Reflect on what you were taught about love. Consider what the rules for being loved that were imprinted upon you and how you understand what love does now. You might find a companion in bell hooks’ All About Love as you contemplate these mysteries and passionately record every insight in your journal. Or it might be something you don't write and just explore over warm cups of your favorite beverage with someone you really do love.

2. Learn a new song to sing when you are frustrated and scared. When you cannot find the faith to believe in the promise of new life, sing loudly and boldly. Sing until your heart space opens. Dance around the room. Dance outside. Let yourself give fully into this new song. Some new songs can be found here and here.

3. Make a list of everything that you believe about God. Throw in all of the things that you think you should believe about God. Add in the things you want to believe about God. Make some blackout poetry of it until you feel like you can actually claim that faith. (Use as much paper and time as needed.)

4. Pray for your enemies. Find words for those prayers or simply light a candle and make space for holding all of your enemies in the light. Keep coming back to this practice, repeating this intention for less hate within yourself and others.

5. Send little bits of money out into the world to all of the places that touch your heart. Whenever you see goodness, send a few dollars toward that good work. Almsgiving is one of the most ancient of practices for this wilderness season, reminding us that where we put our money is where we put our faith.

6. Be silent. There is a lot of noise in the wild right now. Find a quiet place where you can close the door to everything else that is happening in this world and let God meet you in the silence. Practice listening with your whole heart.

7. Practice showing up for the people in your community whether that is volunteering at the food pantry, swapping childcare, or protesting when the world is on fire. Don’t worry about how you show up or why. Notice what happens when you allow yourself to be fully present.

I don’t yet know which of these practices my desire will lead to. Maybe it will be something that is not even on this list. The same might be true for you. No matter what path we might take, I hope we understand more about this wild place where we share in our full humanity. I pray every blessing upon you this Lent, and always.

• Stepping into the wilderness: For trying to understand where we are.

• Prone to Wander: For a good book to guide you. I have other suggestions here.

• This I Believe: For claiming faith in the wide wilderness of right now.

• Coming down from the mountains: For when it feels like there should be some explanation.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

Clergy are forming human barricades to protect the least of these. Arrests have happened. Arraignments await. Still, the horrors continue. There was a protest in a church that launched outrage as if no one has ever stormed into a worship space bemoaning the presence of a rainbow flag. That feels like ages ago now. More terror has erupted and been justified by a faith I cannot fathom. I find myself wanting to be clear about what my faith means because it feels like we are not reading the same Bible.

Beautiful church buildings are filled to the brim with sung protest and still there is this loneliness. Out in the wilderness, we wonder if this faith even matters. We want to insist that it does. It should but it feels like everything is being called into question. There seems to no firm place to stand. We are afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or saying the right thing but it will fall on deaf ears, so we don't say anything. We hide in the trees. All alone in the wilderness, that silence consumes. It isolates. It banishes us from any possibility of hope.

Jesus prays that we may be one. Over and over again, he prays. May all be one. As we are one. That they may be one. Completely one. I’ve seen that nice white lady thing emerge calling out for peace. I heard it the prayers in church on Sunday though my pastor spoke powerfully to what that peace might mean right now. When Jesus prays that prayer in John 17, he isn’t talking to the disciples. This is no teaching moment nor are they meant to be instructions. It is a prayer, a conversation between Jesus and the One. Jesus prays to the Holy One. May all be one. As we are one. That they may be one. Completely one.

This prayer is not just about himself. Jesus prays for those ones -- those that he has seen -- for the one calling out in the wilderness, for the one that has been ill for thirty-eight years, for the one that sows while the other reaps, for the one who believes and drinks. Jesus prays for these ones. That they may be one. Completely one. As you, Jesus prays, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us (John 17:21).

Nothing is separate. There is no division in this prayer. There is nothing, not even your doubt, that is not intertwined into this prayer. I am unconvinced that peace is what Jesus imagined, nor do I believe that this is what this prayer holds. Instead, there is this hope that we will see ourselves in the divine image. That we will be brave enough to hitch our lives on a metaphor and get swept up in the grace of this blessing. That we are part of God. That God is in the world. That nothing is separate and the struggle for us is to find the right words.

Jesus told stories about the one who sowed and the one who reaped. He told us about the one who betrayed and the one who wandered. He told us about this one and that one in the story -- and then he asks us which one we are. It can be hard to figure out where we fit (or even if we fit) into those old illustrations. It can feel like we have no place at all but then I hear God singing this prayer on the streets of Minnesota.

Every time I hear this song, I remember how much Jesus wanted us to understand our connection to each other. That amazing miracle of community is wrapped up in what God is and what God hopes for this broken world. I hear our struggles and hope. I hear Jesus praying, As you, Creator, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us.

The title of this post comes from an old radio series on NPR that has morphed into an organization that encourages people to share their truth in words. It came up in conversation with my peer supervision group a few months ago and I haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Consider that it is not about getting the right words to talk about God or to express your faith in this moment, but allow yourself to enter into Jesus’ prayer. Repeat these words when you rise up and when you lie down: As you, Creator, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us.

Shift the speaker, as needed, praying: As you, God, are in Jesus and Jesus is in you, may we also be one. Allow these words to enter into your spirit and remind you whose you are.

• Considering Christ: Jesus uses a lot of different metaphors to describe who he is and invites us to find our own, even when we are not sure how to claim our faith.

• How Not to Freak Out: Which maybe you are. That’s OK too.

• Poems for Praying: Poetry might express what feels hard to name. Use this small collection of verse to find words to what feels impossible.

• Stepping into the wilderness: The wilderness is a favorite metaphor of mine, and it’s one that is rich in the season of Lent as it is for the living of these days.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

Lent is two weeks away. Reading is a wonderful way to explore your faith and discover who you are right now. If you are looking for such a companion, check out Books for the Holy Threads of Lent. I will get a tiny blessing from your Bookshop purchase from this link at no cost to you.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

There was a season in my life where after Renee Nicole Good was murdered by ICE on the streets of Minneapolis, I would have taken to the streets in whatever town I was living to protest. Sometimes I would have even been standing on the steps and raising my voice. That was a time when we believed that religious leaders still appealed to our shared morality. It didn’t matter if anyone in that crowd shared my Christian faith, we were gathered in the name of goodness. We believed in love and justice, values that are greater than any one religious tradition. Ideals that become more powerful and vibrant when our perspectives differ.

I’ve watched the videos of friends and colleagues doing exactly this in the past three days. Has it only been three days? They are wearing their stoles and clergy collars and trying to say something in a world that doesn’t make any sense at all. I admire them. I’m grateful for them especially when I am no longer taking to the streets as I once was.

Though I couldn’t convince my girls to join me in church this morning, I pushed through the fresh morning powder, taking to the streets to worship. The pastor began worship by inviting us to take a few deep breaths. He is really careful to not offend anyone so he did not take any kind of stance. He simply made a space for the wide array of emotions that the gathered community might be bringing to worship. He made space to name those big feelings and offered some words of prayer to gather us in. This Sunday was, of course, the day that we remember our baptisms. It is the day every year where the Revised Common Lectionary turns our attention to the day that Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan River. It is the day that water is sprinkled again, flung from sprigs of evergreen to moisten our brows, so that we can remember that by some wild grace, we too get to claim, as Jesus did that we are beloved children of God. Jesus heard it as a voice, like that of a dove, that spoke only to him. It was only him that heard God offer this blessing.

It was that blessing that was the emphasis of our worship today. Perhaps because it feels impossible to believe that we could ever be enough. That God would be so pleased with us. That there is such a goodness in the world that wants only blessing for us. Perhaps that is what we need to hear most right now. Perhaps that is indeed what is most needed but I wanted something else.

I wanted to be reminded of the promises that I made on the day of my baptism. I was a tiny baby. I never said any such words. They were promises that were made by my parents and grandparents. Promises that I had to choose to affirm when I was confirmed as a teenager and then expanded upon when I was ordained. Promises that I want interpreted for this moment, right now. Promises that lift my heart and make me want to believe in such a hope without having any earthly idea how to live out that vision in the face of tyranny and crushing violence.

I want to know what it means to “to be Christ’s disciple, to follow in the way of our Savior, to resist oppression and evil, to show love and justice, and to witness to the work and word of Jesus Christ” because I am doing the best that I am able, and I remain uncertain. I want to know what it means to profess Jesus as Lord and Savior not just to resist empires but to actually build alternative realities for my children and their children. I am struggling to renounce the powers of evil not because I don’t believe that evil is out there. There is clear evil at work in the world but I do not know that anything I am doing fights against such malice and hate.

Whatever I might be doing, there will still 32 unnecessary and horrifying deaths last year at the hands of a ICE. It is not enough. Whatever I might do, I don’t know how to counter masked men filled with hate and rage except that I believe that water on my brow demands something else. Something more than blessing. Something more than hope or even resistance, something that actually shatters the powers of evil in this world. I can only hope that I am not the only one carrying this determination, believing that my faith demands something more.

Wade into the waters of a bath tub and immerse yourself. Feel the water warm and surround you. Notice what it feels like to be in this water, moving around in it. Wonder what water gives you each day and how it sometimes can transform an entire landscape. Water has power, just as you have power. It is part of you. You are made of this water even though you feel so separate from it in this bath tub. What might this water be teaching you right now? What does it want you to remember?

• How to deal with your rage: For when anger seems to be the only response.

• The practice of mercy: For a completely different response to the news.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

Lent is apparently only one month away. I often choose a book to accompany me through the holiest seasons in the church year. This year, I compiled a list of all of the books I considered into one wish list. If you are looking for a book to feed your spirit this season, check out Books for the Holy Threads of Lent. If you make a purchase from this link on Bookshop, I will get a tiny blessing at no cost to you.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

In the Christian calendar, it’s celebrated as one event. It happens in one day. The whole wonder of God is revealed in that moment so that it seems that the wise ones understood exactly what it was that they had found. It all makes sense now.

After that day, the tree comes down. The candles have been packed away. There are no more signs of Christmas. A new season has begun where God keeps showing up. Epiphany isn’t a singular event that only the wise people get. It repeats over and over again. It keeps showing up. Epiphanies keep happening.

The wise people moved from East to West over many thousands of miles. It was at the end of that long journey that everything shifted. Epiphany is found which might have given them the courage to go home by another way.

The next epiphany shifts that direction. It is overhead rather than in front of them that that epiphany appears. A voice is heard, saying, You are my child, my beloved, with you I am well pleased. It comes not from a baby’s cry in a cradle but from the heavens above. Sometimes even placed fluttering in the wings of a dove. It is personal, this blessing from above. It isn’t far off but very, very close. This is a moment where God shows up, in the full wonder of that dove, so that those repeating this story years might find that blessing within themselves.

Epiphany is the language of appearance, asking us to steady our gaze. It is not the language of sudden change, but a slow paying attention to what might feel too fantastic. Too impossible. Too hard to put into words but the story keeps unfolding where there are more and more glimpses into that wonder.

This year, the next epiphany catapults into the moment where John and a few of the other disciples are trying to make sense of that blessing. John is still processing, still trying to understand what it was that voice said and what it might mean now.

It’s a story told by John and the storyteller matters because John wants the fantastic. It is a story where there is little room for doubt and it feels like there can only be huge pronouncements like John makes the very next day, saying those same disciples, Look, here is the Lamb of God. That kind of fantastic is rare. It doesn’t happen over and over again, echoing through a whole series of stories and experiences.

The quiet wonder of the wise people, cooing over a baby, feels more familiar. I find myself less and less certain to make any bold claims. Like John, I am still sorting out, trying to open my heart to receive what I’ve seen and heard. I’m not yet sure what to say about it, or even what I might think about it. It doesn’t all make sense yet and epiphanies are supposed to make sense. We imagine a flash of clarity, some sense that “light has come” as Isaiah intones. That bright light shines with a clear orientation into the unknown when so much is still uncertain.

Stephanie Duncan Smith believes that the “spirit of Epiphany is transition.” Advent and Christmas “[herald] of [a] new beginning” of love and peace. The season that follows, the time we find ourselves in now, is an adjustment period. It is a time of settling into the fantastic to put it into our own words. Or maybe just cozy up close enough to it that it feels like that hope might actually shift something in the world around us. That we might understand what God is doing in some new way. That it doesn't feel like an old, old story but alters our understanding of current events, shifting our attention ever so slightly to see God showing forth, again and again.

Resist the impulse to do anything. It’s a new year apparently and there are thousands of voices asking you to do something. To make resolutions. To be a better person. To change what you were doing. Don’t rush to make any decisions. Not yet. Those things will come, but it is still winter and the world is still frozen. There are urgent needs and it is important to tend to those things, but don’t rush to decide what this season will be. Or what it should entail. Open yourself to noticing where God might be showing up. Welcome the slowness of this season that only asks you to settle into the possibility that fantastic things are still out there.

• Epiphany Stories: For when it is not clear who the storyteller is.

• What To Do With Uncertainty: When the journey is far from over and epiphanies aren’t so bright and shiny, this might be what you need to read.

• Epiphanies on Candelmas: Leaping into a celebration on February 2, here is an examen for reflection on what light might be shining.

• Prayer while shoveling: Another version of this reflection (I think) appears on my Instagram.

I am offering a special promotion through January 31st especially for new directees. If you are curious about what spiritual direction might be like and might like to give it a try, you can take advantage of this discounted rate with dates available through the end of February. Click on this link to book an hour of spiritual direction and enter the coupon code JANCHILL26 to get a 50% discount on my regular rate. All sessions are on Zoom. Coupon code can only be used once. Payment must be made at the time of booking. All that silly fine print has to be there, I guess, but it’s my hope to offer you this one small gift in the hope of epiphany. Please message me with any questions.

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores through Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. It’s most likely a book of poems and what a gift that will be to you. It’s a gift to me too. Many thanks.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

There is this mad dash to the way that Christmas is so often celebrated. It is this crazy capitalistic sprint to that moment where everything is calm and bright. Perhaps because we have been living overseas for the past years, where the pace is slower and traditions are older, I’ve been really annoyed by the forced cheer that seems to come with the American way of keeping Christmas. It has me wondering, yet again, how we keep these twelve days of Christmas as a whole season of celebration.

After all, Christmas is not just one day. It is a whole season that begins on December 25 and reaches into the twelve days that follow concluding when the wise people traditionally are remembered to have arrived in Bethlehem. Today isn’t even the first day of Christmas. It’s the eve before the season begins. It hasn’t quite happened yet. We are still relishing in the possibility and wonder of what could come when Christmas finally begins.

The celebration doesn’t end after the last carol is sung. It keeps going in the way that we keep Christmas throughout these dark and wonder filled days. It extends beyond the moment when the last present is unwrapped, way beyond the long winter’s nap. Christmas keeps going if we can tend to its power. It can keep going for the whole twelve days. Here are twelve possibilities to ponder as you keep the whole season in your heart this year:

1. Resist the impulse to to move on. The stores will already be stocked for Valentines Day. The leftover Christmas decor will be on clearance and there will be some sense that this celebration is over, but the mystic Howard Thurman believes the work of Christmas has only just begun. What will your work be in keeping Christmas this year?

2. Open a Bible to read the whole Christmas story. The story told in pageants and celebrated in most churches on Christmas Eve only tells the version in the Gospel of Luke. That’s where the shepherds hear the whole heavenly host sing, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” (Luke 2:14, NRSVUE). Luke’s version is also where Mary treasures all of things things in her heart (Luke 19). The version of the story Matthew tells after the Christ Child is born includes visits from foreign visitors bringing gifts, a tyrant so threatened by the power of this newborn that he slaughters every boy under the age of 2. This, then, forces the holy family to become refugees. This whole account takes place in Matthew’s second chapter. This story is not any one thing. As Stephanie Duncan Smith observes, this is “a story with the full-color spectrum of human experiences.” What color is your celebration this year? What color did you think it was before you read the whole story?

3. Let the Christmas lights to stay on. There might be more than one spindly tree left on the curb but as it is safe to do so, don’t take down the tree yet. Let those lights shine through all of these twelve days, giving yourself the rare gift of sitting in the mystery of love’s presence. We need light to wander into that mystery, as the poet May Sarton illustrates. Allow yourself some quiet just to sit by the light of the tree in these quiet days and find yourself reborn again.

4. Sing loud for all to hear. Whether or not you’ve watched the movie Elf this year, delve into the joy of singing your favorite carols loudly for all to hear. It might bring others cheer, but notice what that song does within you as you sing. Dance as you feel so moved.

5. Pray for Bethlehem. It is the first time in two years since the war in Gaza began that there has been any celebration of Christmas. All public displays have been cancelled. Pray for a world still at war, including those far beyond the holy city, especially for those who so need to find that light of hope this year. You might find some inspiration for your prayer through this resource from Red Letter Christians.

6. Walk in the twilight. It is one thing to bemoan the dark. Here in Alaska, the sun doesn’t fully rise at this time of year until almost 10 am. It starts setting around 3 pm. This might be reason for despair but what I notice most is the softness of the light. When it is here, the light is gentle and so pastel. It falls over the mountains in luscious violets. What is the light doing around you right now? It is said that light shines in the darkness (John 1:4, NRSVUE). Walk into that soft light and notice what is shining around you.

7. Embrace the mystery of incarnation. Christmas celebrates the strange wonder that God “became flesh and lived among us” (John 1:14, NRSVUE). It is a miracle to have skin and experience this world as God does. Notice everything that your skin touches in these holy days, and pay attention to what your flesh longs to encounter. Consider the words of Meister Eckhart as you practice such attentions who once claimed, “We are all meant to be mothers of God. What good is it to me if this eternal birth of the divine Son takes place unceasingly, but does not take place within myself?”

8. Bake a cake for the Three Kings. Though they probably weren’t kings, they are called such all over Europe. The celebration for these travelers is something unlike I’ve ever seen in the United States — and there always seems to be cake. I tried many in their honor and I do believe that the French do it best. A recipe can be found here for your epiphany celebration on January 6th.

9. Bundle up and go stargazing. Pack a thermos of hot cocoa and some Christmas cookies into the back of the car (feel free to bake more if you have run out) and drive to some place far from the light. For my family, it’s a state park off the highway that overlooks a small frosty lake surrounded by mountains. In all honesty, we are not like the wise people looking for stars but waiting to see the aurora borealis dance. Whatever the skies might reveal, watch with wonder and warm cuddles.

10. Give gifts. There is a Christmas market happening here in Anchorage on December 27, which is not to extend the giving season but focused again on more commercialism. I’m find myself wondering why we limit giving gifts to that one day of Christmas when on the 12th day there could possibly be twelve drummers drumming. Find ways to share small handmade, whole hearted and generous acts of love that drum up more joy during these twelve days. Your generosity might extend to extra canned goods in your shopping cart that are dropped off at the food pantry before your groceries are even unpacked.

11. Make an elaborate feast that nourishes your soul. Whether that means making that crockpot meal with an unusually long list of ingredients or pulling out Grandma’s old recipe, make something luxurious, something so delicious that it not only fills your belly but makes you rejoice in being alive to taste such wonder. Meals like this tend to be made on the big holidays. Consider what it might be like to choose any one of these twelve days that is not the big holiday, but just a moment to savor being present to such delight.

12. Reflect on the glory. These twelve days conclude with wonder. Light has come. The prophets are awestruck by such wonder. Isaiah points to that glory, inviting people who struggle to see anything good to see such radiance shining all around them. Read Isaiah’s words and reflect on all of the glory you have seen, felt and heard over the past twelve days. Pick up a pen and a piece of paper and consider how you’ll keep the work of Christmas going inside you.

Need a little more Christmas?

Last year, I offered another celebration of the twelve days of Christmas. It’s a bit more meditative than this one, including a poem and a song to savor each of these twelve days. It might be just what you need this year.

Interested in spiritual direction?

I am offering a special promotion through January 31st especially for new directees. If you are curious about what spiritual direction might be like and might like to give it a try, you can take advantage of this discounted rate with dates available through the end of February. Click on this link to book an hour of spiritual direction and enter the coupon code JANCHILL26 to get a 50% discount on my regular rate. All sessions are on Zoom. Coupon code can only be used once. Payment must be made at the time of booking. All that silly fine print has to be there, I guess, but it’s my hope to offer you this one small gift in the hope of epiphany. Please message me with any questions.

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores at Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. I will whisper words of praise and wonder. Many thanks.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

A colleague, another pastor of the Village Grace Church in Portland, explained, “There’s a lot of heaviness in the world right now.” This Blue Christmas service in an alleyway was just “one small way to kind of have some hope and light in the midst of darkness, to remind people that they aren’t alone.”

Blue Christmas is one of my favorites. It is one of those rare spaces where grief is welcome and blessed. There is no rush to fix it even as we hold space for each other to find light shining in the darkness. There is indeed a lot of heaviness right now. There is uncertainty about what the future might hold and concern for our neighbors. Loss feels intimate and unwanted. Some of our fear of the dark,” notes the womanist scholar Wilda C. Gafney, “is ancient and instinctual from a time when we were not sure the sun would return from setting.”

Let us find a little space together to remember that light will come again. Blue Christmas services surround the Longest Night when in the Northern Hemisphere, the sun makes her debut briefly. Night is the longest it will be all year. This simple ritual is intended for you to find the space you need. You can hear my voice leading you, as you choose, looking for light to shine again.

Meditate

Read this psalm to yourself. Sit with these words in silence, listening for what it is that which speaks to your soul. From that silence, read these words again. You may also simply hit play and hear me lead you through this meditation.

Pray

Light a candle to remember that there are stars, however isolated and distant. There are stars in the sky creating radiance in the darkness of what feels too much.

Sing

Bless

Read this blessing quietly to yourself or you may also simply hit play and hear me offer you this blessing. Hit play as many times as you need to hear this blessing.

Need another blessing on this Longest Night?

A few years ago, I offered a blessing to all of my directees and my parents who were the only people reading my words on Substack at the time. Here it is again, in case you need it in the darkness of this longest night.

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores at Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. I will whisper words of praise and wonder. Many thanks.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

God was trying to speak to them through the darkness. Was this what the poet intended? Was this how it could happen? They weren’t sure what they would find. They weren’t ready to take the risk, so they push Moses into that “thick darkness where God was.” It is there in the shadows, even in the dazzling darkness. There need not be any stars to light up the night. God was and is that darkness.

The pastor of my little Lutheran church here in Alaska spoke of such darkness with the children. Pointing to the blue fabric covering the lectern and table, otherwise known as paraments, he explained that the color of Advent is blue because God’s story starts in the dark. It is the blue just before the sunrises. Advent is a season of expectant hope waiting for the dawn.

Blue is the color the skies turn just before the sun rises again. Darkness delves into the corners of the palette far away from the bright yellows and pinks of the sunrise. I am reminded of this every time my children are handed a set of crayons wrapped in plastic in a restaurant. There are only three crayons in these sets: red, yellow and blue. There are no blacks for outlining or even white for adding hues. We review again how to mix colors to create the rest of the color wheel. Red and yellow make orange. Yellow and blue make green. Red and blue make purple. “You have to play with the amount,” I encourage as my 8 year old especially looks askance. “Mix them all together and you’ll get black,” I suggest but my daughter is quick to tell me it makes a more of a muddy brown.

“To know the dark,” the poet Wendell Berry advises, “go dark.” It’s not the same as wandering into the dark with a light, looking for where it shines. That will only reveal what the light can do. The poet advises, instead, to “go without sight” to discover where the darkness “blooms and sings.”

Advent is a a time of waiting for that light to shine, before anything blooms and sings. It is a season that is gloriously dark which isn’t without complications. The sun here in Alaska still hasn’t yet risen and it’s after 9 am. I’ve been walking my children to the bus stop in the dark and the sun sets shortly after they get home. There are things that happen to our bodies when there is no light, things that might feel like they separate us from God, though, of course, we want to believe that the apostle is right. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. In the sunny Mediterranean, where Paul traced through his missionary travels, there was no concern for Seasonal Affective Disorder. Affliction and distress make his list, but he does not name darkness as a possible barrier.

“ There is a long history in the church of using words like light, white, bright, and fair to connote goodness in a straightforward way,” Stephen Thorngate reflected in The Christian Century, which leaves “words like dark, black, shade, and dim to connote the opposite. Most instances of such usage were not written for explicitly racist purposes (though some were).” This was written a couple of years ago when there had arisen some concern about this language, especially in Advent. We seek light. We yearn for the light, condemning the darkness. It will not overcome us, the Gospel of John sings. Light shines in that darkness. It is not completely dark.

“Some of our fear of the dark,” notes the womanist scholar Wilda C. Gafney, “is ancient and instinctual from a time when we were not sure the sun would return from setting or storm or eclipse.”

We wait for the sun to rise again, watching as the clouds turn a radiant pink. It happens so slowly whether we stand on the edge of the ocean’s shores, in the grasses of a lush valley, on top of mountain peak or in the middle of a city park. The angle of the sun changes what that vista looks like. The light “gets diffracted and bounced around in the atmosphere.” It is not all direct sun beams striking the earth that changes the texture of the landscape, but it changes how we feel about that place we are in. It snowed last night and there is a new radiance. It is not as dark as the white blanket covers the earth with fresh radiance. There is a sense that there is more light even in the darkness.

This Advent, in the darkness that is all around me, I’m wondering what it means to find God in that thick darkness. If God can just be dark, without there being any shining light to brighten up our fear. Wendell Berry advises to go without sight so I’m wondering that it means to rely on my other senses to find God is indeed still with us.

Wander through the words of this beautiful prayer from the wisdom of enfleshed (which is sadly shuttering and concluding their ministry as it has been). Where are you finding God in the darkness of Advent right now?

I went to art school. My first language was in paint so I really struggle with using my other senses. I need to see something to understand it, like that brilliant blue that is dawning outside my window right now. Sight might not be your default. You might rely more on sound or touch. What would happen if you relied a little less on that default sensory experience, making room for God this Advent through other perceptions?

• Let this Darkness Be: Space for grief when the sun seems like it never will appear again.

• Already Advent: Even if it has already come, that longing might have been with you for a long time already.

• A Prayer for the Longest Night: A prayer to print out and carry around with you as you await the dawn to come again.

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores through Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. It’s most likely a book of poems and what a gift that will be to you. It’s a gift to me too. Many thanks.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

It was early evening when the phone rang. My dad hollered up the stairs, interrupting whatever important teenager thing consumed me in my room, to announce that the phone call was for me.

Before I could even pick up the receiver, there were tears streaming down my cheeks. “Elsa?…. Are you OK?” It was a friend from school, a friend who had attended so many grief groups with me in middle school. Thank God it was Lauren because I could tell her the truth.

“I thought it was my mom on the phone,” I told her.

“Oh Elsa.” She didn’t say anything else. She just sat there on the other end of the phone with me, holding onto this impossible grief that was beyond reason or logic.

This had happened long before we started carrying around phones in our pockets, back in an era when there was some expectation of who was on the other end of the phone. Now, well, it’s more often that my little screen glows with the alert that a scammer is trying to get my attention. Friends and family reach out in little green and blue bubbles. They rarely call.

I am even worse. I hate the phone. Even as a teenager, I never understood the desire to spend endless hours talking about nothing while twirling that cord between my fingers. I will do whatever is in my power to avoid picking up the phone, which perhaps also says something about the current state of my prayer life.

It’s hard to pray when it’s unclear who or what is on the other end. It becomes a question of worth. Are we doing this for ourselves? Is it about connection? What is on the other side of all of those prayers? I really want it to matter. I want it to make a difference, though I’m not sure what that change might be. Should I be more calm? Is that the goal? Or is something else to happen?

And then, this poem appeared in my inbox from Journey with Jesus. It was selected to go with this coming Sunday’s readings in what Amy Frykholm defines as Christ Pantocrator. In the first paragraph of her essay, she’s quick to name the complexity in the United States of America right now, as the leader of this nation postures as royalty. He has even claimed that voters want a dictator. This coming Sunday, Christians affirm that there is one king in our hearts. There will be no others. We follow one Lord though we might stumble over the words. In traditions like mine, we have shied away from naming Jesus or even God as King. That word doesn’t feel right for what we imagine God to be. It is too caught up in what human powers want, and we believe that God seeks a different kind of reign, which I imagine led her to share this poem from the opening pages of Kitchen Hymns.

I shared this poem with one of my directees yesterday. She was captivated by God being “the space between me and death.” We wondered about that space and what lives there without really being certain what to claim, wanting so badly to believe that God was all of it but without sufficient words to explain how it felt to straddle that space between ourselves and death.

Is it only in death that we find that clarity? The poet speaks of friends seeing something of God in their last moments. God is silent and sometimes feels like nothing, but maybe also everything. It is so hard to contain.

I love this response to the question that entitles the poem because it’s not such an easy thing to answer. It can feel hollow and empty but even that is lovely. I want to deny it but I can’t shake the mystery. I can’t name what is on the other side of my prayers, but I feel it. I know it is there even though it might confound every bit of logic and reason. I don’t care. I know it’s true, this “shape of my desire.”

Take out a piece of paper and draw your connection to God. It could be the space between you and God or you could sketch some semblance of what you hope finds you on the other end of your prayers.

This Sunday marks the end of the church year. A new year begins on the First Sunday of Advent on November 30th when many churches will return to singing this hymn of longing for God. This is a song rich in images, but there is something about singing “you’re here with us” again and again that gives shape to my desire. Sing these words with your whole heart. Keep singing.

• Considering Christ: More thoughts on Jesus.

• Already Advent: When we need God to come, a little sooner than liturgical time might define that movement.

• Singing into glory: For more on singing as spiritual practice.

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores through Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. It’s most likely a book of poems and what a gift that will be to you. It’s a gift to me too. Many thanks.

Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

Do you know this poem? I’ve been thinking about it since I read something I can no longer find after the No Kings Protests earlier this month. Someone remarked about the light they experienced that day marching with all of those people, proclaiming hope in a world that feels hopeless. Dark might be the word that was used.

It reminded me of this poem where it can feel like nothing is possible. Maria Popova describes the hope in these words like this:

There are times in life when the firmament of our being seems to collapse, taking all the light with it, swallowing all color and sound into a silent scream of darkness. It rarely looks that way from the inside, but these are always times of profound transformation and recalibration — the darkness is not terminal but primordial; in it, a new self is being born, not with a Big Bang but with a whisper. Our task, then, is only to listen. What we hear becomes new light.

I find myself thinking about all the people that have aided that transformation, those who have allowed us to see that believe that “what batters you becomes your strength.” The church calls them saints. Those that have gone before us and taught us something important about what it means to be hopeful and faithful when it seems impossible.

Tradition holds that on November 1, observed as All Saints Day, we remember those that most passionately lived out their Christian faith. They faced what scared them and it made them saints. The veil between heaven and earth lifts on All Hallows Eve, or what be better known as Halloween, so that we might lean into the wisdom of the saints that we can restore that hope by moving “back and forth into the change” they too dreamed would come for this earth, and within each of us.

Some churches stop ringing their bells on All Hallow’s Eve to prepare for this observance. It’s not a celebration but a time of reflection. A time to step back from the world and remember what has been forgotten. Other churches haul out the hand bells (like those pictured above) to ring after remember the dead. After each name is read, a bell tolls once. Sometimes more but I’m finding I want to be that belltower right now. I want to embrace what I am becoming and who got me here. It feels like a celebration, like those protests through the streets. Full of joy even when there is so much to bring us sadness.

I invite you to share in this practice with me. You can start on All Hallow’s Eve on October 31st and continue straight on through All Souls Day on November 2. Or you can reserve this space just for All Saints Day on November 1st. To do so, all you’ll need is some bells to put in your pocket. These jingle bells would be ideal.

As you place these bells in your pocket, listen to the poem again. You might choose your jacket pocket or your suit pocket. It can be jeans pocket. Or really any pocket that allows you to hear the faint ringing of bells and maybe even share it with others.

Whenever you hear that jingle, throughout your day, allow mind to wander to those saints that told you to flow and reminded you of who you are. Remember who taught you to believe that there could be change and even to fight for it. Some of the people that might pop into your mind might be still living. This is a wonder to celebrate. With every memory and every grace you find in the ringing of these bells, give thanks for these saints.

You might choose to conclude this quiet celebration by reading the poem again and reflecting in your journal or over the dinner table about what you are cherishing most about all these memories.

I would love to hold these names with you by ringing my own bell and lighting a candle for all of the saints that have inspired you with their faith. You can add their name to the comments below or message me directly and know that I’ll be praying with you as the veil between heaven and earth is lifted again.

Schedule a spiritual direction session

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores at Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. I will whisper words of praise and wonder. Many thanks.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.

Amy goes on to share a wide variety of poetic gifts including one written by her own child. It is powerful. So powerful that I am tempted to use the poem that inspired it with the directee I’ll meet with in a few short hours. Maybe it struck me because of another conversation I had with another spiritual director. I said something innocuous. Or so it felt to me and she asked me what was underneath that.

I didn’t know how to answer. I was absolutely mute but ever since she said that, I’ve been thinking about those layers that exist on top of everything. How we try to hide what is true because we fear it will be too much. How we hesitate to reveal what we are feeling because someone told us it’s better not to feel. How there is so much that we don’t really know to be at work in every thing we say and do.

As another lover of poetry, and someone who turns to it for wisdom when it feels like there is none, it’s not so shocking that it reminded me of another poem. Not because I am a poet. Or because I want to be a poet but there’s something else I’m trying to remind myself. Wendell Berry puts that it in the italicized attribution of this poem. Not as a reminder to anyone else but himself that it is as simple as sitting down and being quiet. That’s how he begins his poem How to Be a Poet.

It’s the last part of that poem that has been noodling around on the edges of my memory lately. The part that remembers:

Another one of my directees is wondering about why bothering praying at all. God knows it all. God hears it all. Who am I to direct God’s attention away from what is most needed? What does it mean to uplift one of the names on the prayer list when God already knows about all of this?

Wendell Berry suggests that it has more to do with the silence than the chattering. It requires some patience, the kind that “joins time with eternity.” And there will be doubt. It might feel like it doesn’t matter at all. There’s nothing more that could be said or done. Maybe it’s acedia. Maybe not. You feel inadequate which maybe means that God is God. You are not.

My prayers are filled with apologies right now. There is so much that I am not doing and so much that I could do. So much that it feels I should be doing but I don’t know where to start. I’m noticing I need more silence and even more grace to “accept what comes from the silence.” I don’t even want to race to do anything with it yet. I just want more silence in a world that is so loud.

When I dive into that long list of confessions with God, I am trying to breathe deeply. Just breathe and notice what’s there. My hand always seems to rest on my heart as I try to let all of those apologies float off into the unknown like balloons in the way that I’ve taught my children to meditate. I try to settle into that silence and it does feel like it takes an eternity. I am impatient. So very impatient with what feels so urgent.

“Urgency is a myth,” the Nap Bishop Tricia Hersey encourages in her manifesto on rest. It’s this myth of urgency that “preys upon yours fears about the future.” I don't have to have big words or big solutions. I don't have to be God but I’m noticing I need God’s silent companionship. I don't need them to say anything or do anything but remind me that they are there. God is with us always.

Whether or not we spend a lot of time praying, there are things that we think prayer should be. We have certain ideas about what it should look like and how it should feel. We have some more notions on what it should do. Notice these thoughts and ideas that have been rattling around in your head.

Read a poem. OnBeing has a wonderful collection of poetry where it’s possible to hear the poem read by its creator and read the words on the screen. Pick one of these poems. Any one of these poems. Or another poem you adore. Read that poem slowly leaving space for that silence to emerge. Accept what comes from the silence, whatever it may be. Linger in that silent for a little while and notice its shape.

• Acedia right now: for when you are wondering what the point of it all is.

• Poems for praying: which includes some of my favorite poems.

• Words with wonder: for when you are not sure how to leave space for silence to emerge in any given poem that you might use to spark your prayer.

  Holy Threads Spiritual Direction

Please know that if you click on any book link in this email and make a purchase to support local bookstores at Bookshop, you will bless my ministry and my writing with your dollars. I will whisper words of praise and wonder. Many thanks.

If something about what you found here in these words spoke to one of those pesky knots in your life right now, would you take a moment to hit the ❤️ button at the top left or bottom left of this newsletter? It helps spread the word about Prayer Threads and means the absolute world to me.