I’ll admit. I’ve been in a sloth place lately. I’m having a real motivation challenge.

I find myself sitting too much, watching too much tv, and binging novels. I’m leaving too much undone.

I’ll admit that I got a little pandemic discouraged (and anxious) when I had a COVID exposure attending church. It was the first Sunday I hadn’t masked during worship since we were given the vaccinated all clear. Of course the next day new research came out saying, well actually, that even if we were vaccinated, masking indoors was recommended because we could still get the Delta variant (likely unknowing; likely worst case a mild infection), and we could become spreaders.

The safety protocols for me all along were mainly about being most concerned I’d infect someone else—and there’s a lot of at risk people around right now (everyone 12 and under; immunocompromised folks who can’t take the vaccine; and the big swath of people who choose not to be vaccinated). I also am aware of how very exhausted our health system is. I don’t want to make that worse if I don’t have to.

Having been exposed, I cancelled all of my coming events until I could be tested. Thankfully, I did get my test back in time (negative—whew!) to preach at a friend’s funeral.

This COVID alert, however, was the beginning of my increased slothfulness. I’d been so careful!!!

The slothful attitude was heightened when I went to the funeral and saw that many of our care-full practices were no longer in place. Food was served, there was little masking, and we grieving people were sitting close to one another. I’ll admit that although masked, I hugged people I loved. It’s. So. Hard. We. Are. So. Weary.

My tampered down spirit also comes, I think, because it feels as if few folks are as concerned as me. When I ran errands on Saturday except for a few masked people (all too many worn nose out), most people seemed to be acting as if the pandemic is as done as we wish it were.

Then I remembered the Benedictine words, everyday we begin again.

I remembered the Daughter’s of the King prayer, I am but one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. God what would you have me do?

And I made waffles.

I was one of the the gazillions that began baking sourdough when the pandemic began. I actually created my own starter and have learned through my slothful habits that it can thrive in the midst of a great deal of neglect.

On Saturday night I fed my starter that had not had any nourishment (flour, water, and then rest) since at least July. Even though having sat in my refrigerator for well over a month, it perked back up.

I still had sourdough bread left in my freezer so I decided it was time to make waffles. I used yogurt instead of the buttermilk called for in the recipe. Each batch had a different flavor enhancement. I used bacon, blueberries, cinnamon sugar, and pecans in a variety of combinations. I was living on the edge.

The kitchen is now full of dirty dishes, but I have a dishwasher. I have a plate stacked with waffles that will feed me for a good long while.

For today, I am in my God rhythm. Like my neglected sourdough starter, I can still thrive after a long spell with a only little water, a little flour, and a little rest (you can fill in what those three things mean for you). Yes, there will be a lot of dirty dishes. Yes, I don’t have to follow the exact recipe for everything to turn out. Yes, it actually may be even more delicious than I think it will.

Okay. Mask back on. Praying a lot. Remembering to make waffles.

I’m nearing the end of a nearly two week vacation spent mostly with the grandboys. The opening parenthesis of the visit was at my mom’s farm for a partial family reunion with 3/4 of the Bend family, my daughter, the Chambersville team, and half my Brooklyn family which included the newest member, Jack Hardin Jernigan, known as Apple Jack. The parenthesis is closing with a trip to Oregon to bring the grandboys back home.

A week with eight and ten year old boys is one the best ways to clear out my brain and open my heart to inspiration. Lots of LEGOs, lots of art, lots of books, lots of smoothies and pop cycles, lots of movies, and lots of other joy mixed in.

Our first visit to a movie theater in over a year was as safe as it could be—we were the only ones in the theater (Peter Rabbit 2–👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻). [Jonas says I should do 👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻👍🏻 up]

The trip to the anime museum brought out my inner protective grandma because of the tenuous COVID protocols. We are not done with the pandemic, no matter how much we want it to be done, and I have two grandsons who can’t be vaccinated yet (but that’s a sermon for another day about loving others and than what’s more convenient for *me*[and I could quote scripture about seeking to rise to the other’s best]).

We were watching a King Kong movie when the grandsons decided they wanted to evacuate to what the older boy called “soulful and heartfelt”. The younger added “heartfilled” which became our new movie criteria.

Heartfilled has become my new pondering word.

On the final Sunday of their visit, I was trying to decide about church. I wanted to be sure we went somewhere with safe protocols that would also be kid friendly. A lazy Sunday morning with worship online sounded lovely. And then I remembered what I used to say to reluctant worshippers when I was still a rector—we don’t go to church for what we will receive (though that’s a bonus)—we go for what we give to God and to others.

Oh. Right.

We joined the community of Holy Family HTX for sweet, welcoming, thoughtful in person worship. One grandson said that he felt the closest he ever had to God.

A stop at VooDoo donuts on the way home was a bonus.

Heart. Filled.

I’m sitting outside with my best friend enjoying coffee at our favorite coffee place. I’m thinking about those who have died in service to our country as I read the news on my phone.

I begin to pray for peace that overcomes anger and hopelessness.

I pray for all those who have died in wars.

I pray for those who have been left behind to grieve.

I pray for those who make difficult decisions that bring peace.

I pray for those who have died from the pandemic.

I pray for those who have been left behind to grieve.

I pray for those who have the power to make decisions that can bring health and safety to others.

I pray for all of those who have died by guns and other weapons.

I pray for those who have been left behind to grieve.

I pray for those who use violence of any kind as a means to communicate; that God will heal their brokenness.

I pray for those who have the power to make decisions; that they will make sensible laws and systems to deter violence of any kind.

For whom else shall we pray?

It may be spring in Taos but it’s feeling like a summer day—Taos style. That means that sitting and walking and eating outside is a delight.

Yesterday, after massages, masked (our therapist, Bonnie, told us that we were her fourth and fifth clients since she had to close at the height of the pandemic), my friend and I were able to eat on the patio of our favorite restaurant.

Today is market day in Taos. My friend and I were front and center when the market opened (the sun is awakening us at 5.30), and the sights and the conversations were full of generosity. I can sit a spell when walking a market if I allow myself to be present with whatever and whomever is in my path.

Buying bread from a local baker and finding the surprise of the art on the bread.

Another vendor giving my friend and me snickerdoodles. Just because.

A conversation with a local gardener about all beautiful scented things. Followed by a conversation with her husband telling me about the gift of being married to her for over fifty years.

A man from the Pueblo who makes all sorts of things to care for our skin and body, gifting me with a lavender soap when I said it was my favorite scent.

Another vendor giving me a small bouquet of flowers after yet another conversation.

Who knew that sitting a spell could result in receiving such generosity.

Brother David Steindal-Rast wrote, “Prayer is not sending in an order and expecting it to be fulfilled. Prayer is attuning yourself to the life of the world, to love, the force that moves the sun and the moon and the stars.”

I’m wondering if a sitting a spell life is in fact prayer—attuning ourselves to Love and the life of the world that is the place where Love choose to dwell.

The Gift. The Generosity.