A friend gave me a volume of Wendell Berry’s poetry for Christmas. In it are a series of poems he wrote as he looked out his window. I’ve been joining him at his window during Lent. Looking out. Looking in.

Christine Valters Paintner writes about receiving rather than taking photographs as a spiritual practice. The sense of opening my heart to what I see and letting it rest there in the form of a photograph is inviting. Phones with built in cameras make this easy to do.

I’ve noticed that windows are often in the shape of crosses. For some time I’ve been receiving cross-shaped windows, both looking out and looking in.

This week away I’ve gathered some of these window crosses into an album as a Lenten practice. Looking out. Looking in.

Looking through a cross at the sunrise as I awoke this morning. A cross to welcome me to a new day.

Looking through crosses into the kitchen where my friends are preparing me a delicious meal.

Looking through a cross as a cloud allows me to see only that which is most near me.

Looking through a cross as spring overcomes winter.

Wendell Berry writes, I have always loved a window, especially an open one. I’m inviting God to teach me about God’s love as I receive these crosses, looking out and looking in windows. With the cross, windows can always be open.

When my home flooded a second time, some folks, wanting to be kind, said things like, It must be easier since you’ve already been through it before.

I thought about this when a friend posted on Facebook about losing her hair a second time as a result of a new chemotherapy protocol. My heart broke with her as she showed a picture of her beautiful hair once again on the floor of the shower.

In case you are wondering, second time around isn’t easier. Getting through a trauma the first time and coming to a place of acceptance of a new normal, is a good place to be. For me it was a feeling of victory and achievement and joy and a big high five to God.

When the same thing happens all over again, and brings friends alongside, it is devastating. Devastating. Really, God?

Yesterday I travelled out in the Georgia countryside to see a field of daffodils that a woman at church had told us about. Sloping down from an abandoned home was a hillside awash with yellow.

In this part of Georgia, daffodils have naturalized with abandon. One plants a few bulbs (or many) and watches them increase, often in unexpected and unlikely places.

I imagined owners of this now empty home decades ago planting a few bulbs around the door. Over the years, each Spring the daffodils bloomed, and then died. Hidden underground, the bulbs appeared ugly and dead. Yet unseen, beauty gone, the bulbs held bits of life curled up within.

Rock–looking, the daffodils bulbs divided. Squirrels moved some to new places. Primarily, rain and flowing water carried most to other locations.

Year after year a rhythm of apparent death and ugliness followed by green and yellow beautiful surprises.

This is the rhythm we walk through each Lent. A dance of apparent death and ugliness and of beauty and eternal life.

Helped along by holy waters–baptism, tears, and, yes, even floods.

We’ll be going to early worship tomorrow and I’m chalicing! I can’t wait to serve you the Cup.

This was my best friend’s answer when I asked her about our church plans for my very first day of vacation, a visit to see her and her husband at their beautiful home in the Georgia mountains.

What time will we need to leave? I asked.

7.10, she replied.

Oh.

That would be 6.10 AM Houston time. Earlier than I usually leave for church on a work Sunday.

I’ll admit. A Sunday off lie-in sounded sweet.

But my very best friend was sooooooo excited about taking me to church with her. She has a fabulous new Rector, and she wanted to serve me communion for a change.

So of course I went.

But I was thoughtful. Whenever I have the rare Sunday choice about going to church, I get a fresh understanding about the non-automatic decision it is for almost everyone else. I get how easy it is to rationalize other plans on a Sunday.

Today I went to early church because I wanted to be present for my best friend. I’d like to think I would have found worship in community later that day if I hadn’t.

Because why isn’t being present for God enough? I know, I know. I can be present for God anywhere anytime. But worship also means being present for God’s friends. Worship also means being present for God even when it takes a little extra effort. Especially.

I loved worshipping in my friend’s small town church, sitting next to her husband and my friend, Evan. The sermon was excellent. My friend served me communion.

Without my push out of bed as the sun rose I’d have missed it.

And I was back home in time for brunch, a walk by the river, and marathon movie watching in preparation for the Oscars.

O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust

Alyssa

Scott

Martin

Nicholas

Aaron

Jaimie

Chris

Luke

Cara

Gina

Alaina

Quac

Meadow

Helena

Alex

Carmen

Peter

 to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding: Deal graciously with all who grieve. Surround us with your love, that we may not be overwhelmed by our loss, but have confidence in your goodness, and strength to meet the days to come; through
Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.