Part of my Lenten practice most every year post-ordination included some away journey. Before grandboys, there were annual trips to the ocean. Since their birth, a part of Lent has been to the high desert of central Oregon.

The timing for this year’s trip was to attend the older grandboy’s band concert. The concert was on Pi Day, so my daughter in law and I made a pie. I did the crust, she made the apple filling. Cooking together is a joy.

The concert was attended by all five of the grandparents and an aunt and her partner. I love that I’ve been here often enough to have extended community in Bend.

The Sunday following was the fifth in Lent, and it was the only day everyone in the family would be together. Is there a way to observe Lent without walking into a church building and to find Church somewhere else? That was my quest.

We lolled the morning; I spent a good amount of my time reading the Bible and praying and reading devotionals. I used the Bible I’d bought my grandson for my Bible time. That was precious.

After lunch, the whole family joined in walking the labyrinth at the local Lutheran Church. The church has set up their parking lot as a place for people without houses to live. They also have piles of wood as a wood bank for folks to take and use to keep warm. I love the way this church is Church outside their walls using what they have to share—a garden, a parking lot, wood.

As we walked the labyrinth, my family and I had conversation about the different ways that walking a labyrinth (and any kind of walking) can be a kind of prayer.

After the labyrinth walk, my son wanted to hike—another walk. I have pretty much given up hiking and have become rather a sloth. I had brought my walking stick on the trip, it was a beautiful day, and I decided to give it a go.

When we arrived at our hike, my response on seeing the not-mountain, was to give myself permission to climb as high as I could. My family was good with me taking my own pace, and eventually I sent them on ahead as I stopped to catch my breath.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, so I had plenty of time to ponder, in the places of pause where I caught my breath, of a hike I had attempted years ago. Crough Patrick is a half mile high mountain in County Mayo, Ireland, where Patrick is said to have climbed and fasted and prayed for forty days. The climb is uneven and rocky, and thousands make a pilgrimage to the top each year, some even barefoot. Even with hiking boots and a stick, I was unable to make it to the top of the mountain.

Here I was, nearly thirty years later, on a smaller not-mountain, still not able to walk to the top.

I was fine. Walking slowly, I had much time to think and pray. I had good pauses for breath that allowed me to look deeply at the beauty around me. Family who loved me were near.

It was Church on a not quite mountain top.

L is for Lent.

L is also for layover in Los Angeles.

If a flight is going to be delayed, being able to sit outside at LAX at a club (thanks to a free pass) is the way to layover in a delayed position.

It’s my first Lent while retired.

Except for a visit to the farm for my mother’s 98th (!!!) birthday, this has been a stay at home Lent.

No sermons to write. No liturgies to plan. No Lenten teaching/series to coordinate. Ash Wednesday was collar-less as I worshipped at Hope Episcopal.

My only priestly act has been to teach Reconciliation of a Penitent with the Middler students at Iona School for Ministry.

I have been a Lenten observer, ponderer, wonderer.

I’ve spent time reading, praying, planting my garden, and loads of Lenten lolling.

Now I’m on my way to spend this past mid-point of Lent in Oregon with my family.

God and I are having a quiet Lent. I think God is fine with that.

PS. T-Mobile let me know that I also flew over Mexico today. Who knew?

January 25 is my thirty-first anniversary of priestly ordination. Celebrating it in Bentonville with my best friend felt perfect.

She was at my ordination, and we became friends soon afterwards. I walked through the day recalling “this time 31 years ago, I was…….” Some tears were shed.

At a celebratory breakfast, “31 years ago, I was sitting at St. Dunstan’s with my parents folding the worship booklets. My dad would read a lesson that night in the service.” Kinfolk.

During our visit to Crystal Bridges, I had so many opportunities to recall all the kinfolk who were there that day and have since shaped these thirty one years.

A new exhibit of two artists (Toshiku Takaezu and Lenore Tawney) who shared their lives through letters and became close friends, inspiring one another’s work was especially insightful. Part of their artistic friendship was sharing recipes. Kinfolk.

As a female priest, honoring the value of what is considered woman’s work is a good place to rest. Toshiku wrote, “In my life I see no difference between making pots, cooking and growing vegetables.” Lenore encouraged “following the path of the heart.”

The museum has several places where they encourage guests to create their own art. In one room, there was place to sit and draw one’s emotions. My drawing expressed how I feel celebrating thirty one years of priesthood. It is incomplete—I am not done yet.

Joining me at the art table were three young women who were full of laughter and conversation with one another. They were a musical backdrop. Kinfolk.

As we walked to dinner, my friend continued to listen to my rambling and reminiscences of that ordination day. She had chosen to treat me to dinner at a church building repurposed as a restaurant called The Preacher’s Son. The meal was beyond delicious, but it was my friend’s kind toast to the years of ministry that brought the tears.

There was room left for a slice of passion fruit pie to share. Kinfolk.

Kinfolk. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.

Kinfolk are usually considered to be members of one’s family—no matter how distant the relative. What makes kinfolk kinfolk is that we share a common ancestor.

From a theological perspective, since we are all created by God in God’s image, that makes the circle of kinfolk beyond our measure of imagination. It would seem, to me, we are all kinfolk.

My best friend and are on a lark to Bentonville, Arkansas, to one of our favorite museums, Crystal Bridges. Annie Lebowitz is the guest artist in residence, and we are here for her exhibit.

Last night we drove to Fayetteville for a one night showing of A Case for Love. It has a definite Episcopal presence (and funding) and is inspired by the words of Presiding Bishop Curry. It invites people to do intentional acts of love for thirty days. Perhaps that could mean thirty days of looking at and treating all we meet as kinfolk—in loving ways.

I’m walking this lark in a mindfully loving way—or trying to do so. Beginning the practice in this place of smiles and unabashed friendliness makes it an easier start. It’s also easier to take a little more time to kindly respond to people when on a slow time trip—travels no further than the hotel to coffee to the museum. Most of that is done by walking, so that all makes the connection easier.

To paraphrase a common phrase, I’m doing my best to take the loving way by walking—eyes open for kinfolk along the way.