I’m sitting at my very favorite coffee spot in Santa Fe. I’m thankful I can walk with no pain again.

I’ve been healing from an ankle injury since before Thanksgiving. Nearly healed during Advent, I reinjured my ankle in a fall, and have been walking with a limp since.

Last week at the monastery, I took my first walk in nearly two months without pain. That first walk was Our Lady of Grace’s labyrinth. It was not lost on me that this first walk was a prayer.

Like many of us, I count my steps each day. Walking in pain, my step count rarely got over 5000 steps since November.

Yesterday between church and travel, I was what Fitbit calls an overachiever–over 13,000 steps. It was not lost on me that these many steps were made in the midst of serving at St. Mary’s and traveling to play and rest.

Today I begin my Epiphany walk in New Mexico. There is always a retreat aspect to my trips. This year I am walking through two important Epiphany anniversaries in my ordained ministry walk. Twenty years ago on the Feast of the Epiphany, I was installed as Rector of St. Mary’s. On January 25, I will celebrate twenty five years of ordained ministry as Priest.

When my friend and I arrived in Santa Fe last night, we were surprised to see the Plaza still lit with festive lights. Our expectation was that these lights were put up in Advent and would be removed after Christmas.

Epiphany lights!

Christ to light the walk. In pain or not. Few steps or many. Thanks be to God.

I’m in snowy Indiana at the Indianapolis airport waiting for two friends’ delayed planes to arrive.  Truth be told, in the midst of a very busy Advent, Christmas, and now Epiphany, it is good to have time for my body, soul, and spirit to catch up to one another.

I knit.  I listen to Carrie Newcomer’s wonderful music.  I think.  I ponder.

I spent last week mainly in bed with a winter cold.  Trying to stay away from folks in order to not share the gift, it was as good a place as any for me finally to complete my 2016 (I know, very delayed) taxes and submit the paperwork and documentation for the insurance claim for my personal belongings lost in the 2017 Harvey Flood.   Drinking hot tea laced with lemon picked from a friend’s tree and eating soup made by another friend, I relived the Tax Day Flood (2016) and Harvey Floods (2017).  No wonder I was abed!

Yet there was joy, too.  With the sad and painful memories there was much care and love to recall, too.  Having put off facing the pain of the two floods, I had also missed experiencing healing, compassion, and so many gifts.

I had not looked forward to this new year.  This time last year I had hoped (as most of us had) that 2017 would be a better year.  On first glance, it felt like another hard year.  Who wants to do that again?

Although it all too often didn’t feel like it, in this wait in Indianapolis, I see how much 2017 was indeed a better year.  Having flooded twice, moving and giving away and throwing away again and again, I find myself with a freedom I’ve never had in my life.

I’ve never been more certain who I am and what is most important to me.

Each relationship I have is a treasure.  Each thing I own is valued.

I’ve never loved being rector of St. Mary’s more than I do today–I have a playfulness and joyfulness and creativity that I’ve never had.  There is a depth to everything I see and do that would never have happened without 2016 and 2017.

This month I will celebrate twenty-five years of being a priest.  And I feel like I’m only now discovering what that truly means.

It is not ordinary time.

And the darkness did not overcome it© Jan Richardson. janrichardson.com)

This is the time of the year when some churches plan what’s called a “Blue Christmas” liturgy. This liturgy is a time for prayer and worship especially for those who are experiencing grief, loss, and suffering.  The season of Advent and Christmas can be a particularly difficult time for these friends when the world puts on a jolly show, though too often this merriness is more false than true.  Coming together and acknowledging this disharmony can be a comfort.

On this longest night of the year, a gift for all of us wherever we are today.  Thank you, The Rev. Jan Richardson, for “serving us with the gift you have received,” (1 Peter 4.10) through art and written blessings.

Blessing for the Longest Night

All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.

It has practiced
walking in the dark,
with its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.

So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.

You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.

This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.

So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.

Get up.

Set out on the road
you cannot see.

This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.

—Jan Richardson
from The Cure for Sorrow
© Jan Richardson (janrichardson.com)

This is the devotional that came into my inbox as I settled into my room at the Portland Airport. I did not find this all that amusing, but I did find it thoughtful.

You see, after two delayed flights, I was on my way to Bend finally last night to be with Jonas when he woke up for his fifth birthday this morning. After we boarded the flight to Redmond, the pilot came out to apologize for the delay. They’d been behind all day because of the fires near Ventura. He had yet more disappointing news–a huge fog had engulfed the Redmond airport, and we were unlikely to be unable to land and would be diverted to Portland.

Needless to say, I spent most of the flight praying the please God please God please God prayer. I listened to my Brave Still playlist created after the second Houston flood. The songs are all about God being present when things don’t go as planned. Thinking about not being with Jonas when he woke up on his birthday filled me with sadness.

I’ve walked this walk with God long enough to know that prayers aren’t magic, but that God is always present.

So here I sit in the Portland airport the morning of Jonas’ birthday. I saw a beautiful sunrise as I boarded the shuttle to the airport from my unexpected sleeping place.

I’ve had the best flat white ever at the airport and a marionberry muffin besides.

And I remember.

Life is like the fog. We can only see a few feet in front of us. All we can do is put one foot in front of us and see what us revealed.

Though I am still hoping that the fog will lift, and I will be able to fly my diverted to PDX flight to RDM to see the grandboys today.