After all my troubles I like to think

that deep inside me is a core of faith,

a lovely shining thing, rock hard, upright,

gleaming from the polish of many a dark aching night.

But what I feel there instead is a shaft of pain,

a stabbing standing spear that pierces me again.

I refuse to avoid it as I continue to seek

beneath pain, sorrow, darkness, when I'm not too weak.

Keep your ride upright

as you go on your way.

When the roadway curves

bank a little. Don't stray.

When the road rises up,

a hill hides the coming land,

slow down, keep watch,

keep a strong and steady hand.

When the clouds come down

and you're going in the dark

find shelter until

you see the destination mark.

Look around you as you go,

learn from all the things you see.

Keep your ride upright.

Be the one you're meant to be.

Last week, after I drove my husband to the field

and helped him change the flat tire on the harrow,

as he returned to the work with tractor and machinery,

I walked the land.

Across the hay field still early spring brown,

small birds flying up from bunched tufts of dried grass,

the high above me calling screech of a soaring watching hawk,

I walked toward the bush.

(When we were children, "I'm going to the bush," we would say,

a few minutes walk from our farmyard.)

I stood for a minute, on the edge,

looking at field, looking at trees,

and took the step,

sinking into the woods with a sigh.

If God had a mother, what would that be?

The Creator becomes a beloved child,

held in the arms of compassion and boundless human love.

Did it delight the heart of God, to feel the personal side

of a mother's sacrificial care,

when she rose up willingly, night or day,

to see to the needs of her precious child?

Was she on his mind when he prayed

to avoid the coming torture;

did he think of the pain his death would stab into her?

"Woman", he would call her, and honour the word.

The cool air will not save me

but it soothes my heated brow

The bird's song tells no answer

but it calms my doubts somehow

The sunshine brights the world

but not the dark inside my head

The trees stand by in loyalty

when there's nothing to be said

Turtle:

Crust-encased, armour-braced,

so geometrical,

your contrast lines symmetrical.

Descendant of a dinosaur,

survivor of the fitness war.

Lizard-like you raise your head

and test the air for what you dread.

On land, slowed by your hard shell tent;

but water is your element

-you flash by in the cool pond, free,

unburdened now by gravity.

Job and the Mystery of Suffering: Spiritual Reflections by Richard Rohr
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

"Darkness is a harsh term, don't you think? And yet it dominates the things I see." -Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More album, 2010.

To anyone who has experienced bad difficulties or encountered suffering in life, and has not found satisfaction in the pat answers and determined joyfulness of mainstream Christianity, this study of Job may address some issues seemingly ignored by many. The fallacy of "prosperity gospel" ("...we expect something back.", p. 29) is addressed, the mistaken idea of earning our heavenly reward ("...most people believe...we are going to get back as much as we give to God...salvation depends on us and our perfection and goodness...", p. 73) is covered, and over-stressing the authority of the church and the Bible (they "...are one step removed from the inner testimony of the spirit.", p. 89) is warned against, as it may become an avoidance of the inner journey and the discovery of one's own soul.

On p. 123, there is an interesting comment about Job searching for God and not finding God anywhere, and how this contrasts with Psalm 139 ("Wherever I go, he is there," omnipresence), in my mind conjuring up an idea of God's "omni-absence" as a sometime perception of the suffering one who can feel no sign of God's nearness.

The heart of the human dilemma, I think, is touched on exquisitely as "...a human being demanding his rights as a human being...Job is asking for the gift of unconditional love when he rejects any theory of retributive justice. He is demanding a God who respects and loves what God has created--just because it is," (p. 139)
Although Job does not get a clear answer, in the end he seems satisfied "to see and be seen. That's all any of us desire. For some eyes to go through us and understand... We desire to be seen all the way through." (p. 162)
And the final touch: Job must pray for his friends. "His redemption is not complete until he prays for those who caused him such pain." (p. 164)

The author of Job and the Mystery of Suffering points to Christ's suffering as a comfort, and also allows for the existence of the chaos factor, a mystery in a world  created by a mighty God.


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The cat is still not talking.

She sits upon the windowsill,

all ears pointedly ignoring,

silently gazing into the distance,

her tail curled up around her

in a most self-sufficient way.

I ask her what I've done.

She will not turn to look,

though one ear does, then back.

All silent and unmoving,

her furred but frozen shoulder

rejects my every effort.

The clock ticks on.

The cat is still not talking...

Mar. 24
Do not seek to console me
by saying he is in a better place

and free of the miseries of this world,
then tell me I have much reason to live

by all the beauty around me,
and the ones still here and dear to me;
that exactly is why I mourn his life lost
that had so much yet to see.
(So much yet to be and love,
and loved ones to be needed.)

Apr. 14

Why does God bless me?

How is it I can call this land mine, these fields, these woods?

Why do the branches shine for me against the sun?
 

The slow melting snow

glitter-pearl bedecked

ice-lace bedraped

making walking difficult for distraction,
the glory of its beauty.

The small log cabin

where I bend down to lay and light the fire

which restores my soul.

I continue my walk,

greeted by a sunning squirrel

branch-perched

sun-furred

and then its mate springing up to join

in a warm sleepy eyed ignoring of the human intruder.

When I am unproductive here

swinging my idle hands as I walk these woods

why does God bless me

with what I do not deserve?

Later, on the way home:

Pileated Woodpecker on Poplar!

Old under trees

Let me be old under trees.

Let those long plodding days be shaded by forest friends,

swayed by the breeze let us spend our days.

Leaning toward long silent moments,

deep in remembrance,

rooted in long ago ways.

Creaking in turns,

swaying when swept by the winds of the world,

old bones brittle, old wood burns.

Branches once straight and strong,

bent, broken, twirled,

twisted in trunk,

gnarled.

With faded leaves reaching for light and warmth,

wrinkled skin bark-like and  rough.

Let us know winter is coming,

and turn ourselves inward,

the sap of thoughts slowing,

prepare for the long cold dark,

though 'round us the young trees are growing.