Call me captain obvious, but I’m finding (once again) that there is nothing pretty about entering Lent. Beautiful? Absolutely. Growing? Definitely. Palatable? Less so.

This morning already, even while chocolate cookies bake for fat Tuesday, I’m mentally readying myself for the stark season we embark on tomorrow, and even the mundane to-do list smacks of little deaths and resurrections:

1. Take down Valentine décor
2. Plant garden seedlings/revive overwintered geraniums
3. Own up to biting off more than you can chew with the Lenten devotional
4. Enjoy final cup of coffee

As a gardener, the word Lent (which means springtime) resonates with me deeply. It is perfectly matched with the interior work of preparing and cultivating, metaphorically letting worms run wild through the compost of my life with the understanding that the more work done now, the more beautiful growing season it will be. But I’ve got to tell you, I was working in the yard this morning. I was sweating, I was muddy, and all I have to show for it is a bunch of red solo cups full of dirt, and a couple of paltry looking geraniums that spent the winter in a brown paper bag.

This doesn’t bode well for what’s about to take place. I repeat: There is nothing pretty about Lent.

I’ve given in to circumstantial Lents for the past couple years simply because those seasons were growing in and of themselves, bringing me to my knees and offering ample opportunities to die to myself. That said, having the option to personally select my cross this year, feels like a big deal. Thanks be to God for peaks and valleys! Whether you find yourself in on a mountain top, or deep in a valley, I pray that Jesus meets you right in the middle of it all.

As I planted seeds this morning, imagining the garden I’m hoping to cultivate after two summers without one, I couldn’t shake the thought that it is a fitting time to be shoving withered seeds into the earth. Everything about it is counter-intuitive. Just like the Paschal mystery: Dying to rise.

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On a related note, the Lenten reflection booklet was making strides, but in order to provide a thorough and professional option with ample lead time, I’ve decided to offer it for next year. What I can tell you is that I am excited about what’s coming and I think it will be worth the wait. While I was excited to get this into your hands asap, I am grateful to have the space to move a bit slower and to provide a better option next spring.

Enjoy your Mardi Gras celebrations today. I am praying for a nourishing Lenten journey for us all this year.

“ I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.  He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn’t produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more.  You have already been pruned and purified by the message I have given you.  Remain in me, and I will remain in you. For a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, and you cannot be fruitful unless you remain in me.” -John 15: 1-4

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The newness of the new year feels like it is settling in. One by one, the Christmas lights on our street are being turned off, the stock show is in town, and school is back in session. Maybe you are off and running with your resolutions or re-calibrating and keeping a steady pace. Either way, I wish you peace and a spirit of searching as we mull over the Epiphany that springs us forward.

We have a rare overcast and wintry day today that speaks to the ordinariness of winter. Gray-brown-white, quiet, cold. On the surface, it brings to mind the words of the carol ‘In the Bleak Midwinter.’ On the surface, it appears that the world is sleeping.

In my bones, I know this to be false.

I also know this because we are dog-sitting right now, and the dogs have gotten into my perennial sunflowers and begun tugging them up by their stalks. In my hustle to collect and replant the torn-out root balls around the yard, I noticed the abundant growth since I planted them last summer. It reminded me of this quote:

“Don’t think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It’s quiet, but the roots down there are riotous.”

Curly, purple, and white tubers, thick as could be, surrounded the original taproot. So much life in such a short season! And I could not help but imagine the unnoticed life going on under the surface all around us. The cashier ringing up groceries saving for a long-awaited vacation, the woman in the cubicle next to you taking a call from the neonatologist. The teacher at conferences writing poetry by night; the nurse going though a divorce; the waitress taking night classes.

Not so different from you and I.

Ideas, hobbies, plans, or opportunities have a way of looking different, or presenting themselves at the turn of a new year–maybe you feel it, too? The urge to read, purge, invest in friendships, create, travel, paint, get outside, all going around simultaneously–maybe even things that have lain dormant in you for a long time. I may have succumbed to the idea that the fresh year invites new endeavors. I have my finger in so many pots right now that, on the surface, the days look a little lackluster because progress feels so slow. But, under the surface, it feels ‘riotous.’ 

This is a strange experience in a world that is increasingly curated before and after photos that smack of instant results without the toil. A beautiful garden: Poof!,Polished writing: Poof! Flourishing friendships: Poof! By and large, all of these are the product of just plain grunt work. 

So, as we enter 2023, cheers to the riotous, unseen, sometimes bleak, grunt work that overtakes us behind the scenes. May we give ourselves willingly to it and trust God’s Providence to tend to its untamed growth.

Trust in the Slow Work of God Above all, trust in the slow work of God We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay We should like to skip the intermediate stages. We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new. And yet it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability and that it may take a very long time. And so I think it is with you. your ideas mature gradually – let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste. Don’t try to force them on, as though you could be today what time (that is to say, grace and circumstances acting on your own good will) will make of you tomorrow. Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming within you will be. Give Our Lord the benefit of believing that his hand is leading you, and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.  – Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J. (1881-1955)

In other news

Yours truly will be participating in a Guinness Book of World Records for women beekeepers tomorrow. If you see any of the hype on social media, please give it a ‘like.’

Blessed Is She Lenten devotionals are here–if you’d like to purchase, please consider using my affiliate link.

**If you can wait a little longer and would consider using a Lenten devotional that I am putting together–know that it is one of the riotous projects going on behind the scenes, and perhaps telling you about it will give me the accountability to complete it in a timely fashion. More to come!

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Nearly 55% of water usage in the Denver metro goes directly to watering lawns. To wean residents from this irresponsible practice, our city offers grants to homeowners interested in reducing their lawns. I applied for this (free plants) and was delighted to learn that we qualified. Especially on the heels of our construction project that has left our yard in shambles, having a budget and experts from our local botanic gardens to tell me what and where to plant was a dream. 

Of course, the idea of xeriscaping is that the plants are drought tolerant/resistant and can thrive in an environment where rain is a rare gift. I have been thinking about this since we evacuated our home last December due to the raging wildfires just north of us. As temperatures steadily increase and major reservoirs continue to recede, all efforts feel worthwhile to curb these wasteful trends.

I have been giving some thought to what it means to be drought tolerant vs. drought resistant. After all, drought doesn’t only apply to vegetation or climate. Drought is an apt description of our spiritual lives, creative lives, and sometimes love lives. A nursing mother’s milk supply will eventually dry up. Our money can metaphorically evaporate; wells, ponds, and oil reserves can all dry up. You get the idea.

Physical processes like wetlands-turning-prairie demonstrate a natural progression, while disappearing reservoirs provide an indicator, like a canary in a coal mine. The good news is that we have a choice to make for ourselves: To tolerate or to resist?

Drought resistance or tolerance is a broader term applied to plant species with adaptive features that enable them to escape, avoid, or tolerate drought stress (Levitt, 1980). From: Climate Change and Crop Stress, 2022

This seems a timely question to ask ourselves as a species: Do we plant what we know will tolerate the heat, the difficult seasons, and harsh conditions while fostering the good that is already here now; or plant what we wish and water it, indiscriminately because it delights us and that is what will yet allow it to thrive in the future.

Already and not yet. God is both.

There is something to be said for each approach. Either way, the end goal reflects the One who is Life–attending to the details specifically as they are, while lavishing generously, encouraging a flourishing life without counting the cost.

Under it all, I keep hoping for some garden wisdom to speak to me when my spirit feels parched and wilted like it has a lot this year. What about the long-standing scenarios I didn’t choose to plant, that break my heart wide open and drain the life from me? When the resistance is as abrasive and hurtful in the wake of something good taking root–How do I tolerate that? When the cries and hurts of a broken world all rise up together, what’s left to do but tend what is good and douse it all lavishly, generously, and indiscriminately?

At the end of the day everything needs a drink. 

Lord make me a vessel to carry water into a thirsty world.

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Happy Earth Day!

I hope you get to embrace it by taking a hike–or a travel mug; biking to work, or upgrading to paperless billing–however you like to celebrate the day!

Last month, before all of this quarantine business got underway–which is  having a strangely positive impact on the planet– I was invited to speak on the spiritual dynamic of stewardship in terms of faith. I was over the moon to make this connection because for as much Theology as we have on the subject, very little time or attention is committed to what I feel is a hallmark of our faith tradition:

Stewardship as care for creation

Parishes are superb about educating on the tenets of stewardship and the three T’s: Time/Talent/Treasure. Each of these are paramount in carrying out the mission of the Reign of God on Earth. What is less clear is our shy approach to including ourselves among the stewards of creation itself.

Scripture is chalk-full of references to what it is to steward, well. Beginning in Genesis in the first Creation account, and sprinkled throughout the Gospels and Epistles, it is very clear what a steward is– and what kind of steward with which we might wish to be associated.

• Genesis 2: 15— The LORD God then took the man and settled him in the garden of Eden, to cultivate and care for it.
• Luke’s accounting of the Unjust Steward
• 1 Peter 4:10— As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another as good stewards of God’s varied grace.

The long view

The Catholic Church has a rich history of naming creation as a gift of the Creator, and thereby worth respecting. Saints, Popes, theologians, mystics, and lay people alike, have found the subject worth contemplating.  Most traditionally this has played out by emphasizing the dignity of the human person as image bearers of the Creator, but the dignity of the human person cannot be singularly extracted from the reflection of the Creator in all things.

The glory of God is reflected in the majesty of mountain ranges, the wonder of  the circulatory system, the mystery of photosynthesis, the perfection found inside a beehive, the power of ocean tides, the transformation in metamorphosis,  the unpredictability of weather, and the fantastic diversity of rain forest life.

To honor humanity as the sole communicator of God’s majesty is both limiting and hubris. This is not to say that humanity does not have a particular role as image-bearers in the world, it is to say however, that as such we are invited to cultivate the gifts given in a way that honors the Giver of said gifts.

In the Mass, we hear:

“For, although you have no need of our praise, yet our thanksgiving is itself your gift, since our praises add nothing to your greatness.”

In these terms I cannot but imagine that in the same way our very praise is a gift offered to God—not because God is somehow in need of it, but because we are. So too might our response as stewards of creation have less to do with maintaining a pristine status quo, but rather a posture of gratitude for gifts given to be cultivated respectfully out of reverence for the Giver. 

Sharing more thoughts on Church as Steward in honor of Earth day, at Blessed Is She today:

A few years ago, I heard a newscaster reporting on a scene from the Vatican, in which Pope Francis presided over the Liturgy during Ordinary Time. The newscaster, offering commentary on the event, enthusiastically shared that in the spirit of Earth Day, the Pope was sporting green vestments.

His observation was as innocent as it was inaccurate, which made it all the more humorous.

Yet, it gets to the heart of what can feel is a disjointed relationship between the faithful and our responsibility to be good stewards of creation.

The post Green looks good on you appeared first on Unexpected Honey.

Oh, October.

How you sneak in and linger, simultaneously reminding me of beauty, release, stubbornness and the fleeting seasons. No sooner have I accepted the rhythm of the academic year and we find ourselves leaving soccer practice in the dark, dreaming up costumes and consuming all manner of allspice.

Personally I agree with Anne of Green Gables; I am “glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”

And yet, this month evokes so many things in me. 

This particular October has been a goldmine of events that remind me of the goodness in humanity (and if there’s anything we could use right now, it may be a goldmine of human goodness): A legacy of service work and a coming home of alumni in our community, only to be reminded of the ripple effect their continued lives of service have had. I had the opportunity to attend an event with my mom over the weekend, that moved me. The day shelter in town is putting on their annual gala this week to support the important work they are doing to meet the needs of those living on the street; Tonight I attend a planning meeting to coordinate a fundraiser to find a cure for a friends’ children’s genetic disease.

On the flip side, a dear priest friend died over the weekend, our neighbor’s health has taken a turn for the worse, and already the snowy forecast this week means we’ll be opening the severe weather shelter this eighth of October, for our neighbors without homes. 

It is paradox: Life and death.

Formed as I am in the Benedictine tradition, I am reminded of St. Benedict’s rule to: ‘Keep death before my eyes, daily.’ I haven’t always appreciated this bit of wisdom, but I will admit that it is easier to do this month than many others. We absolutely have a finite time on this Earth, and perhaps we don’t feel comfortable to dwell there for long, and yet what we do with this time has lasting impact.

Whether we find more encouragement in the words of Anne or St. Benedict, would that we be encouraged to make this ‘one wild and precious life,’ illuminating.

Thoughts on harvest time.

In the spirit of harvest time, I’m sharing on the Spirituality of Harvest Time and Letting Go on the Blessed Is She Blog, today:

When I imagined what the topic of harvesting would surface for me, I naively pictured pumpkins, colorful foliage, harvest wheat, and crisp apples. These illustrate the practice that instructs us to un-clench our fists and generously offer back what we have been given. In general, I try to give a nod to the season outside of my window to inform the way I enter a season, spiritually…

Time for Harvest

Click here to keep reading.

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Happy Feast of the Epiphany—the day we commemorate the arrival of the Magi at the birthplace of the Christ child, by way of a star. It is also the day our Eastern brothers and sisters celebrate their Christmas feast.

The Magi have always held a particular place of intrigue in my heart.  No doubt this is a lingering effect of the family heirloom wise men we set out each year as a child, painted by my great aunt.

Without fail, these characters are the most interesting and ornate to arrive at the manger scene—riding camels by night and representing educated, foreign, seekers; they are often depicted wearing brightly-colored robes and turbans, with boxes of precious and symbolic gifts no one would have thought to bring a child born in a manger.

Gold: precious metal

Frankincense: fragrant perfume

Myrrh: oil of anointing

In Jesus’ case, it’s been speculated that the gift of gold would have implied his kingship, frankincense, Jesus’ priestly role, and myrrh a foretelling of his death and the anointing he would receive.

Attentiveness

Epiphany is one of those words that has somehow made its way it into the cultural vernacular and I love it—it implies a great revelation or discovery.  Best of all, we might hear this phrase casually in a business meeting or a brainstorming session! It continues to give a nod to the light that revealed the Light of the world at the manger as an experience accessible to anyone paying attention.

Outside of this day, the Magi don’t receive a lot of attention in the Nativity story. Yet, if it weren’t for their attentiveness to the stars, or the wisdom they received (and responded to) in the quiet of a dream to bypass King Herod, the story we have been celebrating these past twelve days might have been told differently.

Darkness

Providentially, my library request for Barbara Brown Taylor’s, Learning to Walk in the Dark arrived during Advent, and I devoured it. I devoured it because of its beautiful metaphors for the Advent season, but the compelling way she describes our wonderment around the less-familiar world illuminated by stars. She speaks of our suspicion of what we don’t know, as well as our complete and utter dependence upon our time in the dark for any illumination we hope to find.

Instead, I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again,  so that there is really only one logical conclusion.  I need darkness as much as I need light.”

Barbara Brown Taylor’s, Learning to Walk in the Dark 

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We in the northern hemisphere might be experts on this by now. This half of the year, with its fleeting daylight hours and lengthy evenings, offers us a necessary downbeat counterpart to the perky, staccato of summer hours. The land rests, and so too, do we. Rather than cookouts and softball, we’re called to quiet a bit. More often than not, this means a retreat inside, to catch up on a book, schedule a meeting, see a movie.But, what if our quiet invited us to step outside?

Owling

I took Barbara at her word over Christmas, inspired a little by Jane Yolen’s Owl Moon, and took our Christmas crew owling after dinner in the dark of the night—which is to say we went walking at night in hopes of spotting or listening to our neighboring great horned owls. It was cold and crisp and we didn’t spot any owls. What we did was venture into the mystery of the darkness outside of our front door and our routine that other nights is off-limits. We trekked over snow and bridge and trail together in silence and anticipation of what we might find.

We are not Magi, but as the familiar star over our garage came back into view upon our return, it felt good to be seeking and thrilling to be on the lookout. In the spirit of the wise men, may 2019 find us on the lookout for an epiphany or two of our own.

“…new life starts in the dark. Whether it is a seed in the ground, a baby in the womb, or Jesus in the tomb, it starts in the dark.”

Barbara Brown Taylor’s, Learning to Walk in the Dark 

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For those of you interested in other book suggestions for the New Year, hop on over to Blessed Is She for a month-by-month book list, paired with the twelve fruits of the Holy Spirit.

The post Discoveries in the Dark appeared first on Unexpected Honey.

The sunflowers are giving up the fight—after being pummeled by wind, squirrels, and finches, they won’t last. Thus, the pile of sorted seeds air-drying on the kitchen floor. (A lovely science experiment that looks a bit like loose-leaf tea arrayed on construction paper). At first glance, it’s an invitation to curious, little fingers. Upon closer examination, the truth of it is piled up there in plain sight:

Death and new life. Hope. Growth. Potential. Self-gift. Reaping & sowing.

Every year I fight the end of summer. It’s just such a sad letting go for me. And yet, every September seems to take me by surprise. The long-stretching shadows, cool mornings and evenings, the explosion of produce from the garden—it’s a subtle, quiet settling in. It woos me, and wins me over without fail.

This week in particular is jam-packed with significance in this household. In one stretch of the calendar, we celebrate another year in our home, the anniversary of our engagement, one of our children’s Baptism anniversary, alongside of the anniversary of my grandfather’s death. Life, death, excitement and change, all mixed together. The richness of it all is almost palpable; like we’re walking knee-deep in calendar days and thick grace.

Of course, this is no different than any other string of days that our memories and wanderings lead us into and out of,  but probably the rapid succession of them that makes me marvel.

Re-membering

This practice of tracing patterns in time is an important one. There’s something sacred about the act of re-membering—placing  oneself physically  into the mind of what a particular day held at one time; allowing the body to re-enter that experience, that feels holy. Anyway, that is how I find myself tonight, playing archivist to these significant days, and seed-collector of next year’s blooms. 

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One of the easiest ways to celebrate a season is to head outside. What does it smell like? Feel like? Look like? What’s on the ground? What color are the clouds? Next time you’re out, gather a few things that can point to the season. Better yet, invite your niece/nephew/child/neighbor/kiddos you nanny for into this task of creating a space for hospitality. We instinctively do this in the summer when we cut bunches of flowers or pick tomatoes for a friend.

Rather than the lovely, but expensive, spreads like those we might see in magazines or on Pinterest, what about your own, locally-inspired, kid-friendly and festive place to welcome guests? This whole challenge has been an effort to find ways to honor those with whom our lives intersect. Our own family and friends are no exception. Celebrating at meals is a perfect opportunity for this.  

#hosptiality #nature #mealsascelebration #livesimply #usewhatyouvegot #green31 #write31days

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It’s the first of July this weekend—my favorite month of the year; appropriately greeted by a maiden voyage in my canoe, followed by cold beverages in the sand. It was hot and sunny—just as it should be in my humble opinion.  Not one thing was accomplished on my to-do list today. It was perfection.

Abundance

This past week has marked a turning point in our beehive, and in our summer too, it would seem. The week of the first day of summer marks the beginning of the honey flow here in Colorado. This means that the local vegetation is exploding with blooms and that our little ladies are running themselves ragged trying to keep up with the flow of nectar and the job of turning it to honey. Thus the term: “honey flow.” As an aspiring bee keeper, I am on the lookout for what I want to do/should do/need to do/want to learn to do/should have done as it pertains to our hive to make sure the girls are healthy (and that we get to taste some honey, too).

Armed with this ‘honey flow’ knowledge, I donned my veil and headed out to the hive to add another box to give them room to store the fruits of their labor this month. In the process I found a ton of honey and nectar with little room for larva, as well as some other mysterious storage behavior in the hive. I’ve been perusing YouTube and my bee books to help me get to the root of this behavior to be able to judge it highly successful or worrisome.

My little apprentice was with me today and I was marveling at the way the bees were so gentle with us as she calmly pumped the smoker while I pulled out frame after frame, box after box for closer examination. Everything that they have worked at this season was held in the sunlight under scrutiny, and the bees remained amiable.

Under construction

Similarly, our house is under construction this week. Though we love many things about our home, some of the quick fixes of earlier owners have proved less than helpful. So, our home is stripped down, bare and ugly, exposing the things that weren’t done right the first time, in the same way the beehive has been opened up, completely exposed to the light in the hopes of a mutually-beneficial care taking.

Little Miss has spared no words describing how awful our house looks at the moment, wondering why we would ask someone to do this? I imagined the bees wondering that same thing after the thorough examination their home went through this afternoon. The beauty in both of these scenarios is that they each have good bones—a strong starting point—and therefore will not only withstand, but benefit from the attention and repair being done to make for a sturdier home in both cases.

These exposing shake-ups are great metaphors for the times I find myself scrutinized in a way I don’t like–I have to ask myself if I operate with the same wisdom. Who or what is examining the details or my life and how am I responding? Can I be open to the circumstances that reveal my weak points, really? How often do I see these details as growth to be celebrated, building upon a strong foundation?

For courage to see potential and shake-ups with the eyes of a carpenter and a bee- charmer. Amen.

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