Inspiration

Some places I've found it this week

This little fox sparrow has made a home with us for the winter

The past two days we’ve seen temperatures above freezing for the first time in a couple weeks. When I went out to fill the feeders this morning, the snow in the back yard had melted and re-frozen into a thin, slick layer of ice overnight—not unlike the rinks we’ve been watching Olympic skaters soar across all week. I gingerly scooted my booted feet across the surface, wondering about the courage of Ilia Malinin and the like as I went. It was time to put out my new cage feeder, replacing the tired and worn 20-year-old globe-like one—the one the squirrels have figured out how to remove the broken lid and boldly raid, despite my attempts with zip ties and baffles and throwing snowballs at them repeatedly. The sparrows watched me move from feeder to feeder, making tiny, questioning chirrups as I worked. The fox sparrow is still hanging around, as are the two red-breasted nuthatches who have haunted the suet all winter, and I have doubled down on my diligence with the feeders to encourage their generous presence as long as possible.

To listen to this post (and some Bonnie snores):

I have had a mild cold the past few days—just enough symptoms to make me uncomfortable and zap my creative inspiration. Mostly, I have felt a deep-bone tired nagging at me and dampening my motivation for just about anything except sitting and reading. I want to blame the cold, but these days, it’s hard to say where such a thing comes from. It goes away when I look at the birds.

An American goldfinch visitor

After all these years, I have realized that evening church services hold a special place in my heart. Last night, my church held our annual Feast of Saint Blaise service that was postponed from last week due to weather. As Father Andy explained in an email, “St. Blaise was a bishop and martyr who lived in the fourth century in what is now Turkey and Armenia. ... The Church remembers him for a miracle in which he saved a boy who was choking on a fish bone. Because of this story, St. Blaise is associated with healing and protection from illness—particularly illnesses of the throat…”

I was exhausted from a busy work day and: cold, and was worried about sharing my germs. But as Saint Blaise is associated with healings of the throat, it seemed a personal invitation to attend. Plus, our bishop was coming for the service, which is always a treat. I donned a mask and sat in the back away from the others, flashing the “peace” sign in lieu of shaking hands during the passing of the peace.

I am realizing it may a ghost from my childhood, this love of nighttime services. Growing up a Jehovah’s Witness, every Thursday night my mom would load her four children into the station wagon and head to the Kingdom Hall. It was a long service and more often than not, we would fall asleep in the car on the way home, let the hum of the road beneath us be a lullaby, the steady motion rocking us into the night as the moon watched on. What a feeling of love to be gathered up in my mother’s arms when we returned home, body heavy with sleep tucked in just so. So that now, well into my fifties, something about the fast-approaching dark wrapping around us as we worship feels like a hug, a tucking in, an embrace gathering us closer into the breast of God. Exhaustion helps, and beneath the anonymity of my mask, tears came easily, and I leaned deeper into that feeling of holy and felt the full surrender of my body. I cued up with the others to receive what was freely given. The bishop held two lit candles in the shape of a cross around my neck and uttered this blessing:

O GOD, deliver us through the intercession of Thy holy bishop and martyr Blaise, from all evil of soul and body, especially from all ills of the throat; and grant us the grace to make a good confession in the confident hope of obtaining Thy pardon, and ever to praise with worthy lips Thy most holy name. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

I left quickly, to avoid sharing my germs, and found it had rained while we were inside under the soft candlelight. This morning, I still have my cold, but also? A sweet sense of being seen.

After services like these, I sometimes think of my friends who object to such ceremony. Those who disdain these traditions—the implication we need someone to intercede on our behalf, the veneration of these saints, all the fanfare. But there have always been people praying for other people, some especially gifted with intercession. Why not one who is in the church triumvirate? The ceremony of such things serves to elevate my worship sometimes. I do not think this is required, nor do I think it more holy than times I spend alone approaching God. But I have been around long enough to hold these things loosely.

The world has felt especially broken lately, and last night the very air we breathed seemed to cry out for healing. But today, the thaw continues and I am watching out the window as some house finches cautiously try out my new cage feeder.

We keep going.

**

Some things that have helped me keep going lately:

I’ve started a new devotional that is helping me process the events of our day. It’s called For Such a Time as This: An Emergency Devotional by Hanna Reichel. My friend Maureen recommended it and I’m so glad she did. Today, the author exhorted me, “Empathy is a muscle. Strengthen it. Allow yourself to be affected by the world around you. Allow yourself to sit with the discomfort and scariness of being affected. Give yourself permission to feel your feelings …”

I am trying. One way I work my empathy muscles is through reading poetry. This morning, a poem in this book (generously gifted to me by my friend Susan), had me weeping. It’s called, To a Farmer Who Hung Five Hawks on His Barbed Wire, by David Wagoner. You can read the entire poem here, but here is an excerpt:

…

Tonight, I aim this dream straight at your skull
While you nestle it against soft feathers:
You hover over the earth, its judge and master,
Alert, alive, alone in the wind
With your terrible mercy. Your breastbone shatters
Suddenly, and you fall, flapping,
Your claws clutching at nothing crookedly
End over end, and thump to the ground.
You lie there, waiting, dying little by little.

(I am reading the entire poem in the recorded version of this post. The last stanza so powerful. It is so heartbreakingly convicting. A true gift of empathy.)

Here is another poem I read this morning that made my heart ache and grow. (Thanks again, Maureen).

Sending a humble thank you to all the poets and word smiths out there. We need you so.

Other inspirations this week:

Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show. I have no idea what he is singing, but is this not a beautiful picture of community?

Max Naumov’s Olympic debut. This brave skater lost both his parents in the crash of American Eagle Flight 5342 last January.

This moment I had before work on Monday morning.

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