Journal Notes |
Journal Notes |
| I wonder if I am going God-crazy, moving inside myself, listening to that Other, gentle nudge as I walk through the dining room at my mother's on Christmas morning; as I sweep pine needles off her porch; as I rattle the windchimes in the back room. It is the gentlest feeling, a breath: this here I am, and it adds Grace and meaning to the smallest act: I sweep the porch, and it is enough, a holy moment. Tonight, sleepy, I made up all the makeshift beds and
piled up the remains of stocking stuffers, and now I am warm in bed, writing peacefully;
everyone is going to bed now, rustling; and the stars are out. . . Wait: for God to greet you. People are visitors. God alone stays. What if our world isn't fallen? Question: God, do I have anything to fear from You? Answer: I only love you. It is not what I do but how: flowing. What joy, even in this darkness where I live alone without anyone—but here is God, at the edge of time, and in this remotest place God and I will sing together. We had a special church service on Sunday afternoon to bless animals. The choir sang about whales and donkeys and "all God's creatures." Dogs barked downstairs, and we laughed up in the choir loft when two cats got into a hissing fight. The choir master had borrowed two long white banners of elaborate paper cuttings, which had been hung from the rafters on each side of the nave. I wondered who had balanced on a ladder to hang them: they were at least fifteen feet long. What a lot of effort, I thought, for one service. Someone would have to pack them up again, and ship them back to California. Then, as if it were a lesson, I suddenly pictured a woman sitting calmly on the marble chancel floor, rolling the white banners carefully, enjoying the stillness of the dim church, the rainbow light from the stained glass windows. I am made of stars and made of God, but I am also myself, whirled through, in the atmosphere of, God—something dances in me, delighted; something partakes of me, a constant communion. When I go quietly up to the rail, and with the best of good manners take wine and bread—our outward and visible signs and wonders—the inward and spiritual Grace in me showers up like a fountain of light. |
