With Our Heads Bowed

We enter the season of Christmas, that jubilant holiday of expectation and promise. Some might even call it a season of triumph with the glorious news that God has entered into humankind with the flesh of an infant.
The magi seem to fit right in with the incessant advertisements on television, radio, and the Internet, provoking us to purchase more things. I sure it is also the patriotic thing to do.
You might expect this meditation to reflect the images of freshly cut Douglas firs, lights, and garlands. But I wonder if the Kansas sunflower is not a more appropriate image to the news that God is with us. You see, as a sunflower's head fills with seed it gets heavier. The seeds swell with the fullness of their being and the weight is so great that the sunflower bows its head to the earth. Its seeming humility is a result of its swollen fruit.
I think that is how we approach the nativity creche. There is nothing new to report from Bethlehem this year. In fact, it is old news, at least 2,000 years old. Hopefully by now our hearts and heads are filled with the good news of God that every person is welcome to the table of life. Every person is made in the image of God and thus have some capacity to do justice, be merciful to others, and walk humbly with their God. Our hearts should be so filled with the love of God that we can only bow our heads.
When we approach the nativity cradle we should find it empty because the Prince of Peace should be in our hearts. We lower our heads in profound respect to the one who taught us to be men and women of extraordinary compassion.
Merry Christmas to you all.

Facing the Storm

Do you know that American Bison and cattle have different responses to storms? Cattle will turn their backs to the storm and then travel with it. Bison will face the storm and walk against it. The result is that cattle will be in a storm for a longer period of time and suffer greater casualties. Bison walk through the storm and come out of the other side in shorter time with fewer injuries and deaths.
The same is true in water-craft safety. One of the first things that a sailor or boater learns is to turn the bow of the boat into the storm.
Many years ago, me cousin, David, and I were in a small rowboat on a lake a Canada. I was in the stern steering our little 15 horsepower motor. David was in the bow. The lake had a system of locks that would take you from one level of the lake to another. As we approached one of these locks a speedboat roared out onto the lake. It had two 100 horsepower motors, passing us on our port side about 30 feet away. I had just enough time to turn our little boat into the huge waves the speedboat had churned up. Before I knew it David was sitting next to me. Had I failed to turn the bow into the waves we would have been swamped.
I have learned that this is the only way we can live our lives and survive. We have to face the storms and turbulent waters. We have to enter what at first appears to be a threat to us. Perhaps we are facing difficulties in our marriage, or a potentially deadly disease, or an issue with one of our children. If we turn away from it we will be carried away with it and bring greater harm to ourselves and our loved ones. It is like a wound that if left uncleaned and sterilized could fester and cause deep infection or even gangrene.
The sooner we turn into the turbulence the sooner we can get out of it with less damage than we thought we could avoid. So, if you see clouds on the horizon of your life, get ready. If need be, find someone who will help you turn into the gale and get out of the other side as safely as possible.
Like the psalmist declared, "Even though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evils for you are with me."

Silence

For some time now I have noticed that words cannot fully relieve me of the reality that I am fundamentally alone. This is a difficult confession for a word smith who too often dawdles in the illusion that everything can be named or explained. My career as a preacher and writer is one tall paper tower that reaches up into the heavens. And yet, all that seems to echo down from that pulp is babble.
Words cannot save us. For example, have you ever had the experience of trying to explain to someone a failed marriage? You can talk with them for hours in sublime confidence. They will ask many questions, turning every galling stone, challenging your glosses, and affirming your intentions. But when it is all said and done they still do not understand. You can never fully reveal the pain of betrayal and the sheering agony of defeated dreams. You are still alone.
People frequently ask how long it takes to write a sermon. The tired response is ten to fifteen hours. But the real answer is a lifetime. And I still do not understand the writing of it. I used to believe that it was a matter of reading, researching, outlining, illustrating, and writing with the appropriate rules of grammar. All of those are necessary but they do not account for the hours of fulminating and pacing. Some call it the creative process. Is that what wakes me up at night and insists I take dictation till three in the morning? Is this the sermonic muse that throws open the shower curtain, pushes my wife out of bed, calls the ball game in the fourth inning, and stops my car on the Interstate? I have no words for this experience. I simply obey its commands, having learned long ago that I have less tolerance for its insistent whining for expression, even if the words never experience print.
There are many experiences that words cannot articulate. The more I try to explain some things to people the more we both wander from the truth. History becomes fiction, no matter how factually I am able to recount events. People hear what they want to and my voice has its own filters. I have also noticed that the questions some people bring the story can never answer. The news, the stories, the lore, the poems, the songs, and the metaphors often hide the shadows of distortion.
Some things are best left unsaid when silence is closer to the truth and solitude is the best audience.
I am reminded of Abbot Agatho who kept a stone in his mouth for three years to discipline himself to silence.

The Voice of God

In the Morning Prayer these words are offered: "We will know Your power and presence this day, if we will but listen for Your Voice."
For most of us that assumes a spoken word. We rather imagine that God will speak to us in American Standard English, offering direction, counsel, rebuke, advice, and hope. Or we expect that when the Bible is read, a prayer rendered, a hymn sung, and a sermon offered we would hear the voice of God. That is all well and good and God speaks to us in such a fashion.
But I do not think the voice of the Sacred is limited to the common vernacular. I do not know why we are constantly trying to put restraints on the Holy. Dare I say it, a muzzle? I experience the voice of the Divine in many fluid and various ways.
Just the other day I was feeding the animals in the morning. I could not hear a human sound or voice. There was not a whisper of automobiles, trains, trucks, tractors, or airplanes. All I could hear was the sound of the wind blowing through the cottonwood and mulberry trees. Horses were chomping in their feed. Rosie the duck was splashing in her wading pool. I dare say, such is the voice of God.
Of course, I hear the Sacred in the choral music of our church; in the organ peeling the wedding march, and in the passionate songs of love and protest. The metered words of poets touch a hallowed tone. I think especially of Mary Oliver and R.S. Thomas. I take great comfort in the giggling of little children, a mother's cooing over her baby, and the gentle talk of older women sewing blankets for impoverished children in Nicaragua.
The problem is not that the voice of God is sparing or muted. The problem is that we do not listen for it. We are paying too much attention to the arguments in our own head, the drone of political commentary, and the nonsense that race across airwaves and cable cords.
If we would but listen!
Today I am thinking of St. Frideswide, abbess of a medieval priory in Oxford, England. The staff she carries indicates the shepherding role of her nuns, with an ox at her feet. She is the patron saint of Oxford University.

The Aroma of God

Today I mowed the lawn. I have always loved the smell of freshly cut grass, and have never met anyone who did not, despite allergies. The other night on my way home from Wichita I drove with the windows down. I made a mental inventory of the smells that delighted me.
The first was the odor of oil being pumped out of the ground just north of Park City. Northbound on K15 I smelled the freshly plowed earth with its deep hardy redolence; newly cut hay and alfalfa; and skunk, of course. When I buy feed for the horses, goats, and chickens I do not always get it into the barn the same afternoon. After a day or so the whole car is saturated with the sweet smell of feed. Around "Soggy Bottom" there are lots of other smells from all the animals, their barns, and manure. An old friend of mine, Ray Haynes" always said his dairy barn smelled like money to him.
I also love the smell of ink in a new book; the blend of coffee, bacon, and homemade biscuits; fresh rain; new babies; and night blooming jasmine that bloomed outside my window when I was a boy.
Olfactory senses must have memory. There are times when I suddenly smell my grandfather's pipe, even though no one is smoking around me. I also smell the cane syrup my grandmother served with her pancakes on Saturday morning. Sometimes these are combined and I am flooded with wonderful memories and comfort.
I dare say, these are the aromas of God, like the scent of a woman. It is a scent that is unique to each and all of her parts - natural and artificial. Combined they offer the bouquet of Mother Earth, the very manifestation of the Sacred One. What is God like? Go outside and take a deep breath. I close with this bit of Celtic blessing from G.R.D. McLean's Celtic Spiritual Verse.
O God, bless my homestead,
Bless thou all in there.
O God, bless my kindred
Bless thou my life share.

Transformation

The first-planted milo is now a burnt umber. Soy plants are turning yellow. Feed corn stand in faded brown. Sumac, maples, and locust trees offer a pale golden hint of red and orange. The Jerusalem Artichokes are a riot of bright sun blossoms against the blue Kansas sky. The ones pictured here grow close to our house. The sunflower plants are in full head facing the east, waiting for the resurrection. I saw the first wooly worm when I was mowing yesterday. My friend, Karen, says that she is seeing the first signs of winter coat on her horses.
Something is changing this mid-September. The Farmer's Almanac says that it will be a long and cold winter with lots of snow.
What the Buddhists teach me is the impermanence of life. Life is always changing. So much suffering is self-inflicted as we grab hold of some one, some idea, some thing, and hold on to it for dear life. Of course we do not understand that we strangle the dear life out of her in the process of holding on.
My Christian tradition teaches me that our lives are sacred journeys and every day is a gift to discern how we are traveling and to what destiny does God intend us? We are always on the move. We often get blown off course, of course. We sometimes go the wrong direction. And there are all kinds of things to worry about like storms, shoals, and an unruly crew. The worst mistake that we can make is to stay anchored in harbor, as if harbors never change.
I have certainly made many mistakes on my journey. There were missed career opportunities, moral lapses, and just plumb dumb decisions. It is not a good thing when the crew mutinies and you are the crew! But despite all of that, the Spirit of God still fills my sails and moves me in the right direction. I am learning to sail deeper currents, when to change course, and when to tack. And yes, there is a time to drop anchor and rest and resupply - for the next voyage.
Change has brought heartache and wonderful gifts. In the course of my life's changes I have met and married Mimi, we have a beautiful daughter, an expanding family, and so many gifts I cannot list them all here.
From the book of Judith we read, "A new song we will sing to You."

The Transparent Soul

As a child growing up in Florida, I would often lie down on the grass under the bright sun. After a time it seemed to me that the light and warmth of the sun flowed right through me into the soil. I could not tell a difference between the sun, my body, and the earth. It was very much like leaning my head on my mother's breast as she sang Judy Garland songs.
I had a similar experience snorkeling off of Spanish Wells, Bahamas. The surf that surrounds that island is relatively shallow. I was right on the surface of the water, peering down onto a large colony of sea urchins, like the one pictured here from the University of Massachusetts. Again, the sun was shining on my back. I could feel and see a change of light as a small rain cloud passed overhead. In the distance the pitter-patter of rain could be heard. It danced with cold feet on my back. The cloud moved on and the heat returned. In the meantime I watched the silent world below me as black tentacles swayed in the current.
There was no distinction between ocean, urchin, body, sun, cloud, and rain. Everything was one whole piece of life. My mind was the sieve that observed the harmony and beauty that flowed through it. I do not presume to call this enlightenment, but it was a profoundly religious experience that still inspires me.
Paul wrote to the Ephesians (4:6): "Everything you are and think and do is permeated with Oneness." (This rendering by Eugene H. Peterson, The Message.
Today the church celebrates Cuthburga, who founded the nunnery in Wimborne, England in 725 A.D. Cuthburga was said to be quite severe with self discipline but kind to her nuns, who were exceptionally well educated.

Space at the Table

Have you ever watched hummingbirds at a feeder? One shows up at a feeder with four perches. It slurps in the nectar with concentrated effort. A second hummingbird arrives to determine which of the three remaining stations it will drink from The first bird will chatter and charge the second bird. This can go on for a quite a long time. Despite the fact that there are plenty of perches for both birds - plus two more - the first bird will not give the second an opportunity to feed. In fact, they both could be eating rather that fighting.
My horses are the same way. Each receives a quart of horse feed in his or her pail at the same time. When my youngest horse, Dusty, is done with his food, he puts his nose in Red's feed pan. Then he will pull the bowl away from the mare, nibbling up the remaining grain.
Our goats butt and push each other at the food trough. These goats are so gluttonous that we have to give them overeaters shots.
All of our animals are well fed on a fairly consistent schedule. Not a day goes by that they are not offered food in the morning and the evening. If you could see them you would know that they are not wanting for food. Yet there is a constant competition for food.
Some animals will eat until they founder or suffer colic. As a nation we are facing an obesity crises that takes its toll on human beings with such diseases as diabetes and heart disease. I have been fighting the battle of the bulge for years.
What I do not understand is famine. We are told that there is enough food on the planet to feed every human being. Yet, we consistently fail to make space at the table for them. Do you think we are too much like humming birds?
Today the church remembers a Dominican recluse, Rose of Lima, who worried that we are confused about the real meaning of wealth.

Sheep from the Goats

A goat kid is perhaps one of the cutest newborns in the animal kingdom. Goats, even at a young age, display all the attributes of their parents. They are curious and will approach a stranger for no other reason than to be sociable or in the hope that food will be offered. Goats are inquisitive and intelligent. There are reports of trained goats. Like all herd animals they will stick together, more or less, and maintain an independent streak at the same time - kind of like my family. As they grow larger they become more assertive and feeding a large group of goats is not without its risks. Some nannies are aggressive with their young and will butt new born kids or deny them the teat, especially if it is a runt.
Sheep represent a different species of animal. They too are herders, but rely on the herd much more than goats. Herding is, of course, their main protection against predators. Unlike goats, sheep are more reticent to engage strangers, but will follow the voice of their shepherd. Some argue that goats are smarter than sheep but I think that depends on whether you are a goatherd or a shepherd. Sheep are more likely to run away from threats than goats are.
There are a lot of people who raise goats in Kansas, especially Boar goats, which are harvested for meat. In fact, 70% of the world's population eats goat meat. There are also goatherds that raise milk goats, such as Nubians. Their products include not only milk, but also cheese and butter. We have one of each. The kid pictured above is a a Boar. Our original plan was to raise a few Boar goats for meat. That project fell apart when Mimi and Emily named them - Katie and Hannah. They are now what you might call "pasture candy."
So, what is the issue in Matthew's gospel about separating the sheep from the goats? Both were important to the economy of Israel. Both were necessary for meat, goats for milk, and sheep for wool. Sheep dung was an important source of fuel. Young goats were favored as sacrificial animals. Perhaps that was the issue for the early church. The church wanted to distance itself from the old cult of blood sacrifice and the goat's reputation for being the image of sin and selfishness. The church now had its own "Lamb of God," and the pastoral image of a community that protected its own.
Today Mimi and I celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary.

Monarch or Milkweed?

A monarch butterfly traveled with me the other day. She flit from plant to plant seeking nourishment. The monarchs will soon be migrating south. I am truly amazed that these beautiful creatures ever arrive anywhere. The monarch seems to have no discernible flight pattern. It swoops, loops, glides, and floats. It does not seem to ride the thermal winds that could carry it long distances. Rather, they are buffeted by the wind; blown off course by passing vehicles; or even worse, splattered against radiator grills and windshields.
I hardly think these clumsy acrobatics speak well for the monarch butterfly. Any flying creature worthy of the title monarch should be in greater control of his or her destiny. A monarch should command the skies with the dignity and grace that royalty demands. Even migration should be accomplished with sovereign aplomb.
Is this not also true of human beings? Doesn't the Bible say that we are "as gods?" And if not, are we not just "a little lower than the angels?" Third rung from the top of the great chain of being is not too shabby. I would certainly like to believe that my life is an example of the crown jewel of creation. As such, I am lord of my future, marking the path I tread with clarity of purpose and potent use of my skills and talents. With majesty I cut a swath through the winds of opposition to achieve the purpose I am destined to command for the good of humanity.
The truth is, of course, that I am not nearly as beautiful as the monarch butterfly, nor am I any more graceful. I also have to be reminded that the monarch is also known as the milkweed butterfly. No royal bloodlines there. No heirs to the throne, just a common variety of plants whose common distinction is a white milky juice. The milkweed is the favorite food of the monarch. What is it that butterflies see in these plants is beyond my comprehension, but maybe that is what accounts for their less than graceful flights to winter homes.
I wonder what it is that accounts for our awkward, stumbling trek through life. My efforts to achieve a simple goal are often thwarted by fatigue, constant interruptions, and lack of resources. I cannot even take a shower without someone needing something. Like the milkweed butterfly I am sometimes blown off course by the gentlest breezes of opposition. And there are times when I am pulverized by even the most transparent wall of antagonism.
Monarch or milkweed, the migration of life goes on. With surprising consistency the monarchs arrive in the tropics where they are fruitful and multiply. Yes, there are casualties along the way, but so it is with every species of life. There are many who are battered and wounded, some who arrive late, and others who never survive the trip. Their dignity as a species is found in their determination to continue the journey - generation after generation. Perhaps their royal sustenance is found in the common fare of milkweed plants.
Today the church celebrates Lawrence, A Martyr in Rome, 2009

Animal Tracks

After a good rain I pay special attention to the animal tracks that I find on my walk. Typically these include raccoon (like the one I photographed above), deer, and coyote. There are others that I am not sure about. What is certain is that after a windy day or after the next rain these tracks will be washed away. No one will be any wiser to the presence of these animals. The habitat is little disturbed.
That can hardly be said for human beings. Our landfills are packed with garbage that will not decompose for centuries or ever. The tracks we are leaving seem all too permanent and the environment is contracting in the throes of death.
The problem is complex and expensive to solve. We try to conserve as much as can our five acres. We recycle, think about the number of necessary automobile excursions, and rely on our air conditioner as little as possible in the summer. We are planning on new energy efficient windows. When we replace our roof we will use white shingles. I have the idea that a windmill would be a good - green and clean - source of electricity. Those three ideas together will cost us between $25,000 and $30,000. But if we do not do them we will pay in other ways such as higher electricity and propane bills. The ecosystem will be further depleted.
Eventually we will do these things in an effort to reduce our footprints on the earth. I think this is a walk that we all have to take together or there will be no place to walk at all.
On this day the church remembers Joseph of Arimethea, compassionate friend of Jesus, 2009

Dance of the Cottonwoods

The cottonwood is the state tree of Kansas. It must be a righteous tree, for as the Psalmist declared it is planted along the streams of water. It prospers and its leaves do not wither. (Ps. 1) Certainly cottonwoods love easy access to water and are found along the banks of ditches, streams, rivers, lakes and ponds. Their seed in a wispy white fluff that floats on the air. It sometimes looks like falling snow.
On my walk I pass several cottonwood trees. What I love about them is the way the leaves dance in the breeze. Leaves on other trees just seem to lean. The leaves on the cottonwood shiver and jitter in the wind. With the dance of the cottonwood leaves, sunlight frolics with sparkling reflection.
There are people like that. My ten-year-old daughter, Emily, is just such a person. When she was four-years-old she said to me, "Dad, I love my life." And Emily's life is a love of dance - ballet, tap, modern, Irish, and African. Seldom will you watch Emily dance and not see her smile. I remember the first year she danced in Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. There were several performances, not to mention countless rehearsals that her mom drove her to. After the last performance her mother said, "Are you glad that is over?" Emily looked at her as if dear old mom had absolutely lost her mind.
When Emily and her best friend, Katie, get together it is a forest of cottonwood trees glittering and flickering as if they were the true source of energy in the cosmos. They sing, dance, ride horses, swim, and watch television in a swirl of motion and endless giggling chatter. It takes my breath away.
Like the cottonwood trees on my country road these two little girls make me smile. I think cottonwood trees and such children as these are fairies that God sends to make me walk a little lighter, grin, and if no one is watching, dance a step or two myself.
The Feast of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, 2009

Blinded by the Light

When I strike out on my morning walk our country lane takes me eastward. The sun is coming up and I have difficulty seeing what is ahead of me. I am blinded by the light, so to speak. Even with the brim of my hat lowered over my eyes I cannot discern the horizon. As soon as I reach Eagle Road I turn around and head toward the house. The sun is now at my back. It is as if I am entering a new world. Everything is clear and the horizon is markedly distinct.
Light is a word that we use a lot in our culture. We would rather think that we are children of the "Enlightenment" than fellows of the "Dark Ages." Christians believe that they are children of the Light and that they are guided by the Light of Truth. Jesus teaches us that we do not light our lamps and then hide them under a bushel basket.
It matters where the light is in our lives. If we imagine that we can run madly in to the light we will be blinded. We might even be burned, regardless of whether the light is the sun or God.
I think we have to come out of the light, with the light behind us or on our shoulders, so to speak. When we come out of the light it clarifies what is before us. With the light behind us we know where we have traveled, what we have seen, and what we have learned. Sometimes that is the best light of all.
Celebrate today the light of Sojourner Truth, Civil Rights prophet at activist, 2009

The Evidence of Things Not Seen

Rain fell last night, rinsing clean the canvas of nature. On my walk this morning I found a fresh hawk feather. Deer prints crossed the road in two different places. Animal scat, I think from a coyote, provided work for dung beetles. The bob-bob-white call of the quail was carried on the breeze. I did not see the hawk, the deer, the coyote, or the quail. All I saw was the evidence of their being and I am convinced they were present during the early morning hours.
Love is like that. All that I know of love is the evidence that it tracks across my heart. I have never seen love, though I have seen the faces of lovers and loved ones. I can offer the evidence but not the thing itself.
God is like that. All that I know of God is the evidence that God tracks across my soul. And like love, I have never seen God, though I have seen God in the faces of lovers and loved ones. I held both God and love in my arms as my grandfather took his last breath. The evidence of God is gathered in the acts of compassion and justice that I have seen in the work of Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, and many more. Rain and hawk feathers are what I know of God. The defenders of human dignity are what I know of God.
In the letter to the Hebrews (11:1) the author wrote, "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." So every morning I start an undimmed trek across the face of life. I carry a hiking stick, binoculars, magnifying glass, and a pocketful of bags marked "evidence."
The Feast of Silas, traveling companion of Paul, 2009

The wheat fields have been harvested. Ground feeders are gleaning the remnants. Thus I saw a male Ring-necked Pheasant foraging in the north field. A few hundred feet further down the road a flock of young Pheasants rose up from the prairie in flight, the hen squawking warning to them and threat to me. Yet further down the road a mother Quail took flight westward. Seconds later her covey of young took flight eastward. She was clearly trying to lead me away from her young. On my way back to the house two Plovers circled overhead, howling at my dangerous presence to their young. Plovers build their nests on the ground. If you approach the nest the adults will flop around on the ground making all kinds of noise as if they are injured. They are hoping that the menacing intruder will attack them and neglect the nest of young. It reminds me of a time when I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. A Grouse hen with a brood of young was actually scurrying ahead of me on the trail. The mother, apparently thinking that I was too close, turned around and raised her wings in attack formation. She let loose a horrible yet and charged me.
It is amazing what animals will do to protect their young and save them from danger. I remember a young woman who lived close to my church in Florida. She was very poor. It was the dead of winter and very cold. She had an electric heater and her neighbors allowed her to run an extension cord from their house to her's to power the heater. She placed the heater next to her baby's crib. During the night a blanket fell from the crib onto the heater. The mother smelled the smoke, heard the cry of her child, and rushed into the baby's room. The entire crib was engulfed in flame. The mother reached in with both arms and snatched up the burning pyre that was her child. Sadly, the baby died. The mother was severely burned from her fingertips to her shoulders.
The Psalmist pleads, "hide me in the shadow of your wings." (Psalm 17: 8b) The way of Pheasants, Quail, Plover, Grouse, and Mothers had taught the poet something of the nature of love and care for the future. We may hope for such protection from God. May we hope for such safekeeping from one another? My, what a different world that might be.

The Feast of Thomas More, 2009

This is the time of year when young things are introduced to the world. Recently dropped calves and foals are testing their wobbly legs. Mimi saw a fawn on the side of the road, seemingly too weak to walk. By the time she stopped the car and walked back to where she had seen the fawn, it had disappeared into the wheat field. While the winter wheat is being harvested, soy and milo are rising up out of the earth. In case you don't know, milo is a kind of sorghum grain that is used for feed.

The other morning on my walk I saw several young Garter snakes sunning themselves in the road. The problem with that practice is that some are easy prey for birds and some bear the distinct imprint of Michelin. James Hillman reminds us that from the moment we are conceived we are old enough to die.

In my garden the spinach has gone to seed already. We have eaten this year's strawberries. We have had to replant the squash, cucumber, and melons due to hail and some kind of unpleasant insect. The hens are laying more eggs than we can eat, sell, or give away.

This is the world that I live in. It is fertile, yet decaying, young and decrepit, hopeful and dying. My faith is like that. The issues that I deal with in my personal life and in my ministry are like that. That is also my spiritual journey. It is no one else's. More importantly such a journey is one of life, growth, and change. It is neither sterile nor stagnant.

I enjoy walking in the morning or in the evening. The songbirds are alive on both journeys. These include the Meadowlark, Mocking bird, Dickcissel, Cardinals, Goldfinch, Tufted Titmouse, a variety of sparrows and many more. Occasionally a Pheasant hen cackles in the field across the street from my house. Each has its own song to sing. Each one of us has a unique soul with its own song. Spirituality is an individual thing. You just have to know your own tune. Practice it from time to time and listen to those other birds singing. As you mature you will learn the harmony, even though there are all kinds of birds and songs.

The Feast of Columba, Patron of Scotland 2009

Gary Blaine