There is no other poem more lovely for the first Sunday of Advent than this one so I am resharing it. May you know his coming to you personally during this season.
A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark
I have shared Jan Richardson’s poems before. She’s perhaps on my mind because every Advent I pull out her book, Circle of Grace, to accompany me on my Advent journey. Here’s another of her poems that I love.
Go slow
If you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.
Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.
I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.
But this is what
I can ask for you:
That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.
Look for the light
I was so struck by this by Sally Clarkson from her new book, Well Lived. I have sensed the Lord wanting me to dwell with the word “watchfulness” during Advent this year. And this piece of writing spoke into that, especially since moving to a new house that is full of light (as compared to my past bedroom that looked out on a brick wall).
“Each year I determine several themes I will choose for the focus of my heart’s eyes. This year I chose to look for light, to observe it, to note its beauty. When in my Colorado home I would notice the sunrise shimmering int he aspen trees near my front window. In Oxford, I walk a short pathway next to my canal most nights to see the sunset playing through the woods and shining on the water. And I remind myself, Jesus is the light. He dances in all my places; He wants to bring the light of His truth to my heart to give hope to my weary days. Light reflects the essence of Christ to me, so I notice light to remind me He is everywhere.
“Because of my determination to look for light, I have noticed it casting shadows upon trees and the leaves seeming to lean forward to catch a glimmer of sunlight. I pay attention to sunrises and sunsets. I look for light because He is light, and it causes me to worship Him for bringing me out of darkness. Honestly, because I made this commitment, light has captured my attention many times a day; each instance whispers to my heart, ‘He is here; you are not alone.'”
Orthodoxy
Last week I listened to a marvelous interview with Scott Cairns whose poetry (and autobiography) I love. I have thought back on it several times since then. I was especially caught by this poem of his and share it as a gift to you this Sunday.
Orthodoxy
by Scott Cairns in the June 2024 issue
—after Kapouzos [ΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΑΠΟΥΖΟΣ]
Yes, sweet, and very sweet the darkness
of the nave, and also very sweet
the observant surround, these icons
of our ancient fathers and our mothers,
whose images have acquired a warm
chiaroscuro from centuries
of fragrant smoke—incense, beeswax wafting
for centuries attended by seamless
petition and praise. Such prayers as these
yet fill the air with yet another
palpable sweetness.
So often, the world
appears wretched, choked by a broken,
angry and willfully cruel people.
So often, the world proves wretched indeed,
and its darkness is bitter. How then
to mitigate the assault waiting
just beyond the narthex? How to carry
at least some distance into the world
this fragrance, this sweetness, these images?
This poem appears in the June 2024 issue.
The Final Shore
I’m going to begin a playlist for myself called “Songs I want played while I’m dying.” These two will be on it.
Now and Not Yet
This is our current status, living a life of now and not yet. We taste of the things to come but do not yet know them fully.
“Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. All who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.” (1 John 3)
Small places of light and blackberries
Instead of a Sunday poem, I offer you this piece of writing by Sarah Clarkson whose prose reads like poetry.
Vicarage Notes: Chiaroscuro Music, Blackberries, and Holding Fast
What are the ways of light and how may we chase them?
The cross we bear from others
Sally Read, a poet herself, shared this poem by Sarah Law about Thérèse in her dying, her complete abandonment to God, even to the love of her sisters who were, in fact, inhibiting her dying–and that becomes part of the cross that she embraces.
The Cross
Because she couldn’t breathe–
was wracked with breath’s lack,
too weak to raise herself,
Marie and Céline have lifted her
half-up from the bed, her
hurting arms spread and held
about their robed shoulders.
Tipped forward, she hangs
on the cross of herself,
as the night light flickers;
the last speck of sand has run
from the hourglass’s lung.
She is heavy as a world,
a dying sun. But Céline–
unready still–flings out her hand
to force the air to move again;
force the sickroom’s minutes back
into their fragile cycle,
and so they ease her down,
and she offers up their love.
I feel so blessed to have discovered this poet who has an entire book (!) of poems dedicated to Thérèse.
Cause of Our Joy
Cause of Our Joy
by Anne Porter
Rock crystal
Clearer than crystal
Stronger than rock
Snow crown of Sinai
Melting on the heights
Pouring through the valleys
In pure rushing water
And wine that sings of justice.
* * *
Chose from the chosen
Mystical rose
Your creature petals
Mirror that beauty
No one can see and live
You hide in your heart
Like dew simple and silent
That blazing majesty.
Small as you are, your fragrance
Fills all the world,
Fragrance of hope,
Fragrance of the gospels.
Come to the old woman
Whose lodging is the street
Come to the drugged boy
The landlord, the general
Come to the haunted hunter by his jungle river
Come to the banker, the prisoner, the torturer
The hungry, the shut-in, the runaway in danger
Come to the backward child.
Whether or not we know you
Come to the rich and poor
Come to us all.
* * *
Star of morning
There is still such darkness
Only by the light
Of your innocent fire
We know this is the morning.
But sweet in this dark morning
Is a freshness of new bread
And the newborn Word in his cradle
Is just beginning to stir.
Queen of Angels
You’re up early
Washing, baking, sweeping,
Young country girl
From a scorned province
Broken for the broken
Wife of a carpenter
Mother of a convict
Cause of our joy.
from An Altogether Different Language: Poems 1934-1994
God’s courtesies of love
Reposting a favorite this Sunday. May your day be blessed with the singing of many birds.
Witnesses to Hope 