.peace of all peace be mine this night.

"At St. John's I discovered the true purpose of vespers, which is to let my body tell me, at the end of a workday, just how tired I am...

[I'd sometimes] recall the maternal mercy of Abba Poemen,

who when he was asked about the problem of monks falling asleep during communal prayers, had said,

'For my part, when I see a brother who is dozing, I put his head on my knees and let him rest.'

Sitting in the choir, in the wooden seats that hadn't seemed so hard at morning prayer, or at noon or at Mass,

I would realize that I'd been running for hours on nervous energy.

Grateful for the quiet flow of vespers that had nudged me into acknowledging my weary state,

I'd become more willing to do what my body asked of me:

let the day suffice,

with all its joys and failings,

its little triumphs and defeats.

I'd happily, if sleepily, welcome evening as a time of rest, and let it slip away, losing nothing."

-Kathleen Norris,

The Cloister Walk

.what i learn.

(Repost from February 2011. Because it's all still true.)

Throughout college, almost every single prayer I heard Matt pray out loud started with, "God, we thank You that You are all good". He had never noticed this until I pointed it out. I know the exact inflection of how he would voice this phrase, and it was always filled with joy. I heard him pray this through times of deepest pain. Often still, when I don't know how to start praying, from habit if nothing else my voice or pen will start, "God, I thank You that You are all good...".


Mayr and I prayed together on the phone a few nights ago, for a long time. She called Him Father, easily, over and over, through our time together. I hadn't realized how little I do that lately.

She painted Psalm 139 for me before I left for Bolivia. The words slant across the page, her pen and ink flying around the borders. A prayer through her friendship and her art. I find myself praying every time I look at it, instantly, in its words and images and love.


Steve's theory is that an ideal ratio for friendship is two hours praying for someone for each hour you spend with them. He has taught me to pray deeper for other people more than almost anyone ever.

Often when this wise friend prays for me, even if I am with him, he prays silently. He prays for a long time, and when he's done, he will cock his head to one side and smile at me. I am used to people praying out loud when praying together, and this unnerved me; I asked him once, what did you pray? He grinned. Shook his head. "That's for me and Jesus." Months later I told him aching things God was teaching me, wounds that were being re-opened and healed deeper than they had been, love that was growing and pain I was getting more willing to embrace. He grinned wider. "That's what I prayed for."

I now value silent prayers over others more than spoken ones sometimes. The One who needs to hear them still does.


It takes a lot for me to let someone take care of me. I am never scared to call Mary Wolf and ask her to pray. I never feel stupid even if the prayer request seems small and if it reveals my neediness, my insecurities, my sin. She has never judged and she has never been too busy to pray. I sat at a table at Starbucks, alone, a week after my mother was diagnosed with cancer, feeling panic rise to where I wasn't sure how I would stay in my body. I called her at work. "I'm scared. Can you pray for me?" She did, on the phone, immediately, with no other explanation needed. "Thanks. I love you." We got off the phone. It lasted three minutes. I remember exactly where I was sitting, the feel of fighting the pressure in my chest, my hands digging into the phone. I remember biting my lip. I remember that after we hung up, I took a breath and went to class.


For the last year, almost every morning the first thing I hear is my phone buzzing to alert me to a text message. "Hi, Matty," I think. I get this text almost every day: "I just prayed for you. Let God ____"- a wish, a Scripture verse, something I'd asked him to pray for. At first this was sweet. Then this scary year, it was a lifeline. Now I find myself willing to share prayer requests I would never have thought to even ask for prayer for before, because I know someone is committed to praying for them.


"How can we spiritually support you?", Christine and Heath asked. We had prayed together easily and often throughout our years of dorm life, apartment life. I got back from HNGR and I did not know how to pray, and I did not know how to pray with them. So that semester, twice a week, we would find our way to a couch in the reading room. We would lean our heads on each other's shoulders and compliment each other's outfits, we would laugh and talk about our weeks. Then we would open the Bible- to anything- and read it out loud. Sometimes for half an hour, sometimes for five minutes. We heard His word, which is living and active, and it fell on us together. This time was our prayer offered up; we held each other and He held us.


I hear the Mosoj Yan's staffs voices when I think some realities and the theology I want cannot be held in the same cup. "Sí, Señor... sí, Señor". Their heads in their hands, their faces furrowed, their work amazing. Their faith strong.

.beauty and joy in the bleak midwinter.

our town's 100+ year old library.

beautiful yarn for a new project.

crocuses in the kitchen.

quiet.

friends.

new favorite books + new favorite music.

dance parties over skype.

valentines.

toddlers crawling between legs and falling asleep on shoulders.

looking through my phone to find out that letting a kindergartner use the camera that morning

had produced a fabulous amazing series of self-portraits and my new favorite photo of his sister and me

(he put them all in b&w himself!).

teenagers whose nail polish match their bible covers.

ceramic glaze.

the copper bowls and teakettle i got for christmas glow so beautifully in afternoon light they make my whole kitchen feel warmer.

a quick trip to the thrift store revealed vintage dresses clearly sewed by hand and with such care attention to detail that it actually made me choke up...

the surprising loveliness, and wondering the stories behind them.

the skies, trees and fields of this place feed my soul. daily.

 

being reminded of truth at my kitchen sink, on a chalkboard, and by my community.

Snow Days in Newberg.

Unexpectedly, our little town was covered. For days and days.

It was not the most snow I've gotten,

but snow in a little town

buried in the hills and vineyards of western Oregon-

a town small enough to not own a snow plow-

is a unique experience.

On the third day after it began in earnest...

the whole world was still white.

That does not happen in Chicago.

Nothing had been plowed. No one could drive. There was no gray slush all over the roads.

When it snows in Oregon, the snow stays.

And in a small town that's slow-paced anyway...

when it snows like this,

one and all go unapologetically into hibernation-mode.

Everyone camped out at their homes and with their neighbors.

On the third day the coffee shop opened, and some people walked there.

I made it to the post office, packages carefully tucked in garbage bags-

 when I got there the woman behind the desk laughed at all the snow piled on my shoulders and hat.

I heart my quirky town. This was from about an hour after it started, when no one was sure if it would stick or not...

Thursday night Jeffrey and Sheri unexpectedly showed up at my door on skis.

I texted families on my street and Friday morning, when kids had no school and grown-ups had no work, we had a spontaneous neighbor potluck brunch (with eggs from this chicken!).

My girls spent two days making a massive snow village,

complete with various roads, rooms, an igloo, and a restaurant (serving snowballs topped in maple syrup).

 

We had a serious and intergenerational snowball fight.

I moved my sewing machine so that I could look at the snow out the window as I worked.

I participated in the building of two snowmen,

and had one drawn on my window in [window] crayon.

I walked the mile-ish to Kim and Jeff's the first night, thinking I'd easily head home after dinner;

a plan that was quickly thwarted by the three-times-as-long-as-expected it took me to get there.

So I got to have a spontaneous sleepover with my buddies-

(following Mom's instructions not to talk when they came downstairs in the morning so as not to wake me up, they whispered to me as they climbed under the covers that they were being very quiet).

(7:10 am. They're so worth it.)

Friends with 4-wheel drive who eventually made it out texted around for grocery orders, and delivered.

(And found this at the store-

because apparently Oregonians stock up on fresh produce when they hear a storm's a-brewin'.)

A hitched ride with one of those 4-wheel-drivers eventually got me to the Fawvers Saturday evening,

where I joined them in eating cinnamon rolls, reading on the couch, watching the Olympics, and playing Ticket to Ride.

The next day Nicole and Nancy joined me for the three-mile hike back to town.

We waved hello to their car as we passed it on the way,

where they'd left it at the beginning of the snow storm when it became clear that maneuvering it through the hills to their home was not in the cards.

With no school, no work, no church,

a once-in-five-years world surrounding us,

and everyone making use of what food and fun they had readily available...

we read and watched movies and baked,

bundled and walked and skiied and sled,

stopped by each other's houses to knit and eat soup and find entertainment on day four of no roads,

spent time with people we might not normally see (or do, but can't get enough of!)

and enjoyed a kind of beauty our corner of the world doesn't have every day.

It was my kind of week.