That thing with feathers

All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:3-5)

Hope is that thing with feathers/that perches in the soul/and sings the tune without words, so begins Emily Dickenson’s poem that comes to mind as the water washes over me in the shower and the mind turns to what 2022 might bring. “I’ve heard it in the chilliest land,” Dickenson concludes, but it never “asked a crumb—of me.”

Hope certainly swoops and sweeps through our souls when we didn’t her coming. But to live in hope asks for at least a few crumbs. Hope just doesn’t spring eternal. It requires care and feeding.

The superficial optimism occasioned by the New Year (I hesitate calling it hope) soon dies in the doldrums of daily routine as we realize the world goes on much as before. The vagaries and frailties that dogged us in the past stubbornly cling to our flesh—leaving us to wonder if we will ever become the people we could be, want to be, and somehow know ourselves to be despite our persistent slips and falls from the self we feel within.

Hope lives in the willingness, decision and determination to see every goodness and beauty, every friendship, love and act of care, no matter how small, mundane or routine, as the presence and action of “the life that [is] the light of all people,” as the “light that shines in the darkness” no matter how bright or bleak our days may be.

Every time someone carries on in the face of difficulty or simply attends to the responsibilities life has given them just because they need to be done ... the light from which all things come shines. And those who have eyes to see can smile in recognition, while feeling “that thing with feathers that perches in the soul” taking flight and singing its winsome song to carry them forward with hopeful step.

An old spiritual practice suggests daily taking stock of the events and moods of the day, noting what stirred life, joy, energy and love for the world, ourselves and others—and conversely, what drained life and joy. The exercise begins with taking account of what moved gratitude during the day.

It’s an exercise in paying attention, seeing the presence of light and giving thanks for it. This is how we keep hope alive.

David L. Miller

 

 

 

 

Love us home

Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being (Hebrews 1:1-3a)

It was almost midnight. Dixie’s timers had switched off the lamps an hour before. We climbed the steps from the garage into the living room.

Darkness shrouded everything but the tree in the corner. It’s nothing ostentatious, just a tree with tiny, colored lights reflecting off an angel and a few ornaments we’ve long had, each with a story to tell.

Simple things are the most beautiful and most likely to penetrate the heart. This was no exception. The lights in the darkness told me I was home, not just here in this room but in a Love who speaks wherever Love wants to speak, like in darkened rooms when all you want is your bed and sleep.

Love speaks in a million ways. This great and mysterious Love has found ways to get my attention since I was a boy hating school and playing with my dog.

And now we see what Love has always been whispering to our hearts. For we have seen Jesus, the beauty of grace untold, who wants only to love us home.

David L. Miller

Christmas morning

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. (John 1:9)

Winter light slants through blinds in the loft, finding faces on the tapestry that hangs on the west wall. Joseph and two magi stand there. But the golden beam leaves them in shadow to illumine Mary, the infant Jesus, and a magi kneeling at the manger.

The light lingers on their faces, drawing my eyes and heart into this circle of light where my every longing falls silent as the air around me.

A photo across the way fills the dining room wall. Black and white, a country road, lined by bare trees, stretches into the distance, disappearing into a thin morning fog.

I don’t know where it leads or will end ... for me or anyone else. But sitting in the light of Christmas morning, none of that matters. All that matters is sitting here, enveloped in this circle of light, barely breathing, but knowing the Loving Light of Christ will find me ... and you ... on every road we shall ever walk, bearing us joyfully home at journey’s end.

David L. Miller