The words of Psalm 63, my reading this morning, reverberate through my mind. “O God, thou art my God, I seek thee, my soul thirsts for thee; my flesh faints for thee, as in a dry and weary land where no water is. So I have looked upon thee in the sanctuary, beholding thy power, and glory. Because thy steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise thee. So I will bless thee as long as I live; I will lift up my hands and call on thy name.”

In the sanctuary of this garden the desert landscape of my heart enters an oasis of green, flowing with streams of living water. As I drink from the cup held out to me, praise wells over. With the praise, yesterday’s testimony, given by a woman at the Oxford Vineyard, floods my heart, mind, and soul.

Jessica, a high school student, has suffered with cancer for ten years. Because of the nature of the illness and the rigors of treatment, she has missed much school and many of the pleasures of adolescence that we take for granted. Jessica wanted so badly to go to the prom, but had resigned herself to missing yet one more rite of passage. Her friends, however, had another idea. They surprised Jessica by buying her a ticket, along with the perfect dress, shoes, make up, hair-styling (it would have to be a wig-styling, but Jessica was okay with that), and a car—a Hummer no less—for the big night. As if that wasn’t enough to knock a girl’s socks off, when the prom court was announced at school, Jessica’s name was on the list.

The night of the prom, Jessica and her band of sisters climbed into the Hummer for a night never to be forgotten. Too weak to dance, Jessica soaked in the music, the whirl of color and motion on the dance floor, and conversation with friends. When the King and Queen (senior class) and Prince and Princess (junior class) were announced, Jessica couldn’t believe her ears when she was named Princess of the Prom.

Jessica wasn’t sure how the Prince would feel about dancing the traditional dance between Prince and Princess with a girl with cancer. But God had orchestrated things so that the Prince was a young man she’d known since elementary school—someone she felt totally comfortable with. What could have been an awkward moment turned into a moment of great beauty as this Prince took Jessica’s hand, guided her onto the dance floor, put his arms around her, and whispered in her ear. “Have courage. Be strong. God is with you.”

The stuff of fairy tales, right? And yet, this is what we’re promised when we walk the road of faith and hope in Jesus. Jesus meets us right where we are—in the muddy, messy, cancer-riddled parts of our lives. The Prince of Peace meets us in the desert, guides us to an oasis, takes us into His arms, holds us tightly and whispers in our ears.

“Have courage. Be strong. God is with you.”

Jessica’s story is a universal story. A story meant for each and every one of us. For me. For you. For those who live with disability. For those facing death. For those who find themselves tripping along a boulder-strewn path. For those who wander in the desert of suffering.

“Have courage. Be strong. God is with you.”

As I sip my tea, a female goldfinch lands, with a great flutter of wings, on a branch just a few feet from my chair. Her mate, flashier by far, joins her. She pecks away at the alpaca nesting ball, hung by the birdfeeder for easily accessible nesting material. Beak full, she makes her undulating flight to the buckeye tree across the garden. Her handsome mate follows. Somewhere, in one of these trees, a nest and the future awaits.

“Have courage. Be strong. God is with you.”

(Thanks to Becky Maglich for the metaphor of Jesus as our Prince)

It is chilly this morning, so I’m wrapped in a cocoon of fleece: fleece robe, fleece jacket, and two fleece blankets. Sipping a cup of hot tea, my body radiates heat, except for that spot where the breeze creeps under the blankets and tickles my bare legs.

My husband Wally, oldest son, Matt, and I drove down from Ohio earlier in the week. Wally and Matt backpacked a piece of the Appalachian trail the first two days we were here, while I hung out at the cabin. When they returned yesterday, they overflowed with tales of spring beauty on the mountain. Wally and I went on a wildflower hike not long after they returned, to drink in the spectacular sight of the forest floor covered with a blanket of white, purple and yellow violets, red trillium, wild iris, and blooming mayapples. Most beautiful of all was the pink lady’s slipper, nodding her head under spear-like leaves of green.

Normally, this would be a piece of heaven for me, and I would be soaking it all in, writing poetry, holding hands with my husband as we walk the trails, snuggling in front of a fire in the evening, chatting with Matt about the flora and fauna of the Roan, looking forward to my book when I crawl into bed. Actually, my plan for these four days was to finish the young adult novel I’ve been working on for the past two years.

Instead, I have been stuck on a treadmill of worry. Since our son Joel’s move to Safe Haven Farms, he has begun cycling again. We dealt with this all through his adolescence, but it had finally subsided in his early twenties. In the midst of the cycle, which comes around every 3-4 weeks, he can’t stop moving. Walking 8-10 hours a day on the farm where he lives, his inner anxiety propels him forward, even past the dropping point. He lashes out at anyone around him with his hands, and, for the first time in his 27 years, has begun lashing out at physical objects.

My heart is breaking. How can I help my son? What should we do? I pray. I make lists. I make doctor appointments. I wait, sometimes for months, to get in to see certain doctors. I wrestle with other doctors who make me feel as if I know nothing, even though I have valuable information regarding my son that they don’t have. I pray some more. I worry. I obsess. I toss and turn in the middle of the night. I am on the merry-go-round from hell.

Four words sum it up. I am a mess.

This morning, I open Macrina Wiederkehr’s book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God, to her meditation on 2 Corinthians 12:9: “…but he (the Lord) said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”” Macrina chooses the words, “my power is made perfect in weakness” for her meditation. I’m drawn to different words. Four words jump off the page and speak to me:

“My grace is sufficient.”

I take them into the quiet. After ten minutes, only one word remains.

“Sufficient.”

I open my thesaurus. God’s grace is enough. God’s grace is adequate, plenty, ample, satisfactory.

As I lay in bed last night between 2 and 4 a.m., I implored God to stop the merry-go-round in my brain so that I could sleep. What to do? What doctor to see? What advice to take? What meds are helping? What meds are making matters worse? What to do about the day program? What to do? What to do? What to do?

Finally, in exhaustion, I spoke four words to God. I repeated them over and over, a mantra to out-shout out the never-ending questions circling in my mind.

Can’t live like this. Can’t live like this. Can’t live like this.

This morning, on this porch in the rain overlooking a creek that never quits flowing, God spoke four words back to me.

My grace is sufficient. My grace is sufficient. My grace is sufficient.

I open my eyes and take in the beauty surrounding me. The crystal clear water flowing over ancient stone. Lush green rhododendron ready to burst into bloom. Moss growing on the trees. Birdsong.

I thank God for our son, Justin, who, while we were gone for the weekend, made the long drive out to Safe Haven Farms to pick up Joel and drive him all the way back into the city to go to the zoo. For the community of parents that make up Safe Haven Farms, for last night’s monthly dance and the joy Joel found in that. For our friends, Amy and Dirk, who are at this very moment picking Joel up to accompany them on a long-distance errand they had planned for today. For our son, Matt, who, for the first time, is enjoying Roan Mountain with us. For my husband, Wally, who discovered this piece of heaven with me nearly twenty years ago, and who returns with me on a regular basis.

I take a deep breath, and thank God for reminding me that even though the Enemy wants to rob me of joy, I can step off the merry-go-round by declaring these four simple and powerful words, a mantra to see me through the hard times:

God’s grace is sufficient. God’s grace is sufficient. God’s grace is sufficient. God’s grace is sufficient.

She stood, still as a statue, maybe twenty feet away, her tawny coat blending perfectly into the brown and gray backdrop of beech trees and bare brush. Surrounded by mist rising from the melting snow, she appeared otherworldly. Only her eyes, wide and watching, witnessed to her lifeblood and vitality. Her beauty took my breath away.

A gift, freely given during this chance encounter in the woods. I’d gone for a walk because I couldn’t get my mind around the concepts in an article I was working on, entitled “Embracing our Brokenness.” Suddenly, my jumbled thoughts fell into place. The suffering and pain that enters our lives is like the crashing and thrashing of that robin in the underbrush. It is the noise that stops us in our tracks. Pain, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, sends a loud message: Slow down! Pay attention! We’re forced to put everything else aside in our attempt to decipher the source of the noise; in our endeavor to make sense out of seemingly senseless suffering.

At first, our attention is focused on the brokenness. Where did it come from? Who is causing it? Why me? Why my loved one? How do I get rid of it? Gradually, when we stop struggling to find an answer, when we simply accept the fact that this broken place is now a part of our lives, we begin to sense a presence. Like the doe encountered on my walk, it is a presence of great calm, great beauty, great power and great mystery. Although we sense the presence, in order to see it we must turn our full attention; heart, soul, and mind; toward it. When we do so, we discover that it is Christ himself, waiting in the midst of our brokenness

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the forty days of Lent. Some of us will use this time to reflect on Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, and what they mean for us personally. But many of us, in our rush to get to Easter, will dash past Good Friday and the image of Christ dying on the cross. After all, we think, we are a resurrection people. We want beautiful crosses; empty crosses of gold, burnished copper, polished walnut. We shield our eyes and spirits from the gruesome details of death by crucifixion.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes, “Our God is a suffering God.” Jesus’ suffering on the cross is central to understanding the character of God. A God who never gives up on us; who loves us, broken, disobedient and sinful people that we are. A God who loves us enough to send his Son into the world as a living, breathing, human being; a man who, although fully divine, experiences all that it means to be human, including the capacity to suffer. A God whose power is displayed through weakness.

In the words of Paul , “…We preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God” (1Cor. 1:23-24). It is through Christ’s suffering and death on the cross that we can be assured not only that we lived as a redeemed people, but that our God stands with us, cries with us, and suffers with us in the broken places of our lives.

Each Lenten season we are given a new opportunity to meet Christ at the cross. Find a regular time to sit in silence. Contemplate the suffering He took on for you. Share your broken places with Him. Cry out to Him. Cry with Him. Allow yourself to simply wait with open hands.

The Lord has a gift for you. He stands in the shadows. Do you see Him? His beauty will take your breath away. He is speaking through the pain. Will you take time to listen?

How I love spending time in the Word with Sister Macrina! Today, using her book Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God, I meditate on the conversion story of the apostle Paul, formerly known as Saul of Tarsus, as written in Acts 9.

Saul, a persecutor of Christians, is on the road between Jerusalem and Damascus. He’s met with the high priest of Jerusalem, and asked for letters of support to the synagogues in Damascus, so that he can more easily root out Christians in that city. His plan is to bind these rebels and haul them back to Jerusalem to be stoned or crucified. Passion is Saul’s middle name.

But on that road, in that in-between place—in between cities and in between who Saul is and the Paul he will become, the Lord shows up. He shows up as a blinding light and a disembodied voice, knocking Saul to the ground, crying, “Saul, why do you persecute me?”

“Who are you, Lord?” Saul asks.

“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting; but rise and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.”

Saul arises, stone blind. Someone has to lead him into the city of Damascus, “And for three days he was without sight, and neither ate nor drank.”

Paul’s story sounds strangely familiar. It fits in perfectly with a story I was reading last night before going to bed, Richard Rohr’s Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. Rohr writes that the first half of life is taken up with building an ego structure, finding our way in the world, making money, accumulating possessions and finding security. In the second half of life, we are invited to answer a call to leave home and all that’s familiar for an adventure; to find our True Self, the person God created us to be. This is the Hero’s Journey, found throughout all of the world’s great literature.

Rohr writes, “On this journey or adventure, they in fact find their real problem! They are almost always “wounded” in some way and encounter a major dilemma, and the whole story largely pivots around the resolution of the trials that result. There is always a wounding; and the great epiphany is that the wound becomes the secret key, even “sacred,” a wound that changes them dramatically, which, by the way, is the precise meaning of the wounds of Jesus!”

As I sit in the quiet today, I am overcome with the interweaving of these two stories—the story of Paul’s conversion, and the Hero’s Journey of which Rohr writes—with my story!

I am on a road between the sleeping beauty I once was, and the wide-awake woman I’m becoming, kissed awake in my 30’s by the breath of God. I travel a road between the childless young woman I once was, and the woman I’m getting used to being—the mother of three grown sons. I walk the road between being a daughter and contemplating motherlessness as my mother loses her memory. I journey a road that stretches between full-time caregiving for my son with autism, and learning to let him walk the road of his own life. I am on the road between fear and trust; between self-loathing and self-acceptance; between the glass half-empty and the glass overflowing.

There are many wounds suffered in these in-between places, and yet, “…the great epiphany is that the wound becomes the secret key, even “sacred,” a wound that changes (us) dramatically.”

I think of the last two years, and how I literally traveled the road between Cincinnati and Oxford on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. In between houses, in between friends, in between family, in between lives.

On the road to Damascus, Jesus issued a clear invitation to Saul. “Rise and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.”

I think of how God issued an invitation for us to move here—to Cloudland, to a new city, a new church, a new life, a new ministry.

Macrina writes that Paul “had been led to the deepening places. He was learning to trust in new ways. He was being fed from within. He had tasted the sorrow and joy of transformation. The voice he heard on the road to Damascus still echoed in his soul. He was being emptied of himself, and thus set free. His was a freedom he had never experienced. He had to taste that freedom in the darkness of trust rather than the light of sight.”

When I feel as if I’m walking in the dark, stone blind to all of the good that is happening around me, I will remember Paul’s story. I will remember that I am on a Hero’s journey. I will remember that in these in-between places, conversion is occurring.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been practicing Lectio Divina with my good friend Macrina Wiederkehr. Not in person, but with her new book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God.

It’s a beautiful book—a reflection of Macrina’s spirit. I wake up every morning anticipating this prayer time with someone I’ve met just once, but, because of her books, has come to feel like an old friend.

This morning’s chapter is entitled “Clothing Yourself with Virtues,” and the Scripture for Lectio is Colossians 3:1-17. Paul is urging the Colossian church to take off, or shed the earthly things—fornication, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness—and to put on instead compassion, kindness, lowliness, meekness, patience, and above all, love.

Macrina suggests we find a way to embody, or ritualize these words in our own lives. She shares an old monastic tradition called “dressing prayer,” where the sisters recited a prayer while dressing each morning; a reminder that they were putting on Christ each day. She goes on to suggest that we practice dressing in one virtue when we get up in the morning—to visualize ourselves putting on patience, gratitude, compassion, or love. “Invite it to breakfast,” she writes. “Keep company with it throughout the day.”

I slip into quiet, centering my spirit with the words “and above all these put on love.” What does love look like, I ask myself? If I were to clothe myself in love, what would I put on? A dress of flowers? A robe as blue as the morning sky? A batik shawl, steeped in the colors of the sunset?

Suddenly, my inner eye is illuminated as sunlight streams through the eastern window, and I know. In my mind’s eye, in the presence of this shimmering golden light, I watch myself getting out of bed, taking off my nightgown, and lifting my hands. Like David, I stand naked before my God.

“Dress me,” I whisper.

And while I worship and wait, the Bright Morning Star slips a gown of light over my head.

These words were spoken to me in a dream last year, by a wise woman I call “Macrina/Judi.” Macrina is Macrina Weiderkehr, an author whose books have accompanied me on my spiritual journey for the past ten years. And Judi is Judi Dench, the British actress. In this particular dream, I knew the person speaking to me was Macrina, but she had the face and voice of Judi Dench.

God does have a sense of humor!

This morning, I am practicing Lectio Divina, sacred reading of the Scriptures, with Macrina’s new book, Abide: Keeping Vigil with the Word of God. The scripture for today is Philippians 3:7-16. The verse that catches my attention just happens to be the same verse that Macrina chooses to highlight.

“Christ Jesus has made me his own” (v. 3b).

As I sit in the silence with this verse, a recent dream rises to mind.

I approach a wounded bird. It is a sandhill crane, with a huge wingspan. The bird is on the ground, and someone else (my husband?) is attempting to care for it. I want to tend to this beautiful, wounded bird, so I continue my approach, my hand held out in a gesture of peace. The terrified bird flails around, its great wings beating a tattoo on the ground. I am afraid she will be hurt in her frightened fury. I stop, and whisper, “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here to help. Stop struggling. I’m here.”

The crane eventually abandons her struggle, and I stroke her graceful, feathered neck.

As I sit with this dream, I wonder if I am the wounded bird or the person tending to her. As the mother of a son with autism, my wounds are deep. Many of these wounds have healed over the years as I’ve come to a place where I can, most days, accept my son just as he is. But some of these wounds have re-opened in the past 18 months, since we moved Joel from our home to Safe Haven Farms. Safe Haven is a farm for adults with autism, thankfully just 30 minutes from our home. I find myself unable to surrender Joel to God for safe-keeping. My mind spins with worries and fears and concerns for his safety, for his happiness, for his overall well-being. After all, who can care for my son as well as his father and I?

But am I also the person tending the bird? My son is wounded. This move has been difficult for him, and I am trying so hard to comfort him. To let him know he will be okay. That I am still here. I will always be his mother. I will never abandon him.

I get up from my meditation chair to google “crane,” to see what this dream symbol might mean. I find that birds themselves symbolize our aspirations, hopes and dreams. Cranes, in particular, symbolize happiness, maternal love, and gestures of good will. They are a symbol of looking out for those we love. Cranes can also symbolize a person’s strength, uniqueness, or individuality. They represent persistence through challenges. They may be telling us that we have too much of one of these qualities, or could benefit by being less this way.

I go back into the quiet, asking God to reveal what He is saying to me through this dream. This is what I hear with the ears of my heart:

“Yes, Kathy, you are the injured crane, flailing around with worry and anxiety about your son. You have been so strong all these years—always the caregiver—you have persisted through many challenges. But now is the time to stop struggling. Simply “be” in my presence. I am here. You’re okay. Joel is okay. Lean into my presence. Again I say, stop struggling. You will injure those beautiful wings. Those wings represent your aspirations, hopes, and dreams for the future. I have much in store for you, and for Joel. You were meant to fly. Remember when Macrina/Judi told you she could teach you to fly? I am the author of your dreams. I sent Macrina/Judi to you with that message.

“This is the way to learn how to fly: Spend more time in the Word and in my presence. Be with me, Kathy. I have made you my own. I created those mighty wings. It’s time to surrender.

Fly, Kathy. Fly!”

I still enjoy prettily wrapped presents under the tree. But these days my favorite part of Christmas is the Christmas Eve service at church, which, of course, has nothing to do with presents.

Or, so I thought.

I can count on two hands the times over the past 26 years that my son Joel, who has autism, has been celebrated within the Church for who he is. Don’t get me wrong—plenty of people have smiled at Joel on Sunday morning. Many have said hello, shook his hand, or offered a hug. A high school student spent a year as Joel’s best buddy in Sunday school. A husband and wife team spent two years of Sunday mornings teaching Joel the basics of our faith. He was asked, once, to be a part of the Nativity play at an Advent breakfast. But treated, on a regular basis, as a fully contributing member of the Body of Christ? Not really.

People often ask me to speak to ways that churches can be more welcoming to families that live with disability. I’m considered an “expert” in the field because I’ve written three books, one of which is a handbook for churches on ways to be more inclusive (A Place Called Acceptance: Ministry with Families of Children with Disabilities). The other two books (Autism & Alleluias; His Name is Joel: Searching for God in a Son’s Disability) are written from the personal perspective of raising a son with autism.

It’s much easier to be the expert when the children and families I’m talking about are not my own—when the churches I’m speaking to are full of strangers. As Joel’s mom, feelings often run too deep for comfort. Like most moms of children with autism, I’ve often watched people at church reject, ostracize, or simply ignore my son. It’s hard to play the expert when you’re crying.

We knew God had big plans for us when he led us last year from Cincinnati to Oxford, Ohio and the Oxford Vineyard. But we didn’t realize how deeply those plans would impact Joel, who had moved out of our home the year before. A week before Christmas, my husband Wally and I had plans to go out of town for the weekend. We were worried about the impact of changing Joel’s routine. Joel spends Saturday nights with us, and loves going to church with us on Sunday mornings. Disrupting Joel’s schedule can throw his behavior out of whack for several days, and we didn’t want that to happen. Christmas itself is enough of a routine-buster. And because Christmas was just around the corner, we hesitated to ask any of our new friends to step in and help.

But when Wally asked Amy and Dirk if they’d be able to pick up Joel and take him to The Oxford Vineyard that Sunday, they responded with enthusiasm. Joel’s new home, Safe Haven Farms, is a 30 minute drive from church, so this meant Amy and Dirk were not only committing to an hour church service with a young man who has a hard time sitting still, but to over an hour in the car as well. Wow.

Amy called me from their car that Sunday morning, with Joel on speaker-phone, to let us know they were having a blast singing Christmas carols on the drive to church, and that they’d been thrilled, the night before at the Safe Haven Christmas Party (we didn’t even know they were going to go!), to discover that Joel’s a great singer.

“He knows the words to all the Christmas carols! You should have seen him up front with the microphone! He sang his heart out!”

I didn’t think anything could top this—no one besides paid staff had ever offered to take Joel to church before, much less had such a good time with him—but once again I’d underestimated God.

On Christmas Eve, the Oxford Vineyard holds a very informal church service.

“Who would like to lead us in some Christmas carols?” John, the pastor, stood up front with the microphone, trying to marshall everyone’s attention.

“Joel’s a really good singer,” Amy called out.

Joel grinned and walked toward the front of the church.

“You want to lead us, Joel?” John asked.

Joel’s grin widened as he grabbed the microphone.

Wally strode forward and stood beside Joel. “How ’bout “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,”?” he asked, knowing this is one of Joel’s favorites,

Joel smiled his agreement. Wally started the song and Joel joined in, softly singing the words into the microphone, a bit off tune, but sweetly and clearly.

When he finished, everyone burst into applause. Someone in the back cried out, “Encore! ‘Silent Night!’”

This time, Joel led the congregation with confidence, his voice cracking a bit at the high parts.

I sat, glued to my chair, my head filled not only with the sound of Joel’s amplified voice, but with a chorus of angels singing “Alleluia!”

As Paul so eloquently wrote to the church in Corinth:

“21 The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” 22 On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, 23 and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, 24 while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, 25 so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. 26 If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”

This year I received the very best Christmas gift of all on Christmas Eve. It was a gift that trumped, by far, those presents my twelve-year-old self believed so heavenly. This present didn’t come gift-wrapped in foil under a shining tree, but in a poorly lit store-front church. The Body of Christ, where so many parts of the Body are so often are missing, had just been re-membered.

And heaven itself was rejoicing.

But the glorious golden maple trees surrounding the house beckon, waving in the wind. It’s sunny on the side porch, so I join the cat, sound asleep on one of two wicker chairs. Cuddled in my fleece jacket, I plunk down in the chair next to the cat, thinking to meditate on the sight of leaves spiraling from the trees.

My ever-present cell phone rings. I answer. A friend in need. I spend 30 minutes helping as best I can, which entails several trips in and out of the house, looking for phone numbers, paper, pen, etc. That business finished, I sit down again. I sigh. Just looking at these trees could be a burning bush experience, I think, if I’d only let myself relax and enjoy.

The phone rings again. I answer. My mother, in need. We talk a few minutes. I try to reassure her that she’s living in the right place. That it’s okay to be 80. That life is still good. I say “I love you,” and hang up. The golden leaves shudder and shake in the wind, whispering a secret language all their own.

An hour has passed by now, and I am still as wound up as when I sat down. The cat, on the other hand, has not moved a muscle. Soaking up the sun, he breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. I take a deep breath, intent upon soaking up this beauty like a sponge, and bottling it up in a jar for the cold, dark days of winter.

How can I offer Cloudland as a place of rest and refreshment if I can’t slow down to enjoy it myself—if I continue playing the role of Martha—cooking and cleaning and making sure everything is “just so”? I am so aware that I have not been choosing the better portion that Mary chose, sitting at Jesus’ knee.

This place is perfectly situated to watch the seasons unfold—to watch as seed is planted in the ground; to witness it grow, day by day, from tender shoot to hundreds upon hundreds of acres of corn and soy; to partake in the harvest in the fall at the farmer’s market uptown.

Cloudland sits on the highest point of Butler County, where the observant can watch the weather unfurl, great clouds roiling and black on the horizon, or the sun rising, a red rubber ball trailing ribbons of pink across the horizon. And on days like today, cloud shadows play tag across the fields.

The cat’s chest expands, contracts. Expands, contracts. My breathing finally slows down to match. Shadow falls upon the trees and barn in front of me, the sun racing ahead of the clouds to shine bright on the maple-covered ridge across the way. My spirit expands at the sight.

Last night a wind blew in from the north, leaving frost on the fields across the road and a nip in the air. The brisk temperatures promise winter is close behind. Part of me grieves, knowing that all will be brown and bare in just a few weeks. But another part of me deep-down-knows that the coming season holds its own richness. That winter wheat planted today in the fields around us will be unfurling, unfolding in the dark days ahead. That God will be at work even in His hiddenness.

For this kind of deep-down-knowing, I need to leave my cell phone behind; slow down, like this cat asleep in the chair next to me; inhale, exhale; measured breaths seeped in prayer that join in the great hymn of praise going up all around me, at all times, in all seasons, in this place called Cloudland.

The Holy Spirit never fails us.

This week, we read Psalm 1:

“Blessed is the woman who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but her delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law she meditates day and night. She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that she does, she prospers.” (v 1-3)

The line, “She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither,” speaks to me. I am in a time of major life transition, which is hard enough. On top of that, people that I love dearly are hurting. I spend hours, in the middle of the night, praying for them. Truth be told, I spend more time worrying about them and trying to solve the problems of their lives, than praying for them!

And so this image of a fruit-bearing tree, planted by streams of water, speaks to my soul. I want to be that tree! I want to soak up the Lord’s presence. I want that living water instead of these sleepless nights that leave me feeling tired and dry and dusty.

I close my eyes and sink into meditation.

I repeat my centering words. Maranatha, come, Lord Jesus. Maranatha, come Lord Jesus.

I picture myself as a tree. A cypress tree, my leaves evergreen. I see myself planted not next to a stream, but in the stream. Bubbling, sparkling water courses around my roots.

As the picture becomes clearer, I see knobby cypress knees surrounding me, their ugly misshapenness protruding out of the water. These twisted, unsightly roots don’t belong in this meditation!

Look again, the Spirit whispers.

I look more closely, and see that each of these knobby knees represent a difficult life situation. Joel’s slide back into manic swings. Matt’s chronic pain. My mother’s dementia, among others.

Each of these situations has brought me to the Lord in prayer. Over and over again, they bring me home. They remind me of my powerlessness and root me in the power of the Master of the Universe. Like the knobby knees of the cypress tree, these roots are part of me, misshapen as they are. They tap down into streams of living water. Water that hydrates my dryness, refreshes my thirst, resurrects my dying self as I hand my life over to God for the power I need to make it through each day.

“She is like a tree planted by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that she does, she prospers.”

Lord, thank you for this vision of myself as a cypress tree, knobby knees and all. Thank you for meeting me in my place of need. I praise you that your Word is a living word, a word that speaks directly to my life today.

Is there anything more beautiful than a walk in the woods in the middle of October? Sunbeams, streaming through a golden canopy of maple leaves, creating a cathedral of light. The pungent smell of decay, tickling the nostrils and igniting feelings of nostalgia for the dying summer and memories of autumn days as a child, raking piles of leaves into leaf houses. The sounds of crunching leaves underfoot, and brown sycamore leaves still clinging to the trees, applauding the beauty of the day. The visceral sound of thousands of bird wings, felt deep in the chest, as a flock of grackles takes flight, flashing purple and black in the treetops. The taste of smoke, carried across the lake on the wind.

It couldn’t have been more perfect, this walk Wally, Joel and I took yesterday on the Big Woods trail at Hueston Woods State Park, just down the road from Cloudland. We’d had a morning of worship and praise at The Oxford Vineyard, a tasty lunch at the Mexican restaurant in town, and then this walk on a perfect October day. It was the end of 10 days of sickness for me, and several months of rapid-cycling mania for Joel. It couldn’t have come at a better time. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

But God had even more in store for us.

I had been leading the way, Joel behind me, walking slowly, tentatively through the leaves, afraid of tripping on a root. Wally took up the rear. We’d been walking for 30 minutes or more, and were climbing the hill toward the car.

Suddenly, Joel sped up from behind, appeared at my side, and grabbed my hand. He grinned at me—the special Sunday-morning grin that he shines on us at church each week—a grin of pure adoration and love. With that, he clutched my hand even tighter, not letting go immediately as my long experience as his mom told me he would. He walked next to me, squeezing my hand and swinging my arm, his grin widening at my obvious delight.

This might not seem like a big deal, this hand-holding on the walk up a hill in the middle of the woods on a beautiful day in October. Might even seem blasé, cliché, boring. On the contrary. This was magical, this was stupendous, this was sheer gift. My 26-year-old son, this son with autism and all sorts of sensory issues, never holds my hand. He gives me high-fives. He pats my back. He lets me pat his hand. Let me repeat. He never holds my hand.

We walked the rest of the way up the hill in the golden light, scuffing our feet in the crunchy leaves, breathing in woodsmoke, listening to grackles chattering in the trees. Hand-in-hand.

Transformed.

What could be more beautiful than a walk in the woods in the middle of October? Holding hands with a messenger of God.

God’s message for me?

It is all grace. It is all gift. Taste, eat, for the Lord is good.

The Word told me to tell you today, that you might be transformed as well.