WinnCollier.com

Mom's Fight

2012-02-09T10:42:00.000-05:00

She sat next to me on that gray and blue upholstered couch, the one that pulled out into a bed whenever guests stayed overnight. She sat next to me and stroked my hair, my hair wet with sweat from a fever that revved to 103º and was still pouring on steam. It was a Sunday night, strange those hazy memories: 60 Minutes flickering on the screen, heat, fuzzy, dizzy. I felt like I was trapped in a kaleidoscope.

But my mom sat next to me. I don't remember anything she said. But she sat there, and she fought the fever with me. She fought it for me. She loved me. Because I'm a father now, I know that she was fighting harder than me, that she felt a kind of pain my little, feverish body couldn't yet know.

With the fever still climbing, mom put me in the bathtub with cold water and ice. I shivered and ached while she poured all her love and energy and fierceness into that fight. And she won. The fever cried uncle.

Today, my mom battles cancer. She's tenacious and strong; but she's got a real brawl on her hands. I wish I could sit with her on the couch and hold her hand and let her rest while I fought for her. I wish I could do more than pray to God, more than text a line of love or plan a visit a few months away. I wish I could say more to my dad than I love you, and you're not alone. I wish I could get my hands around that cancer's neck and squeeze the very life out of it. I wish I could make that bastard cry uncle.

Lies and Laughter

2012-02-06T11:15:00.000-05:00

The week before last was a bear for Wyatt. Elementary school is like the rest of life: there's sad people and fearful people - and the sad, fearful people take the meanness that's been heaped on them and hurl it onto others. Sometimes my dad-self wants to march onto the school grounds and put the fear of God into a child or two.

After a particularly difficult day for Wyatt, I had words my son needed to hear. I got on the floor with him in his room, and we talked about the truth. We talked about words that are lies and words that are true; and we talked about how truth is something we hold tight, clinging onto for dear life while lies are the things we stare down and then, with a chuckle and a wag of the head, we say, You are just ridiculous. Wyatt liked that. He liked the word ridiculous, particularly when I repeated it, stretching it out (ri------di-----culous) while exaggerating the laughter and the roll of the eyes. These lies (the ones aimed at the soul) aren't something to ponder and dissect; they're something we disarm by refusing them the dignity of a conversation.

This is true for Wyatt in 4th grade. It's true for me at 40 years. By now, the lies are predictable. I've heard most every one (or close cousins) a bujillion times. I can hunker down for the assault and follow that familiar cycle of self-violence. I can give that old snaggle-toothed lie my energy. Or I can stand up straight, breathe deep, and, with the lightheartedness of one who knows nothing's at stake, I can have a laugh and say, You, old pal, are plain ridiculous.

✣

After a couple of these conversations with Wyatt, he asked me, "Dad, when you're a kid, is it bad to love your dad almost as much as God?"

"No," I said, sensing tears, "not at all, Wyatt, not at all."

Generous With Me

2012-02-02T09:45:00.001-05:00

Years ago, I was wronged by an ego-driven boss who, after manipulating me and lying to me, topped off the painful experience by sending me off with acrid words. More years came and went, and I found myself replaying those events and imagining outrageous scenarios where I triumphed on a public stage while he writhed in obscurity and ignominy. Bitterness rankled my soul. One day, it was clear to me what, if I were to live free, I had to do. I had to write a letter, and in this letter I needed to forgive. I needed to acknowledge places where I had been wrong, and though he hadn't asked for it and didn't for a moment believe he needed it, I was to pour out forgiveness. I was to release him. I was to be generous.

This is the sort of thing we imagine when we hear the call to generosity. We forgive an enemy or a friend. We offer what we have to someone who has less. We loosen the reigns on our time or our energy. True, every single one. However, this generosity always points outward, never inward. Generosity towards others is difficult; but for many of us, generosity towards ourself is impossible, laughable. Letting my boss off the hook was hard, but not nearly as hard as letting myself off the hook.

Do you recall Balfour's words: to yourself, respect. He snuck that in there, didn't he? We mustn't miss it. To treat ourselves with respect is to listen to ourselves well, to not make severe, reactionary judgments about our thoughts or our emotions or our motives. Rather than heap shame on our souls, we nurture the freedom to be playful and curious. I respect you and choose to think the best of you. I also respect me and choose to think the best of me.

Generosity means being patient with ourselves, giving plenty of space to explore and growing more and more comfortable with dead-ends and foolish turns. Generosity means being kind to ourselves, refusing to heap hard words upon ourselves that we'd never allow to land uncontested if they were aimed at our child or friend. To be kind is to be gentle, tender. Generosity doesn't traffic in self-contempt; we refuse to loathe the person God has made us to be. Generosity doesn't nurture a litany of failures and misjudgments. Generosity traffics in hope, not fear.

To review, generosity toward self is patient, kind, not rude, not easily angered. It doesn't keep a record of wrongs. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. My, generosity sounds a lot like love.

To be generous with yourself is simply to receive and dwell in God's generous love for you.

Generous Goes the Love

2012-01-30T12:48:00.000-05:00

Generosity is another way to talk about love. Love doesn't insist that the punishment meet the crime. Rather, love is always on the lookout for a left-handed way to slide someone an extra helping of mercy. Generous love plays a late game of chess with the boy who's had a whale of a day, the same boy who's lost his mind more than once this weekend, the same boy who made his mom and dad pull the tag-team card. Hey, Miska, you crawl into bed with the book, I'll take the next round.

Generosity doesn't hold back, waiting until one's whims (or demands) are sated. Love looks for what particular grace another needs; and then, as best one's able, love gives that costly grace away. I love Francis Maitland Balfour's words: "The best thing to give to your enemy is forgiveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a friend, your heart; to your child, a good example; to a father, deference; to your mother, conduct that will make her proud of you; to yourself, respect; to all people, charity."

Find out what you can give, and go give it. And if you're having trouble deciding, just give away love until you figure it out.

Church and Grace

2012-01-26T00:13:00.000-05:00

A video's gone viral, perhaps you've seen it. It talks about loving Jesus but not religion. I appreciate some of the sentiment; but truthfully, the kind of dichotomy that guides this common phrase makes me want to scream and yank fists of hair from my head. Meanwhile, the internet-o-sphere has also been abuzz with tales of a well-known church that seems to rule its congregation with a heavy hand. That's sad, sad and tiring. We need the common, plain practice of "pure and undefiled religion," but we're desperate for grace. We're one confused lot. I've been thinking of jotting a few thoughts, but then a friend wrote in response to a series of posts (Why the Church?) I did a bit ago. I think our interaction offers a good entree into all this.

Dear Winn,

I was just reading through your blog and came across the "why the church" series. You invite (albeit from 18 months ago) people to comment. I have one question which you did not address.

Background: I like my church. It's over 200 years old and has a splendid collection of conservatives and liberals, young and old, homeless and rich, etc. Problem is, Trudy and I don't have much time to give it. Often, waking up on a Sunday morning is the only real down-time we have throughout our week. Putting our daughter Emma down for a nap and watching CBS's Sunday Morning are the perfect ways to worship our Creator. We go to church, just with less frequency. I'm becoming convinced that this is not necessarily a bad thing. Nowhere is weekly attendance mandatory for us, perhaps unless we are paid by the church to do work.

So I guess my question is: What do we do for the uber-busy church attender who lacks time for an engaged church life?

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts.

I am, as always, your friend,
Dwayne

Hey, Dwayne.

I'm glad you read those pieces; I enjoyed writing them.

There's probably a lot of things I could say in response to your question, but I'm not your pastor and don't know the textures of your life. So, it's hard for me to give concrete advice. I'll just say a thing or two in general. They may feel in opposition; but, heck, such is most of my life.

First, I'd say, relax. Take what comes and give whatever you have to give. In the church, people give what they're able and take what they need. These things come and go. There really is no more time-annihilating season than early on with kids. It's just hard, crossing the Rubicon hard. Do the best you can. Love will cover the details.

Second, I'd also say that everybody's busy, and typically we make space for the things we truly want. Over the long haul, I can't imagine a spirituality with roots deep enough to nourish and sustain us that isn't melded with the communal practices of word and sacrament. God is everywhere, but God is uniquely present among the awkward and beautiful people He's called His Body. Church is about physicality, presence. God with us, us with God - and all of us with one another. They say church isn't about having your butt in the seat, but sometimes it's about having your butt in the seat.

Does this mean such things ebb and flow in seasons? They must. Does anyone (including us pastor-types) need to freak out because we're stretched in a season and need to call a timeout? Surely not. Does everyone (especially us pastor-types) need to be more playful about these things and (as Miska says) refuse to get our panties in a wad? Uh, yeah. Should we have questions if we find ourselves habitually unmoored from the practices and the people of faith? We probably should.

I can't tell you exactly what rhythm presence and physicality require, but you'll know it when it's missing. Pay attention to that. And, in the mean time, catch sleep when you can and enjoy those Sunday mornings when needed.

peace and love,
winn

Generous

2012-01-23T13:35:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned that a word or two arrived on my doorstep, asking me to come out and play. I said yes, and I think we're going to have a grand time. The word leading the way is generous.

Most of us could be more free with our funds and our belongings, me too. But the generosity that's got me leaning forward is a generosity of heart, a free spirit that allows me to live with curiosity, to see the best in another, to believe deep in my being that there is plenty for us all. Plenty of mercy. Plenty of joy. Plenty of success. Plenty of time. Plenty.

A generous life is a spacious life, a circle plenty wide for everyone, even for the odd ducks and the ones so insecure they can't help but preen. I can shake my head; I can even provide a firm nudge when appropriate (a good nudge can be immensely generous), but there's no need to get ruffled. Nothing's at stake. Generosity brushes past all that nonsense. The generous one knows there's a difference between being a foolish fool and a holy fool -- but sometimes not so much difference as one might think. There's room for all of us to grow up and become who we are.

When I'm generous, I'll give away my words, flinging love and hope in all kinds of places. I'll tell people what I see in them, what they've meant to me. I'll be a blushing idiot. I'll give away my words, but I won't believe I must speak to everything. In a stingy world, we push forward our opinion, our words, our authority. Sometimes, amid all the blabbering, generosity sits over by the pond and feeds the birds and listens to the water and knows the sadness for the beauty that's being missed.

When I'm generous, I believe in others and cheer on the good of others. I cheer on your good. I have nothing to protect because my heart knows that more for you doesn't mean (at least not in any way that truly matters) less for me. As Brueggemann says, scarcity is the lie; abundance is the truth. You have your voice and your vocation and (I truly hope) your vast success. I raise my glass high, raucous cheers to you. I want to help you get where you need to be going; and as you arrive, I'll arrive too.

When I'm generous, I don't judge my success alongside yours. I don't hold myself back, concerned that I may be left standing on the outside. I don't parse or protect. When I'm generous, I walk the road ahead, thankful for whoever walks with me and for whatever strange and glorious sights we encounter.

image: zela

The Lingering God

2012-01-19T11:47:00.000-05:00

I wonder if you've met this God St. Francis knows. A God who isn't tapping his fingers, asking you to hurry it up. A God who lingers, who kneels, who adores. A God who is prejudiced in your favor.

I think God might be a little prejudiced.

For once He asked me to join Him on a walk

through this world,

and we gazed into every heart on this earth,

and I noticed He lingered a bit longer

before any face that was

weeping,

and before any eyes that were

laughing.

And sometimes when we passed

a soul in worship

God too would kneel

down.

I have come to learn: God

adores His

creation.

{St. Francis of Assisi}

Letter From My 90yr Old Self

2012-01-16T20:57:00.000-05:00

My friend John Blase received a letter from his 90yr old self, and he invited me to do the same...

Dear Winn,

I like you. You’re sure to like the man you become, but it's important for you to hear that I enjoy the man you are now. It's a powerful temptation to perpetually believe some future triumph or distant decade will signal your arrival. Winn, you've already arrived, two firm feet planted on solid ground. You're here. You're living and loving. Go with it.

This isn't to say you won't be arriving more, becoming more solid, more true. You will. But don't worry about getting there. Fretting over your story means you'll think too much and toil too hard. You've been writing long enough to know the contrived dribble that splatters on the page when we strain to make something rather than live something. Whenever you're pressing, it isn't believable. It isn't believable because it isn't true. Be true.

I encourage you to live attentively. Watch for the places where your heart is most tender or your anger most righteous. Watch for your tears. Watch for your laughter. Tune in to the yearning for slowness and quiet. Perk up when you want to punch a fellow in the face. Don't judge the right or wrong of a thing too hurriedly. Live from leisure. Curiosity is your friend, but curiosity needs room to breathe. I don’t know if an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, but I know a leisurely mind is the soul’s friend. Remember when Ken shared his belief that we need to move toward the pain? Definitely pay attention to that. Don't be afraid of suffering. Don't be afraid of loneliness. Don't be afraid of making your mark. Don't be afraid.

I know all that appears a tall order. Let me help a little with the fear. The boys will know they're loved. They'll wrangle with some of the doubts you hoped they could avoid (they didn't kill you, did they?), but they won't doubt your love. They'll remember your tenderness more than your impatience, your presence more than your absence, your good more than your bad. Love truly does cover a multitude of sins. Speaking of fear, you'll also be glad to know you won't fight your darker demons forever -- for a while longer, but not forever. It's not that you'll rally to an epic showdown where you vanquish what torments you; you're simply going to grow tired of the merry-go-round. One of these days, you'll wave down the operator, hop off and go for an ice cream instead.

In other words, you're going to become more and more the man who, in all the right places, learns not to give a shit. It's a strange thing that the good men learn to care more and, at the same time, to care less. You'll become scandalously tender, but you'll hold your tenderness and your strength with such openness that it doesn't require validation. Remember when your pastor told you to get comfortable keeping your own counsel? You will. You'll trust your wife and your sons and your friends, believing that others' good eyes and good hearts will sometimes see more clearly than your own. But you won't give creedence to the people critiquing your life or your work or your way. You, Winn, won't give a shit.

And your sketch-of-a-dream comes true, complete with the worn tweed jacket and the worn books and the worn friends. You and Miska spend the next decades pouring the flames on love. The two of you become quite the spectacle. Your love weathers the seasons. More than weathers, it flourishes, love and laughter run wild. You grow foolish together, and you love others well. Keep listening to Miska. She hears things. She sees things.

Keep writing; you're heading in a fine direction. Don't spend an ounce of energy trying to tap into the flavor du jour or run after whatever it is everybody’s running after (I still don’t know). Like the song that’s been working on you says -- don’t build your ego on a hungry crowd. Just keep being true, and generous. Tell us what you see.

I like you, Winn. You'll like you too. Might as well start now.

Sincerely,

your 90yr old self

I Wish I'd Laughed

2012-01-11T09:56:00.000-05:00

Miska's been out of town a couple days, and this morning I was up early, downstairs with a friend and coffee. I heard the pitter-patter of feet on the hardwood above, the wild tribe arising. I found myself saying a prayer for these sleepy-eyed boys, for goodness and love and God to cover them all their days. I had an image of a Wyatt and a Seth, years from now - men who know themselves and their God and their work. My eyes grew moist. These moments catch us unaware.

Then breakfast came and the rush-to-school madness. No one would mistake me for being proficient at such things. My dialogue went something like this: Brush your teeth, get on your socks, grab your backpack, did you brush your teeth?, where's your other sock? uh, brush your teeth, is your homework signed?, where's you hoodie?, no. we can't take your four crates of legos, did we eat breakfast?, socks, boys, socks, Brush. Your. Teeth! Exhausting.

I finally herded the boys down the stairs with instructions to pull on their shoes. When I followed, I noticed Wyatt standing underneath the coat rack, mostly hidden by scarves and jackets and hats. Looking closely, you could make out two little legs and two little Nike tennis shoes. Wyatt was intensely quiet, convinced he was invisible.

I didn't play along. The clock ticked. My nerves were sufficiently taut. I tapped his shoe and, more gruffly than I wish, said, "Come on, Wyatt, let's go."

He did. Wyatt piled out of the mound of clothes, and he grabbed his bag. But before he headed to the car, Wyatt said, "Dad, you didn't even laugh."

I wish I had. I wish I'd laughed. Next time, I hope I do.

Words: Yours. And Mine.

2012-01-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

For the first time, I've boarded the word for the year train. These sorts of things have to show up at your door unannounced, and for whatever reason, my bell never rang.

For a while, Miska's had these annual encounters where a word arrives, vivid and undeniable. Given that I've married a mystic, I've found myself imagining what these moments are like for her. I'm sure she appreciates that. I imagine my mystic wife walking over the knoll of one of Ireland's green hills (where else would such a fantasy be?). The grey mist knits a silky silhouette of her lovely shape. There's always music, haunting Irish music. Then the word appears. The word may be aflame or carved into a rock. My favorite is when the word arrives from the voice of a man who has (of course) a strong Irish lilt, a man who is (of course) St. Patrick.

This year, I love Miska's word. A future year, I could imagine it being mine. But it's not - and that's the crucial revelation. You can't snag another person's word. You can't even snag another person's conviction that you need to have a word. You can't steal another's word and you can't steal another's life and you can't steal another's voice or opportunity or physique. You have to find your own -- find your own way, find your own self.

You'll never meet your surprise guest so long as you're waiting at everyone else's front door.

Give Us Your Joy

2012-01-04T09:41:00.000-05:00

If someone has loved you well or helped you remember the things we must remember, if someone's voice has pulled you through the fog or if their words have landed true, if someone has shown courage - or kindled your courage, if someone has stuck around or concocted beauty or reminded you to laugh, if someone has joined you in your wake, cursing your isolation or your demons, if someone has taught you when to listen generously and when to walk past fools, if someone has been a lover or a friend -- tell them.

And tell them often. We all need to hear the goodness that's in us. Don't hold back; don't cache your words or the innocence and hope they carry. Don't be timid with your enthusiasm. We need all the light we can get in this world - don't you dare veil any of yours. Heave whatever you have upon our shoulders, and let us feel the weight of your joy.

image: bartimaeus

Traveling with Ben

2012-01-02T10:48:00.000-05:00

It was January and cold and the beginning of a new term. The class was Early Shakespeare. Early because we were reading the bard's first works, early because the class summoned us at godawful 8:00 a.m.

A tall, muscular fellow walked in, easy. His navy flannel shirt opened to a grey thermal and fell over weathered denim. A scuffed leather bag hung from his shoulder, and he carried a coffee mug from O'Sullivans, the Irish pub on the other side of town. The females in the room watched his movement, furtively, with faint suggestion of their newfound interest in Taming of the Shrew. Several had an empty seat near and were glad for it. The women were, suddenly, wide awake. I noticed how the room's energy perked. I noticed my sharp edge of envy. But what I noticed most was his grin, like he'd finished a fine meal and was ready to prop his feet up and enjoy a smoke. He didn't arrange his smile at the door. He wasn't selling anything, certainly not himself. He simply eased into a room the way he eased into life, with curiosity and a heart that harbored no guile. I know these things because I've come to know this man who walked in on Shakespeare. We became brothers. A package of brawn and genuine goodwill had just entered my world.

After college, we spent a spring and summer tramping West. We slept outdoors and ate canned beans warmed on a single butane burner. We spent two days in Vegas, which is more than enough. We spent a week in the backcountry of the Canyon, which is barely enough. Late July, funds grew sparse, and we stopped in on a family friend who owned a gas station a few miles outside of Jackson Hole. Sven Diedrich gave us the guest room in his house and odd jobs at the station. We ate well and padded our wallets and then hitched a ride into Idaho.

Wherever we arrived, folks watched Ben. The women, of course. Some would talk silly or act scatty. Some were downright bold and made him blush. But even the classy women noticed Ben. Men took notice too. Some sized him up. Shifty men grew louder or coarser in his presence; but good men welcomed him. Most every man who shared words with Ben quickly dropped his shoulders and began trading stories.

Don't misunderstand. His name's Ben, not Gabriel. He didn't sprout wings or glow. Once, in a grimy alley, I pulled Ben off a whimpering 300 pound railroad worker. The blustering drunk, threatening and cursing, made the mistake of throwing the first punch. If he'd known Ben had buried his mom a week before, perhaps the whole evening would have happened differently. The beating was thorough, ugly. Once, Ben rang me from jail in Hattiesburg. There was a girl involved - and a dog, but the affair concluded with one phone call and a couple nights pissing in the corner commode of a cinder block cell. Every man has his vice, but few men have a friend who will carry you four miles into town, slung over his back while you're puking, because your fever rages and he's worried. On our summer trek, Ben did exactly that.

Together, Ben and I figured out what kind of men we wanted to be. Better, we helped each other get some of the way there. Ben would have to tell you what I offered him, that's his story. But Ben gave me a vision for life generous, trusting. To live strong and wise, but not careful. To live with laughter. And a grin.

image: Michal Zacharzewski

Surprise Yourself

2011-12-31T20:40:00.003-05:00

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

{Neil Gaiman}

image: michael costa

On the Fifth Day of Christmas...

2011-12-29T10:00:00.000-05:00

For all the long waiting we must do before we get there, it's a good thing Christmastide stretches twelve days. This way, we can ease back into life, after we've taken moments for gratitude and moments for quiet and a few moments for going stir crazy.

Gratitude. Christmas morning, Miska gave me a pair of fuzzy Keen slippers that say "Winn" if ever a pair of slippers have. She also gave me a calendar, with photographs I've taken and words I've loved or will come to love. And she gave me a book with fabulous pictures of treehouses from around the world. If a guy's got fuzzy slippers and good words and a treehouse to wander off into and (best of all) the kind of wife who knows him well enough to give him such things ... what more?

Quiet. Our house has been quiet the past few days. We still have two boys, so there's noise - but not the kind of noise that sits heavy, noise from the pace of things. I don't know that I've used this time as well as I'd hoped. I've only started (and barely) one novel, but then quiet space is the sort of thing you simply have to take as it comes. Otherwise, you've entirely missed the point. Miska did buy a bottle of Carolans Irish Cream - and that's a fine companion on a quiet evening. A quiet evening with the woman you love and Carolans and fuzzy slippers.

Stir-crazy. I did mention the two young boys, didn't I? Yet another reason for the Carolans.

In this stretch of Christmastide, I wish you gratitude and quiet -- and even a little stir-crazy (or some brand of crazy) to keep you honest.

On the Second Day of Christmas...

2011-12-26T23:10:00.002-05:00

The boys like pallets on the floor
during the holidays

Seth and our dog Daisy went running with me this morning. Seth wanted to bring along his pack of Mentos that arrived in his Christmas stocking. He thought he might need a snack. Seth wore his Clemson jersey, and we hit the pavement. We walked as much as we ran, which is alright with me - you can talk more with a slow pace. When we reached the spot where, when I'm running alone, I begin to pray for my sons, I told him. And I told him what I pray for each of them. We walked that road that has become hallowed ground. I love that boy.

When we returned, it was Wyatt-time. Wyatt had his big Christmas gift, a Lego Kingdoms set, scattered across his floor. I built a castle tower while he constructed a tower and a wall and another tower and sundry other expression of medieval architecture. Wyatt paused his rapid focus only for the several occasions when he felt the urge to comment on how painfully slow my single tower was coming. Wyatt's decided he's into rap, God help us; and so for Christmas I searched around for a rapper with appropriate lyrics. We listened to rapper Lecrae and stacked Legos, a strange combo that somehow works. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces are absolutely hallowed ground. I love that boy.

Tonight, I pulled the boys close and told them a story of Prince Calyn who was courageous and strong and true but who, if he would only have listened to Merlin, would have been wiser. But Calyn's young, and goofing up is the way we actually learn wisdom -- there's plenty of time, plenty of time. Seth lay next to me, nodding off. After The End, Wyatt said, "That story's alright, but you know..." He makes a tough crowd, but I'll keep trying. If I want to tell good stories for anyone, it's these two. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces hallowed ground. I love those boys, I do.

4th Friday of Advent

2011-12-23T10:00:00.000-05:00

Celebration / elaine davis

Seductive Lights / dave smith

Skyline Lights / lindsey mart

4th Thursday of Advent

2011-12-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

Winter Moon / jason boyett

Saved You a Spot / jeromie rand

Evening Lights / rick stilwell

4th Wednesday of Advent

2011-12-21T10:30:00.000-05:00

My apologies for forgetting to include three yesterday, our addition for this final week of advent. Here we are, three to ponder:

Stern (Star) / shannon hayes

Watching for Light / suzanne aultman

Making Light / cathy monetti

4th Tuesday of Advent

2011-12-20T09:09:00.001-05:00

Voices of Ascension / matt beams

Hope Springs Up / crista norfrey

Gift {4th Monday of Advent}

2011-12-19T11:02:00.000-05:00

Last night at All Souls, our community surprised us with a poem they had written, expressing what All Souls means for them and has become for them. They had our leaders come to the front, as people stood one at a time reading line by line. It's a powerful gift to stand there and receive words of deep life. It was a beautiful thing. We live within a beautiful community.

On this journey of life

Between suffering and glory

Between salvation and resurrection

Between ruin and redemption

Our souls need a resting place

A gathering space to witness the mystery of transformation

A place to be enveloped by the warm care of community
when we are wearied by winter

So take off your shoes, for you are standing on sacred ground

God has built us a house of healing
from the holy rubble of our lives

It is here that we will be encouraged and refreshed

It is here that our doubt and despair can be destroyed
by love and desire

So come, we are eagerly awaiting your arrival

The welcome mat has been rolled out

And the door lies open for travellers worn from the road

In the name of Jesus, we say “Welcome Home”

It is spacious here

There is enough room at the table for you

Love is freely offered in the breaking of bread
and passing of the cup

If you hunger

Come sup with us

And you will feast on hope, freedom and authenticity

If you thirst

Have a drink with us

And be warmed, awakened and inspired

Come

We will help you hear the voice of Jesus

Come

Bloom into the real you

Come

And find hospitality, restoration and shalom

Come

And take the peace of Christ

For you do not have to walk alone

Come

Be known

Be understood

Be listened to

Be artful

Be open

Be free

Be beautiful

Be warmed and filled

And take off your shoes

But, most of all

Be at home

For this place has been set aside for us

The fire has been prepared

And it is burning with great anticipation

Eagerly awaiting the arrival

Your Soul

All Souls

___

Here are pictures from yesterday's #adventpicaday. Let's do three this final week. That will be the photographer's gift to the rest of us.

Untitled / labtrout

Untitled / marvelissa

Flickering to Life / worth wheeler

4th Sunday of Advent

2011-12-18T23:05:00.000-05:00

Arches / dave smith

Climbing in Light / austin grigg

3rd Saturday of Advent

2011-12-17T09:12:00.002-05:00

Bare But Very Much Alive / kt_writes

Broken / jason boyett

3rd Friday of Advent

2011-12-16T09:38:00.005-05:00

Close of a Chapter / jeromie rand

Just. Look. Up. / rick stilwell

3rd Thursday of Advent

2011-12-15T12:11:00.004-05:00

Christmas Cabbage / allison caldwell

Bring It Into the Light / liz rand

3rd Wednesday of Advent

2011-12-14T14:53:00.004-05:00

So the King Can Arrive / j.r. briggs

Untitled / elaine davis