Time

It has been a long time since I wrote, dear friends. (I know, what else is new). Finishing up a master's degree will do that to you. Post-graduation, the time-organizing principle of surviving one-semester-at-a-time, which has anchored me for the past six years, has evaporated. It was time for something new. Since I've never gotten the hang of the whole sabbath thing, something else was required.

This summer, the organizing principle has become Sunday-to-Sunday, but not because of sabbath time. I'm serving a local church for a season, remembering the weekly rhythm I had picked up during my field placement. When the Congregation West-of-Town said they'd like me to fill in this summer while their pastor was on sabbatical, I said yes. I jumped at the chance to go swimming in scripture again. I looked forward to the opportunity to get to know the community. And so I slipped into a weekly rhythm, reading-study-writing-visiting-preaching, that feels comfortable and good.

Ten weeks down; three weeks and four Sundays and one Communion service left. My car knows the road here, and I know precisely how much time to budget for the drive. Time passes in ways that I cannot budget or account for, only observe. The prairie outside the office window changes week by week. The baby swallows nesting in the carport are growing; mama sparrow doesn't divebomb me anymore when I walk into the building.

This summer with Congregation-West-of-Town has been God time and God space. It's a little pocket set aside from my usual busy go-go pace for a different kind of busy, a different kind of important. I have appreciated my little sparrow's nest out here in the country. Thanks be to the God who organizes time, who shelters us under a protecting wing, whose priorities are far better than our own.

update from an unprogrammed weekend

The virtues of an unprogrammed weekend are not to be ignored. It had been far too long since the munchkin and I had one together. Two peas in a pod, we are. Introverts ready to recharge.

There have been volumes of tea consumed. An ad-hoc expedition to the apple orchard for fresh, almost-too-hot-to-touch cider donuts. Flipping through magazines, perusing blogs, and television-shows-with-little-merit in the background. The cat seems to appreciate the slow pace, as do our weary minds and bodies.

We didn't make it to worship this morning; munchkin awoke with a headache and I didn't want to inflict potential illness on the Sunday School. So we have continued the sacrament of family time this morning. The birds have discovered the new feeder hanging from the pergola. Last night's frost has melted from the suddenly limp garden. There is sufficient food in the pantry and the freezer to cobble together a homecooked meal. It is a good day for warm, savory smells. For soft clothes. For memory.

Filling the sunshine gauge

Having fallen far short of the mark when it comes to the New Year's resolutions (2nd post of the year, 2.5 months in), I am practicing the art of forgiveness by forgiving myself. And revising the lofty New Year's resolutions to include sabbath. Yes, sabbath, my friends. This from the perpetual motion machine. I had a moment of sabbath, reading on my front porch on a sunny Friday afternoon, and it was Very Good. There is something about sitting outdoors in the sun which my soul desperately craved after a Wisconsin winter. Filled up the "sunshine" gauge enough to carry me through the next month of Wisconsin springtime yo-yo weather.

I got sucked into dreaming about summertime activities. So when we sang "In The Garden" during worship this morning, my heart, my nose and my toes were about 3 months ahead of the calendar. I thought about the delicious feeling of walking in the yard barefoot, cool green grass reaching up from sun-warmed soil. I realized that substantial thawing and seeding and germinating needs to happen before that's a likelihood. There are 3 inches of icy water in my backyard and mixed precipitation I can only describe as "blech" coming from the sky.

So I compromised, and bought flower and herb seeds at the big-box store today.

Even ripping open the seed packets feels like an act of hopeful rebellion in the face of today's weather. I carefully water little compressed discs of growing medium and add itty bitty seeds: forget-me-nots, dwarf basil, lavender. I cross my fingers that the cat does not overturn the delicate trays. This blustery lenten day offers no promise of what is coming. But somewhere in my spirit the irresistible cry of lengthening days tells me, "grow!" I examine my impulses, consider my intentions, and make my preparations for the day the garden awakens.