I am reminded as I begin this post that I have had a privileged background in the education of my Spirit, whether or not I have always taken advantage of it or appreciated it. It began with 8 years at a parochial school in Chicago. It continued with 4 years at an all girls high school run by the Franciscan Sisters of Blessed Kunegunda. As a young adult I spent several years at a Bible Church on the campus of Wheaton College where I learned more Scripture than any time before or since. Later I graduated from seminary and later still earned a Doctor of Ministry degree. Believe me–many words that have brought me thus far.
But more recently, I’ve come to read, to listen to, to observe, and understand the Gospel that is in clear sight, and available to all. The Gospel that is in creation: in the elements, in flora and fauna, in flying, buzzing, creeping things, in stars and planets, sun and moon, in the sound of the surf, and in the movement of the wind. I see it lived out creatures who sleep under the stars and wake to morning light. Things that without uttering one word, speak of who God is, and teach me how I might live–if/when I listen.
For the past 5 years, by simply sliding open the darkening curtain in my room, the photo above is the first thing I see. The shadows falling on the seawall are cast by the houses on my street. The one, on the far right is the roof line of our house. Each morning is different, new, fresh. No two mornings look alike. The strength of the sun determines the colors. The wind determines the speed of the clouds. At least twice a year, for several weeks in spring and fall, the moon is still setting over the pine trees when the sun is rising. Not every morning is the lake a reflecting pond, but on this day it was. When the painted turtles hear the sliding door, they come over for breakfast.
Other than being peaceful and beautiful, it is also the Story of God’s twin gifts of sacrifice and renewal… The Gospel without words. The seawall you see was raised almost 2 feet in 2024. On the other side of it is a marsh that leads to the Florida Intracoastal Waterway. When a hurricane skims the east coast of Florida, millions of gallons of water pour into our little lake(s) because of sea rise/global warming. But 5 days before a storm (we always have notice for a hurricane) our community begins to pump out 2.4 million gallons of water daily from our lakes to make room for what the storm will bring back in. On about the 2nd day of the pumping, tops of trees start to appear in the middle of the lake where they have been sacrificed for the purpose of mitigation. The trees that needed to be felled for the lake are a metaphor for me, of Christ’s sacrifice for the good of many. And on days like the one in the picture, I am simply in awe of it all.
What is it you see being renewed through sacrifice in the natural world? On a path we regularly walk there is a tree that has been scarred by damage. To save the tree, the limb was cut off, sacrificed. And into that hole almost the full diameter of where the limb was, the wind has carried dirt, and finally some spores that would develop into a plant. Because it is recessed, the rain seeps down into it from the leaves several feet overhead. And the young plant is protected from winds that might damage them. The scar has become a womb for new life. It’s not only an image of sacrifice and renewal, but of redemption and of hope.
I could go on and on about seeing, understanding, and the deepening of my faith that occurs daily without any more words needing to be read or spoken. My response is always one of gratitude for how freely and lavishly God makes love, mercy and hope known to anyone, anywhere, when we are ready.
May you be blessed today by the ordinary things you see around you. May you be called to consider in them what God is lovingly speaking to you. And may you share the joy with which it fills you, with those around you.
With much love,
Kathleen
thecelticmonk
The Celtic Monk Musings 