light for the longest night

for friends in far-away places,

for my friends working in Kurdistan,

friends in Burkina Faso and Pittsburgh, 

Tallahassee and D.C.,

for family near and far,

for refugees,

for all those who welcomed me,

for Baltimore,

for the prisons,

for prisoners and prison guards,

for the work that is yet to be done,

for cold hearts,

for forgiveness,

for hope,

for all this broken world -- 

Lord.

Hear our Prayer.

slow growth

for some reason, i was thinking this evening about a conversation i had with my friend Nolan four and a half years ago when i was working at camp hebron. we were talking about grace, and i said i think of it like the rings of a tree: that you keep learning the same things over and over again, a little bigger each time. that you are given the time and space to learn it again -- this is what grace means to me.

i didn't think of it at the time, but a necessary part of that metaphor for grace is that it takes a lot of time.



this year has been very slow, full of stillness and aimlessness and wandering. i have been like the fox in wendell berry's famous poem, the one who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. i have had an abundance of time to think, to wonder, to wander, to read and write and sleep and take my body out for walks under the vast dome of the sky.

i have learned a lot of things, some of them over and over again.



my new job starts in three weeks; the evening class i'm taking begins in two. i will be busy again soon, and i will be glad of it. i am ready for a new season, for a different kind of growth.

for now, though: it is the longest night of the year, and my life and my heart are quiet and still.



i am lying in the early darkness of my unlit bedroom, contemplating the words Ann spoke at church yesterday on the 4th Sunday of Advent.

i am learning the Christmas story for the 24th time.