Frost-bitten Lenten Rose, 2021

February 22, 2021

Metanoia is a Greek word we Christians hear much about, especially during the Lenten Season when our focus is intentionally on the journey which Christ took and on how faithfully we are following.  The word itself basically means a change of direction, turning around, or turning back towards, and so we look for places in our lives where we need to make spiritual U-turns and head back toward the Light.  This liminal time between winter and spring suggests such a turn as we watch Nature begin to wake up.

One of my favorite perennials is the Lenten Rose because it embodies strength, resilience, beauty, and because it knows the real struggle of returning year after year.  The Lenten Rose spoke to me last year as we entered our first Lenten season at the beginning of what we assumed would be a short-lived pandemic.  Today in the United States, we approach the half-million dead count to this virus, so it wasn’t so short-lived after all.  Yet as I watched this plant push itself through frozen stubble and bloom despite its weathered, frost-bitten leaves, I couldn’t help but think of the hope of resurrection, of rising from ashes, which for most of us happens more than once in our own lives.  We are somehow banished from what or who we love or from a dream we cherished or from a familiar way of life and there is no going back to that one, particular time.  Still, we are empowered by the Spirit to make a return somehow, just as those multitudes of families and friends must do who lost loved ones to Covid, or to other circumstances.  We are empowered to say “yes” to life.  We, too, are invited by the Light to scrabble and scratch through the debris of whatever haunts us in order to rise and bloom, as many times as it takes, because we do not take that journey alone. Love goes with us.

This year, my Lenten Roses got caught in 10 degree weather just as they were beginning to bloom.  I feared the freeze would kill them, but it did not.  They are a bit stunted (as I believe we all are as this plague drags on), yet they still offer their beauty.  Their message of hope speaks deeply to me while we step into the second year of pandemic, and I rely, again and again, on their example of beauty and new life.

Perhaps that is what this specific time is about:  returning, like the rose, to our deepest, truest selves, despite the rubble (or even in appreciation of it), knowing that while the rubble can teach us, it cannot contain us.  When we return to our deepest selves, we find our Creator, the One who formed us out of nothing but desire, the One who knit us together and called us wonderful, and we begin to bloom once more. Blessings to you. ~Rosemary

Lenten Roses are a perennial plant. A member of the buttercup family, they bloom near Lent and require little care.

Think of it as hibernation
or incubation
or even dormancy
but call it what it is—
driven beneath the soil
to disappear
to be no more. At least for now.
There is no choice
when a fiery revolving sword
and resolute cherubim
bar your return.
In the dark, you dream, you weep
for all
that has been lost—
your splendor gone
your essence buried
your precious names forgotten:
Christmas Rose, Elegance Pearl,
Ivory Prince, that made you
while above, wrens skitter
in brittle-brown leaves.

But I want to know
what the turning was like—
the desire to push back
the resolve to reach up
the Self-love that broke
through time-worn debris
to proclaim
“Here I am”
and show buds like roses
that unfold in the purple hues
of Lent.

© Rosemary McMahan

Lenten Rose in full bloom, 2020


Ocean City Beach, Maryland

February 19, 2021

As I contemplated moving from ashes to hope during this yearly transition between winter and spring, and giving to instead of giving up for Lent, I noticed this sign during a recent beach visit, and it struck me with its mixed message.  Do not take your dog to the beach.  Do not sleep on the beach.  (Not even a nap?) Do not drink alcohol on the beach, particularly in forbidden glass containers, do not set off fireworks, and do not play music.  But, YES!  Have fun!  How similar, I thought, to our various organized and institutionalized religions.  Each presents us with a long list of “do not’s” and then commands, “But, YES!  Love God!”  It’s rather difficult to love a Being that is akin to a task masker, especially when the beach patrol is always watching to make sure we follow the rules.

My own spiritual journey and love-relation with the Divine have been varied and have taken me places I never would have dreamed of going.  Currently, I am an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA), which has its own particular codes, rules, and regulations and is known for “doing things decently and in order.”  Doesn’t that sound fun?  But one of the tenets I most appreciate that helps me overlook the others is the belief that we are created “to glorify God and to enjoy God forever.”  What?  Enjoy God? That’s not what I was taught as a child.  Aren’t we supposed to fear God, keep our distance from God, bow down before God, try to please God, earn at least a little of God’s respect?  Avoid punishment at all costs?  What is this enjoy business about?  And how does a person do it?

I once had a conversation with a spiritual confidante concerning what I felt God wanted me to do with my life.  His reply was, “Maybe God wants you to do what you want to do.”  I still remember being stunned by that reply, which at first hearing I was sure could not be correct.  No one in my life had ever come close to suggesting such a thing.  But over the years, I’ve pondered his remark and have, at times, allowed it to direct me toward tasks and occupations that I did, indeed, want to do and that not only gave me life, but also gave others life.  I also allowed his remark to help me close doors when I no longer wanted (or, rather, felt called to) stay in a certain position.  That advice nudged me on a path toward choosing love over obligation and then mysteriously moved me closer to loving and to enjoying the Creator who desires to love and enjoy me.

In this time of Lent or seasonal transition, as daylight lasts a bit longer and a few signs suggest I may have one foot out of the ashes, I am giving to myself, to the world, and to the Divine, who created me—and you–something I want to do, which is to create with words. When we find ourselves caught up in what delights us and gives us life, when we are using the gifts the Universe has granted us, we do find one particular way to enjoy God.  Theologian and spiritual author Frederick Buechner had that figured out when he wrote, “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

The beach, by the way, was very wild, beautiful, and free just beyond that sign which reminded me to release the “Do not’s” and instead embrace the “Do’s,” the “Do’s” that feed not only my heart and spirit, but hopefully the hearts and spirits of others.  I invite you to do the same.  The world needs whatever we have to give, and God is waiting for our enjoyment.  Blessings to you. ~ Rosemary

Ash Wednesday

Feb. 17, 2021

And we are put on earth a little space
That we might learn to bear the beams of love.

William Blake                                                 

No matter where we have lived this past year, we all have one experience in common:  the pandemic. We all know how it feels to have our personal freedom and choices and pleasures denied as a deadly virus swept over the globe and continues to spread and infect.  We all have experienced to a certain extent what existing in a perpetual Lent feels like.  I assume you have given up some of the same things as I have:  being with family during holidays; having dinner with friends; going out to eat or to the movies; attending our places of worship as a community.  Further, we all are entering a second year, a second time, of honoring our seasons of atonement during this pandemic.  If we knew last year what we know now and how long this would last, would we have made it to this point?  Yet here we are.

We have given up and fasted from so much that it is beyond my own ability to even consider giving up something else this Lent.  Instead, I have been led to reflect on giving to—giving to myself in ways that lead me closer to the Light; giving to the world through whatever it may receive or glean from my words; giving attention to beauty over ugliness; giving the practice of Love over the hate that permeates my own country, the United States; giving light instead of darkness.  What the Spirit is leading me to this Lent is a journey of the heart.

In the book The Awakened Heart by spiritual psychiatrist Gerald May, now deceased yet one of my guides, he invites his readers to reflect on all the varied messages about God they have received throughout their lives—in childhood, from religious authorities, from parents, into adulthood, including their own perceptions of God.  Then he advises to let all of those go—just throw them to the wind, so to speak—and to, instead, “let God be God.”  We can’t, after all, put God in a box, though God knows how hard we try.  Then May continues in his own grace-filled way to add, “And let you be you.”  Sit with that guidance for a bit.

To let God be God requires an awful lot of trust.  To let me be me requires an awful lot of compassion.  So, the journey of Lent this year is a real invitation to go inward, to seek God in the holiest of holies, that place within our hearts where only God and I (or only God and you) are present.  It is there, if we go with trust and with compassion, that we will begin to be able to give.  Blessings to you.   ~ Rosemary

Sifting Ashes

What would you do
if you were invited
to enter your heart
in this season
of self-honesty?
If you were encouraged
to leave reason and judgment
behind and instead
ask grace to be your
Would you accept the flashlight
offered when you crossed
the threshold, the decoder ring
needed to decipher
each message that begs
Could you look?
Once inside, would you willingly
sift through the ashes
that have accumulated
over your life
like the layers
of cinder in your
unswept fireplace?
Finger the silt-soft remains
of grief, remorse, regret,
guilt, even shame,
letting them fall
through your fingers
like the fair hair
of a child?
For here, you will hear
the stories that make you
you, filled with ashes
and hope, shadows and light, death
and life.

And after you have sat
among the ashes,
know that it is your choice
to decide which to wash away,
which to bury, and which
to hold to your heart
like a locket,
as you emerge
to breathe the bright air
of Spring.

©  Rosemary McMahan

Lent 2021: From Ashes to Hope

Winter Honeysuckle

Feb. 16, 2021

Honesty alert! It would be a challenge for me to try to write a Lenten blog from anything other than a Christian perspective, since I have been a Christian my entire life.  Yet my hope is that this blog will resonate with anyone who has felt like it is time to rise from the ashes of this last year of pandemic and politics, or to rise from the ashes of any past event that burdens or wearies or makes us feel less-than. Like the honeysuckle that blooms even in the bitter cold of winter, we, too, have the Creator-given potential to birth beauty and hope and to be nurtured by both.

So many faith traditions offer a time of metanoia, an invitation to contemplate one’s life intentionally and do a turn-around or a turn-toward or a turn-back-to that which is bigger than we are, be it God, Christ, Yahweh, Allah, Spirit, the Divine, the Universe, the Source of All Being, a Higher Power.  Lent, Ramadan, and Yom Kippur are just a sampling of such seasons of intentionality, fasting, and soul-searching.  None of us, no matter what we believe or where we come from or what we look like, will get through this life without experiencing some sort of “ash” event which has the power to leave us stuck, send us in a downward spiral, or lift us to some new awareness and a life-giving transformation.  This blog is not so much about what we give up in these ash-filled times but instead is about what we can give to make ourselves and our world more whole, more loving, more sacred.  That is, after all, the root meaning of the word “sacrifice”:  to make holy.

So I invite anyone who is open to going on a journey that may meander outside the safe boxes of what our particular religions, or our own secular beliefs, have taught (or constricted?) us to explore how we can transition from ashes to hope.  On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I will be sharing my own musings, poetry, and music along the way, counting on ancient spiritual guides.  My hope is that you will share your musings and reflections in return and that, together, we may turn toward Love.

Blessings to you. ~ Rosemary

Groundhog Day Prayers

February 2, 2021

If you watched Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day in 1993 (can it really be that long ago?), then you know the premise—Murray’s character, Phil, awakens to the same day again and again and again.  That is how my prayer life–not to mention my actual life–has felt during these long months of plague and politics.  Day after day, again and again, I lift up all those affected by Covid; those who are seriously ill or dying; those who are unemployed and struggling; those who are waiting for vaccinations (including me); those who are living alone, like my daughter; those who are the decision-makers; those giving care in the medical field; and especially those in my circle of friends and family who have been touched by the virus, even as I ask for a circle of protection around those I love.  Each day.  Again and again. 

Then I lift up those in political leadership and ask for hearts to turn from anger to cooperation; to turn from selfishness to servanthood, to turn from deceit to truth.  I ask for protection for those who have been threatened by violence and courage for leaders to denounce such threats, to serve country instead of a person.  I ask that the United States become united in compassion and generosity and good stewardship.  Over and over.  And on some weary days, I simply lift all my prayers in one bundle:  “Here are my Groundhog Day prayers.”  Again.  I doubt I am alone.

We often place great expectations on God or the Universe or a Higher Power.  If we “rub the lamp” the right way, a spiritual genie will appear who will grant all our wishes and correct our mistakes, and do so quickly.  But when that genie isn’t forthcoming, or doesn’t respond in the way that we wish and at the moment we desire, how do we persevere in prayer?  In hope?  What resources do we need to hold on for the long term? Or, why even bother if no one is listening?

Life has never been easy. Simply reflect on the lives of people who have gone before us and what they modeled for us. I remember my mother who was widowed after 34 years of marriage and went on to live more years widowed than married.  I think of how she lost a three-year old daughter to leukemia, despite her prayers, and then, much later, her beloved firstborn son died unexpectedly in his sleep.  Yet she went on.  My mother held to a deeply-rooted belief that she was not alone, and she often repeated her favorite phrase from the ancient mystic, Julian of Norwich:  “All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”  Whether things were actually “well” or not, my mother stay grounded even while her life unfolded in unexpected ways.

What resources do I need to hold tight to that same conviction as I lift my same prayers?  Trust, yes, but also patience.  Perhaps we can’t have one without the other.  I also need encouragement from others who remind me that, at some point, at least “some” things will be well again, and some things are well, even now.  I need wisdom to make life-giving and light-giving choices, and I need a wellspring of compassion for all who inhabit this same world as I do.

To answer the question, Why bother if no one is listening? At the end of Groundhog Day, “Phil” has changed, been refined, even redeemed to a certain degree.  He learns how to love and receive love.  His life moves on, in a more meaningful and aware way.  Instead of staying stuck, focused only on himself, he is able to give. As I continue to lift my Groundhog Day prayers, I ask that they be received as a gift for this world, not a long list of requests to a God who must also be so weary. Even if these prayers aren’t answered in my time and in my way, I, too, may be changed, refined, even redeemed by the very act of gifting and praying them.  Instead of staying stuck, or giving up, I turn toward the world in a new way. Blessings ~ Rosemary

Asking for Guides

Northern Wales

January 27, 2021

“Stand at the crossroads and look; and ask for the ancient paths where the good ways lies and walk in it, and find rest for your souls.”  Jer. 6:16

I enrolled in an online course this past fall that explored the interplay between contemplative practices, such as meditation and prayer, and the creative arts.  We spent a good deal of time discussing ancient wisdom that comes from those who walked these life-journeys before us, and at one point in the course, each participant was invited to imagine a personal guide or guides.  Having a past guide is no stranger than believing in angels or totem animals, after all.  As Hamlet phrased it so well to Horatio, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies,” as well as in mine, so I opened myself to who might appear.

At first, however, I struggled with who I would like to guide me on my spiritual and creative writing journey.  Certain friends and relatives, now deceased, who had influenced me in some way came to mind, but I wanted to “save” them for something else.  It wasn’t until I stopped to sit on a boulder in the woods that two guides came to me; and then, from them, two more appeared.

Sitting in the woods, I can’t say I was surprised that Mother Earth and Stillness showed up to offer themselves.  Nature has been my lifeline during this pandemic.  I have noticed the trees in each season more than I have ever noticed them before, along with the distinct spiritual lessons they offer.  Stillness has often been my companion, and again, sitting in quiet, in the heart of God (however we envision or call God), has been another anchor.  So I quickly and gratefully embraced them both.

Over the next several weeks, Sophia knocked on my heart’s door.  Who doesn’t need Wisdom in these trying and uncertain times?  The Book of Proverbs, an ancient text, is filled with the steadfastness that Wisdom offers, including the request to seek guidance.  And then Ruach, the Spirit of Creation, the Spirit of God, the Ancient Wind that has blown for eternity, reminded me that it has been with me since a very distinct occurrence in my adolescence.  Of course, I have often relied on Ruach spiritually, and now I open to its presence creatively, as well.

Each guide in my circle holds deep, deep experience and prudence, along with constancy and grounding, and open-handed steadfast connection.  Each understands with a special reverence all that this journey requires, and so I am grateful.  Who might your personal guides might be? Stand at the crossroads and ask. Blessings to you ~ Rosemary

Ancient Paths
Stand at the crossroads and look; and ask for the ancient paths. Jer. 6:16

Stand at the crossroads and ask,
says the prophet, and so I do
calling on Sophia clothed
in sun to guide me
with ageless wisdom, illuminating
my crowded mind, bringing
to light the myriad memories
hidden within my heart
with her golden whisper.
I invite Gaia, Mother Earth,
arrayed in verdant garments
stitched with woodlands
from Eden’s landscape
to instruct me
in gentle acceptance,
grounding and courage
that the constancy of oak and hickory
reveal. I ask Ruach
ancient silver breath to blow
invisible across my soul, my senses
and hover over my chaos
in blessing, while I beseech
Stillness, swathed in the blue of sea,
to embrace me in the wind
to point direction
in the nodding of each wildflower
so that each step I take is not
just another step toward
life’s ending, but part of
the journey to

© Rosemary McMahan

Breathing Again

January 21, 2021

Yesterday, Inauguration Day here in the States, was, for me, a great release.  I felt I was able to let go a burden of fear and anxiety and disbelief and confusion and hurt that I have been shouldering for the last four years.  I recognize that many, many others feel very differently, and my heart holds compassion for them.  I wish I had the answer for how we bridge that gap which divides.  I lift all of us, this country, to the Light that taught us acts of violence and violent rhetoric cannot be our response.  Words have spirit.  Words carry both the power of life, and of death.  So yesterday’s words from all who spoke offered a much-needed respite of hope, light, healing, unity, and new beginnings.  I felt, at least for the day, that I could breathe again.

I understand that yesterday, January 20, 2021, was a kind of oasis-moment, that we haven’t seen the last of discord and turmoil, that we are still caught in the darkness that plague and politics have settled on us.  But my sincerest hope is that we will all, no matter what our beliefs and convictions, be still enough to breathe, be still enough to allow the Light to shine our way homeward.

January 7, 2021
the day following assault on the Nation’s Capitol

Dozens of birds invade the feeder
more than I’ve ever witnessed
they dart from the leaden sky
from bare limbs wrens and finches
cardinals nuthatches
black-capped chickadees a red-bellied
woodpecker. They shove
dart flitter hover
anxious for the shiny black
seed that spills
like sand from an hour glass.
What do they know? Hear?
What have they sensed in the bitter
vibrations of rage and fear
hatred and betrayal
emanating from the land of the free
where freedom lies as broken
as Capitol windows as shattered
as battered doors? Do they feed now
while they can as much as they can
uncertain if someone will be here
tomorrow to lavish them with seed
eager to fly elsewhere anywhere
An omen prediction foreshadowing
beating wings image desperation until
here a finch stops
in the midst of frenzy
holds stillness
shares a seed with its mate who receives
it delicately slowly.
In that single gesture,
I breathe again.

 ©  Rosemary McMahan

When the Light Goes Out

January 16, 2021

For the first time in my life, I have a “Winter Tree” in my home.  After removing the Christmas ornaments, I felt a deep yearning for light and more light and was resistant to taking down the tree.  A friend of mine suggested that I replace the ornaments with snowflakes to make the tree seasonal, which I did.  Since it rarely snows here, the Winter Tree reminds me to focus on both Light and Beauty. 

I was rather disappointed and a bit surprised, then, when I walked into my den shadowed in morning to discover that an entire strand of lights had gone out—100 tiny bulbs of darkness.  Was this some kind of omen?  It’s easy to miss the light in the unease of plague and politics.

I lit a fire, settled in my chair with a cup of coffee, and evaluated the tree.  How could this happen when I was relying so much on the beauty now marred by the swath of shadow across the bottom of the tree?  What to do when the light goes out?  I could have just let it be.  Most of the lights still shone, and there is a metaphorical reality about the presence of shadows and light in life.

But I wanted more light.  All the light.

I admit it took an effort on a cold, lazy Saturday morning to give up my coffee, my place by the fire, my personal musings, and climb the stairs to the frigid attic.  It took some effort to rummage through decorations that I had already packed away for next year in hopes of discovering a string of white lights.  It took desire to unravel those lights and then wind them in and out of snowflakes suspended on the tips of limbs.  It was all worth it as the glow returned.

This ordinary experience led me to wonder about all those who believe that the light has gone out—those fearful about the new administration and those concerned about the previous one; those I know who are burying spouses who died from Covid-19 and those anxious about whether they will contract Covid before they receive their vaccinations; those whose hearts literally ache from missing the fellowship of family, grandchildren, friends, and those who have given up caring or given in to despair.  These lights also shine for them, especially for them.

Sometimes it takes intentionality and desire to stir in us before we can relight our lamps.  Sometimes it takes perseverance and faith.  Yet the smallest match can illuminate the darkest room, and a chilly attic becomes a small inconvenience for the reminder that darkness can only hide; it can never win.

When There are No Words

January 10, 2021

As we continue our journey, it seems, in a way, like a lifetime ago that Jan. 6, 2021, happened, instead of five short days.  Perhaps that is how time manages nightmares.  Yet each and every image haunts me, much like two burning skyscrapers on Sept. 9, 2001, still haunt me almost twenty years later.  I cannot look at anymore photos because some horrors are too great to be erased.

There are no words to describe what I saw unfolding as hordes of thugs and insurrectionists swarmed into our nation’s Capitol building to protest and undo what is sacred to democracy:  a free and fair election process and peaceful transfer of power.

There are no words to describe how I felt hearing a sitting president and other elected officials spilling lies to an angry crowd ready to believe their false words over those of sixty-plus courts, including the highest in the land, who have thrown out any accusations of voter foul play.

There are no words to describe hearing the news of a murdered policeman, doing his duty, being turned upon by the very people their party claims to hold in honor.  There are no words for this officer’s family that can offer any solace.

There are no words to describe how I feel while I await January 20, a monumental and celebratory day in any administration.  What was going to be relief is now anxiety; what was going to be hope is now concern.

There are no words to justify those who continue to support, approve, defend, or rationalize the actions caused by a person who lives in a mental state of denial when such support, approval, defense, and justification are putting lives in danger, are putting our nation in danger.  There are no words when I no longer feel safe in my own country.

There are no words to describe my fear for my children, my granddaughter; there are no words that I can use to imagine what their futures might look like.

There are no words to understand how multitudes of people would disagree vehemently with everything I’ve just written.

Make no mistake.  We live in a land of deep darkness; we dwell in “the land of the shadow of death,” as the ancient guide Isaiah wrote.  Political upheaval aside, Covid-19 took more lives this past week in my state than any other time since the pandemic began, including my cousin’s husband.  People gathered for the holidays.  They ignored the rules.  They infected innocent others.  Many just didn’t care.  Many still don’t, as they cast doubt and suspicion on the vaccinations that would save them.  And us.  There are no words.

Two thousand years ago, another ancient guide, the Christian apostle Paul, described a similar time in Rome: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains.”  Our country, perhaps our world, is in labor.  Something is being birthed, and having experienced two births, I know that birth is not easy or painless or pretty or devoid of anxiety and concern.  Birthing anything hurts.  Another spiritual guide, psychiatrist and theologian Gerald May, wrote in his book The Awakened Heart that “Neither the cosmos nor the earth, neither life nor death, is ever in perfect repose.  The universe is always happening, endlessly changing, finding greater beauty, seeking deeper harmony.  Life in all creation is breaking up and gathering together, destroying and birthing.”  Destroying and birthing.  The question for each one of us, especially those who follow the Light and desire to be Light-bearers, is what do we want that new creation to be?  Are we willing to step forward, to step out of our own dullness and safety zones, to aid in the birthing of a country made in the image of its Creator, of a loving and compassionate Universe, instead of in the image of one of us?

When there are no words, I read a little further in Paul’s letter to the Romans who were new Light-followers living in a world not so dissimilar to ours, and I anchor my soul in his words:  “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.”  So I sit in silence and allow Spirit to pray from the very being of my heart, to pray with all my heart, for this new creation being birthed.  I know others are doing so, as well–fellow pilgrims on the way.

And when my hope falters, as it does from time to time, I recall the words of the philosopher George Santayana who asserted that “The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns.”

The spirit struggles to the light.  Yes, the light shines on, maybe just in flickers or glimmers, but it is there.  It is why my Christmas tree is still up, not as a holiday tree, but now as a winter tree, with snowflakes and white bulbs that remind me to look at the world through the eyes of the Christ, the Light, the One who could see through the darkness to the beauty and courage within.  Perhaps the only word needed now is Amen.  May it be so.

A New Year’s Litany for Light

Journeying forward together, we rely on the wisdom of ancient practices and guides.  For those not familiar with the word, a litany is an ancient prayer form composed of a series of petitions/requests usually followed by a communal repeated refrain.  As we cross the threshold into the unknowns of 2021 and leave behind what, for many, will be the worst year of their lives, and for all of us a most uncomfortable and uncertain time, a ritual of some kind beyond drinking a glass of champagne beckons, a ritual that acknowledges the darkness but also opens itself to hope and blessing, a litany for this new year.  This litany is based loosely on the promises found in the Old Testament Book of the ancient guide Isaiah, Chapters 60 and 65.

Litany for Light

That a new heaven and a new earth spring from the hurt, pain, grief, and discord of 2020. . .

May it be so.

That the former things we remember will transform us into people who walk in light and in hope . . .

May it be so.

That the sound of weeping throughout the world may turn into rejoicing . . .

May it be so.

That newborns and elderly may thrive together in peace and equity . . .

May it be so.

That those in need of housing and food will find generosity and compassion instead of fear and prejudice . . .

May it be so.

That children born in this new year will not be children of calamity but children of blessing . . .

May it be so.

That the wolf and the lamb shall cross aisles and join together to serve the common good . . .

May it be so.

That nations, together, will come to the Light . . .

May it be so.

That all lions shall turn their hearts to the Light and lead with mercy, wisdom, compassion, and fairness . . .

May it be so.

That no one shall be hurt or destroyed by our own and others’ desires for power, wealth, control, and greed . . .

May it be so.

That the Light that has come, is coming, and will continue to come into the world for ALL people will flow down on this earth like molten gold and be received with exultation and wonder . . .

May it be so.

That each one of us will be drawn to the Light, believe in our belovedness and in the spark of our own indwelling Light and recognize that same belovedness and light in each other . . .

May it be so.

God of All Creation, empower us to walk in the Light and to sing a new song.  Let us say “yes” to the year ahead even as the shadows of 2020 linger.  Let us be among those who strive for peace, unity, service, and love and set aside our own agendas, desires, prejudices, labels, and especially our fears.  Let us be people of humble gratitude who anchor ourselves in the joy of Your Presence.  May it be so.

Blessings~ Rosemary

A gift for you from Kathryn Marquis: