What a spiritual fellow I am.

I kicked my religious interest into high gear yesterday and went to two, that’s right, count ‘em, two churches in one day.

After all, it was the First Sunday in Advent for those of us who espouse the Christian faith and why not attend two services? Like two for the price of one.

I figured I might not go back for weeks because I am a busted protestant, often terribly skeptical and full of doubt, an old fashioned sinner man by any other name. That’s why I “reckon on” a whole lot of grace to get me through the journey.

Sometimes I don’t go to church for months and when I do, I usually find my place in the Episcopal Church because it is a place where I feel at home and at least they don’t take the bible literally or cram religion down your throat and they use a little reason and human experience and a touch of tradition to make it all easier to swallow. There are some trappings, but silly trappings are everywhere, whatever the name over the door.

For my friends who read this journal and are atheists or agnostics or skeptics or are downright nasty critics of religion while claiming enlightenment, you might as well stop reading at this point, for you may not like what I have to say.

I mean no offense when I say you are really not much different than some of the folks on the other side of the table. Both sides of the table claim to have seen the light but I still see an awful lot of darkness in our world. In fact, truth be told, we’re all pretty much in the same boat and the way I see it is, we will worship someone or something higher than ourselves or we will worship ourselves.

I liked what I heard in church yesterday. I heard about an organization called “Advent Conspiracy” which estimates Americans will spend $450 billion dollars this year on Christmas presents. Now what the hell is that about?

Sounds to me like a consumer driven, self-absorbed society which still hasn’t learned the lessons of the recent economic disasters. Sounds like capitalism at its worst. And what would $450 billion dollars do to help at least some of struggling humanity solve some problems?

And where did we get so off track in the first place when it comes to the original stories of our various religious heritages? And whatever happened to the core of religious faith which is love your neighbor as yourself? And what happened to the simple: 1) Do justice; 2) Love Mercy; 3) Walk humbly with God.

The Advent theme in the Christian world has to do with stumbling and struggling in darkness, the longing for some light, the coming of some light. And whether one is Christian or Muslim or Jewish or whatever, we all know something about darkness and don’t we all long for some light? And aren’t there many paths to the light?

I had dinner last night with a good man who poured out his journey in conversation. Like me, he struggles with the darkness. He said he spent his twenties, smoking pot. He spent his thirties, pursuing a career. He spent his forties enjoying a nice home and all the trappings. Now he’s in his fifties without a job, fighting depression and considering what his life may be.

And isn’t he just like the rest of us? Trying to fill the empty, lonely places with something? Isn’t it just possible that in the far spent darkness, there is some hope and part of the hope is in our common struggle for some light?

Those magnificent colors of autumn are gone.

What remains are barren trees, naked branches silhouetted against grey skies of the approaching winter.

I usually fight this time of year. I would just as soon walk on sunshine, bask in the warmth of spring, gather vegetables from the garden on a hot summer day, and yet the longer I live the more I try at least to embrace the changing seasons.

The seasons remind me of the depth of the life I have been given. They teach me the importance of embracing each day as it comes for there is in fact a rhythm to the journey, a time for all things.

I suppose that is what draws me most intimately to the sacred moments I spend in monasteries. Somehow those "strange" men, altogether human, discover a rhythm, a flow, an order of living with each changing season. They wait in silence and open their hands to the changing light and darkness of the days and nights. They remind me that life does not have to be lived in a cloistered setting in order to learn the secrets of the seasons.

May Sarton was a wonderful observer of nature. I hear she was a crusty ole New Englander in some ways but I know she was never more lovely than when she wrote of her observations in nature. She wrote, "Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain...Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go."

Those barren trees out my window remind me to let it go. Let go of whatever there is in the past which troubles my journey. Let go of unkind words spoken, or unkind deeds done, by others. Let go of my own pettiness, smallness, ugliness, apathy or indifference. Let go of wrongs inflicted and received just yesterday or years ago. Let it go. Let it all pass.

This is the season of barrenness and I want to embrace it as it is.

Threads of the same tapestry of our common humanity were woven together in conversations I shared this week in Alabama with a young black man and an old white man.

The African American lives in a community where there is an immense struggle to survive day to day. He has lost his job because of the economic downturn. He is a student of history, particularly the history of the south. He is a lover of poetry, the arts, creative writing. He is a wonderfully articulate fellow who wants to get an advanced degree so he can teach history.

He is the offspring of the civil rights movement and recounted stories he has been told since he was a child about his mother who was part of the movement of children in Birmingham in the sixties when children marched for justice, equality.

He told me his mama was maybe twelve or thirteen years of age when she walked house to house, encouraging adults to register to vote. Her feet were so swollen that she could barely walk but she kept the faith, held on to the dream, never gave up.

When he was in college he got to do some international travel. We both shed tears when he told me about standing in a small room in Ghana, Africa from which the great majority of slaves were sent to America. He said the guide closed the door to the room and reminded those present that this was the holding room, called the “Point of No Return” and that the other door soon to be opened would be to the ocean and the ship which would carry the slaves from their homes, their families, and all they had known to an unknown world of fear and terror.

The Caucasian I spent some time with is now eighty-six years of age. He was my spiritual mentor in my formative years and to him I owe a debt I can never repay. He poured into me the idea of equality for all people. He was a fiery prophet, a minister in the local church where I grew up. In the turbulent sixties, he was moved from five churches because he would not be silent on the issue of civil rights. He was despised by the laity of the churches he served but his voice was one of clarity, integrity.

I asked him to tell me where his courage came from, what drove him on, what book he read, which professor instilled in him a passion for social justice. He told me there was no book, no professor, rather, his parents taught him that all people are of value and worth and that we are all one human family. He simply said, “I knew it was a sin against Almighty God to treat anyone as less than fully human and worthy of respect and appreciation.”

Maybe it was the other thing he told me which helped me understand his journey the most. He said when his father was a baby, his father was nursed at the breast of a black woman who loved him and cared for him.

I am reminded of the profound words of Haile Selassie who said,

“Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war and until there are no longer first-class and second-class citizens of any nation, until the color of a man's skin is of no more significance than the color of his eyes. And until the basic human rights are equally guaranteed to all without regard to race, there is war. And until that day, the dream of lasting peace, world citizenship, rule of international morality, will remain but a fleeting illusion to be pursued, but never attained... now everywhere is war.”

I tell you, there will never be a time when we can forget our history. There will never be a time when we can be silent regarding the things which matter.

The book I have been waiting for arrived yesterday.

It’s The Father & His Two Sons , lovely images or artists’ conceptions through the ages of the story of the prodigal son which some suggest may be more about the loving father than anything else.

Whether one espouses a certain perspective on spirituality or embraces a particular religion, maybe most of us could agree, the story is a compelling human one with which we readily and easily identify.

It is about those very human conditions and or emotions we all share: wandering, struggle, forgiveness, acceptance, coming home.

It is the story I am most drawn to in the scripture, the one I have thought the most about over the past twenty years or so for any number of reasons. Some reasons I am beginning to understand. Others I hope to know more about in the future.

I have been collecting drawings, depictions of the story for quite some time. I’ve sat in the gardens at the Washington National Cathedral for hours and gazed at the representation of the father and the son. I remember a sculpture of the prodigal in California which captivated my attention. Many years ago I spent the night on a train from Moscow to Saint Petersburg and a visit to the Hermitage in part to see Rembrandt’s original rendering of the moment of embrace between the father and the son.

I could go on but there is no more time today to write what I feel in my heart, what my mind tells me about this story except to quote Paul Tillich, the theologian, who wrote in his book The Courage to Be, these words: “It is faith that allows grace to do its work, faith….is the courage to accept the acceptance of the unacceptable, namely oneself.”

It has taken a long time for me to accept the acceptance of the unacceptable. If I ever get that down right, perhaps I will have made some progress. Oh, how I allow society, and sometimes even distorted religious views, to influence my thinking.

Maybe that is what draws me deeply and intimately to the story of the father who, seeing his son a far ways off, goes running in his direction, wraps his arms around him and accepts him just like he is.

And, maybe, just maybe, there is a model there for the way I, a very human and broken vessel, would like to embrace others.

By Pablo Neruda
(translated by Margaret Sayers Peden)

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera,
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it’s time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth,
recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Today I cried tears of joy when I received the voucher which assures the opportunity to see Michelangelo’s paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on New Year’s Eve.

I noticed in the Writer’s Almanac yesterday that Pope Julius II chose All Saints Day in 1512 to display the paintings on the ceiling for the first time. The Almanac reads, “The work required Michelangelo to apply wet plaster to the ceiling and then paint over it before it dried, and he had to do this on more than 10,000 square feet, more than 60 feet about the ground.”

This was on my “Bucket List” as well as viewing Michelangelo’s The David at the Galleria dell’ Academia in Florence which I will see earlier in the last week of December.

But, first things first. In a couple of weeks I will spend some time in Alabama with my spiritual mentor and the person who has perhaps most significantly influenced my life.

He’s now an old man but I remember him as a fiery young prophet when it came to civil rights during the turbulence of the sixties. He instilled in me a conviction regarding the dignity and rights of all people, perhaps the most important gift I ever received, and I owe him more than I can ever express.

Then in early December, I want to do some digging around in Georgia on the life and work of Lillian Smith. She, too, was a prophet who was not afraid to embrace controversial matters of race and gender equality.

Prophets are always a little more difficult to stomach or to understand. They unsettle us and call us to places we sometimes would just as soon not go, but, how we need them to help us find our way in the wilderness.

Most all of us know the masterpieces of Michelangelo. A few may know the voice and work of Lillian Smith. Only a handful of people know the prophet who has most influenced my journey. All three, in their own unique ways, bring joy to my heart on an autumn day and remind me that every day we cast shadows of influence which will never die.

I can not tell you how much I love this time of year, especially the clear autumn nights and the mornings before dawn when I walk and even for brief moments gaze at the vast and immense universe.

All my puny worries and frets seem nothing in comparison to what I sense and feel and I am reminded not to take the bumps and bruises, nicks and scrapes, of everyday life too seriously. I am reminded that my tiny spot on earth is so very finite in comparison to all that is beyond where I live.

There was an image taken by Voyager 1 in 1990 as the spacecraft left earth for the fringes of the solar system. Engineers took one last look at our planet and captured a portrait of our world which inspired Carl Sagan to write an essay in 1994 entitled Pale Blue Dot. Here are some of Sagan's words~

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every 'superstar,' every 'supreme leader,' every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."

Thank you, Mr. Sagan, for helping me put it all kind of in perspective.

I suppose my favorite monument in D C is the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial.

I go there every time I am in Washington to remember FDR’s extraordinary leadership as president, spanning a long history from 1933-1945.

He led the United States through some mighty turbulent times. Many of his words are etched into the memory and consciousness of a grateful nation. We all know he led the country through the Great Depression and the Second World War and he helped Americans think in terms of hope when fear gripped the nation.

I was a little down last night as I thought about the difficult days through which we are traveling as a country. There have been some signs of recovery but we are certainly still in some deep woods not only economically but culturally and in so many other ways.

History tells us on the wall of Roosevelt’s Oval Office there were some words. Some may say they sound like another Pollyannaish political cliché. I think they are not a cliche at all, rather profound in their simplicity.

Just four words: Let unconquerable gladness dwell

Actually the words are from the Episcopal Prayer Book: “O God, Author of the world’s joy, Bearer of the world’s pain; At the heart of all our trouble and sorrow let unconquerable gladness dwell….”

Life can have a way of caving in on us both personally and collectively. I would like to "let unconquerable gladness dwell" in my life regardless of whatever circumstances may exist or come my way.

I don’t know what attracts an old liberal like me to a conservative columnist like David Brooks of The New York Times but, I like him. There are conservatives in the world who are rational, insightful, and imaginative.

I read most everything Brooks writes. His op-ed this week entitled The Fatal Conceit where he begins with “Humans are overconfident creatures” is a fine piece of work, but how quickly I digress.

I find his words on gay marriage particularly compelling.

He offers a straight-forward, inequitable word when he writes: “We should not only allow gay marriage, we should insist on gay marriage. We should regard it as scandalous that two people could claim to love one another and not want to sanctify that love with marriage and fidelity.”

No mincing of words. No conditional phrases. No moral ambiguity. No compromise. Simply, “We should insist on gay marriage.”

Reminds me a bit of Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong, long time advocate of the dignity and worth and rights of gay people and his recent A Manifesto! The Time Has Come! and his words, “I have made a decision. I will no longer debate the issue of homosexuality in the church with anyone.”

And what a silly proposal Pope Benedict made recently to welcome radical conservative Anglicans into his fold who oppose Bishop Gene Robinson and have other sexually related grievances with their communion. It seems like such a "brotherly" thing to do on the pope's part but I think I'll just side with a friend of mine's take on it: "It miffs me slightly that the only reason they are doing it is to provide a haven for Anglican homophobia. On the other hand, it can be said that homosexuals have wrought one of the greatest changes on Rome since the 11th Century!"


I think it is just about time, past time, to do what is right in this regard. I may not live long enough to see gay marriage as simply a way of life in this country, but, the day will come.

And we should insist on it.

Atheism has gotten strong press in the last year or so.

Every so often I pick up a new book where some enlightened author has finally figured it out.

Religion is a hoax. It’s all mumbo jumbo. It’s a fairy tale for weak people who can’t stand on their own two feet and think for themselves. It’s where puny folks run off to when real life gets too much. How could any rational, reasonable person accept the idea that there is anything or anyone other than us?

Some people delight to skewer religion. They take the worst representations of religion and run hard and fast with what they see as the truth. And, let’s be honest, there are times when religion deserves to be skewered.

I’ve seen enough sick religion in my lifetime to turn my stomach.

I have done my share of struggling with the whole idea of religion. There are those moments when it is easy to believe. And, yes, there are those times when I am not so sure. I guess it is in the doubt, the crucible of questioning, when there is a possibility of faith in something more.

I recently read the story of a journalist named Spencer Case who was working in Iraq. Case is a self-described atheist, but there were two occasions when he was in Iraq when he felt the impulse to pray.

One was when his camp was under attack by enemy mortars and the other was when he slept under the stars in a desolate part of western Iraq, and was struck by the contrast between the human-made chaos in that country and the beauty and order of the universe.

Case said those experiences prompted him to pray this prayer: “Dear God, I have come to the conclusion you probably don't exist, but I have also come to the conclusion that I might be mistaken, however unlikely the odds may seem. If you are there, if I'm wrong, you know where to find me. Amen.”

Somewhere, deep inside me, I have a suspicion God knows where to find me.

I went to the woods today for what the old-timers referred to as the Sabbath Rest.

Life has a way of crowding in on a man, pushing him here and there, squeezing him into a mold which was never intended. If a man is not diligent, he can lose his way, forget what matters, and simply follow whatever voice blows with the changing winds of time.

Thoreau found his longing for simplicity in nature. When Robert Frost found the woods "lovely, dark and deep" he intoned, "but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep." Wendell Berry walked in the woods and gave us his Sabbath Poems. Emerson said nature was God’s original temple. The sages and poets and prophets and thinkers and mystics keep calling us back to rest and renewal. In those spaces of solitude when there is no need for words, only quiet communion, the journey takes on meaning and direction.

Occasionally I stop the merry-go-round. I forget the human voices which crowd in on my days and nights and I listen for something or someone entirely other. And it is in those rare moments when I find a peace and a unity which passes my human understanding.

Yesterday when I walked into the airport for a predawn flight to Dallas, I was still bleary-eyed from the night.

I never sleep well before a flight and I had already been worrying about this and that for hours before I was supposed to go to the airport.

The demands of a stress-filled week at work, the expectation to have a successful business trip, the never ceasing stories of family and friends who are perpetually in some kind of trouble; all of it gets a little overwhelming sometimes.

I was thinking I had just about had enough when I happened upon a sign in the airport which, startling me out of my self-pitying stupor, forced me to wake up.

What the heck were these words doing in an airport at this time of the morning, for God’s sake?

As big as life, I saw the words of Martin Luther King on a sign in front of me: “Life’s most persistent and urgent question is: What are you doing for others?"

I thought, yeah sure. I’m tired already. I’m getting older. I’ve done my part. What about me and my needs?

My analytical, philosophical self kicked in: Well, I think, there’s a balance. Isn’t it healthy to take care of myself? When is enough, enough?

Why did you have to remind me all over again, Martin, especially so early in the morning, of life’s most persistent and urgent question?

I got the opportunity to spend a little time with one of Kentucky’s up and coming authors last night.

He is Erik Reece whose book Lost Mountain about the devastation of mountain top removal caused a lot of people to sit up and take notice.

Reece is a relatively young writer who has given us a couple of books of poetry, My Muse Was Supposed to Meet Me Here and A Short History of the Present. He also complied Field Work: Modern Poems from Eastern Forests as well as A Balance of Quinces: The Paintings and Drawings of Guy Davenport. He’s a busy man quietly observing the landscape of Appalachia and creating art with his pen.

I am particularly drawn to his book, An American Gospel where he suggests the Kingdom of God lies all around us, not in some sweet by and by. He says it is in the natural world where God is most profoundly experienced. Reminds me of part of Wendell Berry's poem "The Wild Geese"~


Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

I’m not sure I need to go off looking for God in some far-flung place or in a sacred book or debate the likelihood that God exists or not. Maybe God is in all that appears ordinary and I suspect God may be right here.

Love is never really a theory or an abstract.

Love is much more than mere words. Love is most likely two human arms outstretched without counting the cost or considering the return on investment.

My soon to be three year old grandson is an illustration of what I mean. He came into our family two years ago after a very long journey. He traveled all the way from Seoul to Beijing to Tokyo to Detroit and straight into our hearts where he has been living ever since.

He and I spotted each other on Saturday from some distance. We went running to each other and I scooped him up into my arms where he nestled his head on my shoulder for what seemed like a very long time. He was in no hurry, nor was I, to let the moment slip away or to rush it along.

Sometime during our visit together he said to me, “I love you all the way to the big moon and back.”

Now that is quite a lot of love I’d say and for the rest of my life every time I look up at the big moon, I will remember his words.

I think of an adult friend some years ago on this matter of love. We were mulling over this and that about our lives; places where we are “not yet” and places where we struggle.

She said to me, “I wouldn’t care if you were a purple kangaroo, I would love you still.”

I’ve never seen a purple kangaroo but they must be quite special, like me.

Call me a sentimental old man if you wish, or even a purple kangaroo, I believe life boils down to our need to be loved and to love.

To save yourself heartwhole
in life, in death, go back
upstream, if you have to swim
ashore and walk.

-from Wendell Berry’s new book of poetry, Leavings

As I age, I think I would just as soon be swimming downstream. I have a suspicion it would be easier that way. Life would be simpler, a bit more pleasant. Settling down is a big temptation.

I remember a lady friend of mine telling me years ago how important it is not to become sedentary. I observe too many people getting lazy when it comes to body, mind, and spirit.

I confess I carry a bit more weight than I would like. I take short-cuts when the long way home might be the better path to travel but I hasten to add, there is still a fire in me that drives me on, makes me curious about life and gives me a passion to explore new possibilities. I would like to embrace what lies ahead without an inordinate amount of consternation or fear and stride hopefully into the future.

I have been engrossed this weekend in a remarkably well prepared paper on the future of the institution where I work. Several gifted people have poured countless, sometimes thankless hours, into what kind of world lies before us. I have been both shaken and gratified to think about the future. It is at once sobering and challenging, scary and thrilling and so very much the stuff of life.

I think Wendell Berry is onto something as he always is. Life is often about swimming upstream, even if you have to walk or crawl or limp along.

I stumbled across Clarence Cason (1898-1935) and his book 90° in the Shade the other day.

The book is fascinating for me because Cason is the only author I ever heard of from my home county in Alabama. He was born in the small town of Ragland and grew up in Talladega where at age five he saw his first lynching of a black man.

Cason graduated from the University of Alabama and worked as a journalist for several newspapers, including The Louisville Courier-Journal, The Washington Times, and The New York Times. He went back to the University and created the department of journalism where he continued to publish essays in national periodicals.

He began collecting his thoughts for 90° in the Shade in the early 1930s. The book is a reflection of his growing up years in the south including his thoughts on climate, agriculture, religion, and, of course, the central thread of southern history which is race.

He committed suicide shortly before the book was published because he feared that the reception would be hostile, particularly what he had to say about religion and race.

By today’s standards, Cason’s words were rather mild, but in his day, he was a prophet, a lonely voice crying in the wilderness. Certainly his writing challenges me to never forget the past or the bloody price which was paid for where we are today.

When Jimmy Carter speaks of racism a lot of people run for cover, particularly the pleasantly packaged politicians of our day on both sides of the aisle. It’s just not nice to say what most of us know is true. We’ve come a long way but the battle is not over.

I think I will hold on to Cason’s book for the rest of my days and be glad for his voice which will never die.

The temple bell stops
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers. -Basho

My Greek friend shared this haiku with me today and I thought it was rather awesome.

The words reminded me of a book I read many years ago entitled Your God is Too Small by J.B. Phillips. It was the author’s contention that there is a temptation to put God in a box, to easily and readily define God in the cultural or religious context in which we were born or we were exposed to in our formative years or to swallow just whatever someone told us about God.

Somehow God gets shrunk into whatever mold we choose to make of God as if God were a resident policeman or a kind old man in the sky or a pal we cozy up to when we are in trouble.

No wonder atheists or agnostics or others of us who struggle with belief, reject some of the trumped up, made up conceptions of God which have been concocted as if God were the property of any particular people. No wonder society languishes without light or hope.

If God is, I would like to believe God is to be experienced even when the temple bell stops and that somehow God is so great that God is seen and heard in every living creature and in all creation and that even a flower growing in concrete or a bird singing in the distance keeps pointing to the glory of God.

My four year old grandson does a mighty mean and more than a little hilarious version of “Heartbreak Hotel.”

He has no idea what loneliness is but he has the Elvis moves down just about right~

You make me so lonely baby,
I get so lonely,
I get so lonely I could die.

I delight to watch the video of my grandson breaking into song and at the same time I am reminded of the loneliness which knocks on the door of a whole lot of people every now and then.

There is plenty of activity to go around in our upwardly mobile world. I stay busy and as curious about life as I know how to be, sometimes to the point of wearing myself down to fill the empty places, but there are still those moments when I get mighty lonesome.

I see lonesomeness in the eyes of a lot of people. I hear it in their far away voices.

It’s even in the melancholy of this lovely changing season when earth slows down, when the slant of the light of the days is different, and we know the desolation of winter is before us.

What’s a man to do with his loneliness?

I have a sister who says she “lights a candle to keep the blues away.” I like to hold a cup of hot tea in my hands and listen to classical music. Sometimes I just breathe, slowly and deliberately. Sometimes I meditate. Sometimes I practice centering prayer.

Sometimes I turn to poetry. Sometimes I take a walk in the woods or consider the birds who do not fret or worry about tomorrow. Sometimes I just get still and wait for the morning because the morning always comes.

At other times I reach out to another human and listen and try to do whatever lifting I can do to make the way a little easier, a little brighter for somebody else.

And at other times I laugh out loud at my grandson’s antics and observe, often from too great a distance, the abandoned delight of six amazingly wonderful grandchildren and I know I am never really alone.

The weekend in DC has been a wonderful retreat.

I have been with a dear friend at her home in the woods not far from the metro. We have enjoyed the deer grazing in the clearing out back, three foxes who make their home in the neighborhood and a flock of red cardinals.

I like being in the company of birds and pausing long enough to forget the trials and cares of the moment. Being a worry wart has a downside. Forgetting it all for a little while is mighty good therapy.

The National Book Festival was quite a day. I spent most of my time at the poetry tent where I heard the great art of words coming together in lovely music. I also heard some writers of history and fiction, even some delightful authors at the children tent. It rained in the afternoon but I didn't care. I was home.

The only words I wrote were those of one of the poets: "Poetry makes us stop, makes us slow down."

Early this morning I will worship as I have so often at the Washington National Cathedral and be reminded all over again of what matters to me in this noisy world.

Those Kennedy graves at Arlington are three of more than 320,000 graves of people who represent the whole of American history.

To walk in the quiet of the day there is to remember, to honor, to say a little thanks.

It is a sacred place, a soul-searching place as one ponders war and whether as the old spiritual says, it might be possible "to study war no more." Certainly one is reminded of the price paid for where the world is during this moment in time.

I stopped for some thanks at three other graves when I visited Arlington yesterday. The grave of Justice Hugo Black of my native Alabama who was such an advocate for justice. The grave of Medgar Evers, civil rights leader slain in Mississippi. And the grave of Justice Thurgood Marshall. It was at Marshall's grave where I paused the longest.

Three simple words are chiseled in stone on Thurgood Marshall's grave: Civil Rights Advocate

I wondered if there could be greater words of tribute and I thought about the raging war of words over health care reform. All the rancor, the bickering and ugliness, the lies and distortion.

Is it possible to stop for just a moment and think how it would be if we simply were advocates for the civil and human rights of all people?

Could we show a little mercy and offer a hand to all of those who so desperately need some help?