Be still and know that I am God.

I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.

Lord God, sometimes it’s hard to keep the faith.

To be still.

To trust that you are who you say you are; that we are who you say we are.

Beloved. Sheltered. Yours.

That old question keeps poking its way into my peace: Why, Lord?

Why is life so complicated?

Why is this beast coronavirus wreaking havoc in our the world?

Why do some of us get cancer?

After more scans, the focus of the disease within me detoured this week from my hip to my liver. Unless I grip your hand, Jesus, for sure I’ll slip from faith to fear.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea . . .

Lift up our eyes, Lord, to the God who made the hills, beyond our fraying tents and dying embers. Focus us on the eternal, on the everlasting, on you.

Earlier today, I looked out my window to the valley below, still winter gray, happy for a shamrock plant on my kitchen windowsill. Its delicate white flowers look like fairy cups, its leaves-of-three fold in prayer when evening comes.

It seeks sunshine, but is content with shadows.

It demands little water, no fussing.

If only everything was as easy as caring for my St. Patty plant.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall; God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall; he lifts his voice, the earth melts.
The LORD Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Thank you Father, for leading us. Two years ago I was invited to conduct a workshop for Friends of the Parks. We discussed Celtic spirituality, how nature-loving Gaelic people followed you, the Three-In-One, after the arrival of St. Patrick in Ireland.

Twelve of us gathered that morning. When we were done, one woman said she didn’t want to go home. Think Peter Pan, who wanted to stay a boy in Neverland, forever.

Another woman suggested we form a writers group. And we did. We’re still meeting monthly, two years later, with other writers joining us. We call ourselves the Appalachian Writing Sisters.

I’m with other friends right now, Dave and Carol, cuddled under a blanket in a sun room, while Jim works on plumbing projects at our daughter’s home in Pittsburgh. Tears welled in my eyes when Carol handed me a mug of green tea. It’s bears a drawing of a song bird and the words, Be still and know that I am God. Ps. 46:10.

She had no idea that I’m praying through Psalm 46 in this blog. Once again, you assure me that you are here, Lord.

As we all await what’s next with coronavirus, I await news of the next step to keep my liver functioning well. The upper edge of the mug in my hand reads: calm, peace, serenity.

Yes, Lord.

Calm.

Peace.

Serenity.

I’m apprehensive, but not as one who knows no hope.

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. (Verses from Psalm 46, NIV)

Holy Trinity, you’re unwilling to be confined to the pages of a book or the contours of our minds. Help us breathe in your goodness as fully as we can. You love us with a strong love that draws us close to Jesus, enabling us in our weakness to follow in his steps.

My shamrock plant is a messenger of hope, Lord.

Like the mug in my hand.

A plant with a heritage linked to a saint who lived 1700 years ago cheers me on, like a verse recorded by a psalmist perhaps a thousand years earlier.

Father God, help my spirit to bloom like the plant on my windowsill. To thrive at this end of the rainbow.

You’re a God who promises to sustain and restore. My small part is to be still and know that you are God.

Amen.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery/Indiana Gazette