Invitation to mystery


Definition of mystery

  1. 1a :  a religious truth that one can know only by revelation and cannot fully understand

  2. 2a :  something not understood or beyond understanding :



I am amazed at times at how the simple thing in life contain something deeper about them, something hard to define. The beauty of the sunrise this morning made my heart ache.  It was not a red and orange summer sunrise-the type  often taken by the ocean and hanging framed in a beach side gift shop.  No, I witnessed it on an ordinary twilight drive to work in February, through the winding roads of a small, south eastern New Hampshire town.  As I rounded the bend toward the old meeting house baptist church, the sky greeted me with  a solemn array of colors-deep blue turquoise smudged with dark lilac with just a touch of white  and purplish pink.  It was subtle  and grand at the same time, and seemed to break into the silence with quiet words that only the soul can decipher and the mind must struggle to comprehend. I can only write that I felt an awesome depth and gravity mingled in the colors mixed with hope and wonder. This masterpiece was not locked away in a museum but flung out in the open for all to enjoy without cost. This phenomenon exist in varying degrees of visibility and beauty every day, twice a day.  It is like a sacred mystery is awaiting us, there every morning, if we choose to embrace it.  Yet because it is cloaked in ordinary life, we often miss it.

Maybe this is why Jesus said the kingdom belongs to little children.  To them the world is a wide place full of glory and wonder.  They do not rush past the pink and white flowers of spring or the gold and burnt orange leaves of autumn.  A toad or frog which would repulse adults like myself are a thing to marvel at and capture at all cost.  I suppose in some way adults too seek to appreciate beauty through art and literature-but I sometimes think we rush over the real loveliness around us in a desperate and ambitious attempt to capture it.  Not that the action itself is invalid-We are made in the image of the creator and thus creative.   It is the lack of awe and reverence in our pursuits that betray us. The heavenly glories around us are untamed, vast and wild, and we can only reflect, not recreate them.

Sometimes I find the ordinary everyday tasks of life mundane, meaningless, and mingled with depression.  I look at myself and wonder why I am not like this Jesus I claim to follow.  I step on the scale and am forced to remember that charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting.   The snow I marveled at as a child is now something that adds difficulty if not danger on my drive to work.  Some mornings the only thing I can get excited about is a good cup of coffee for a dollar plus tax at the gas station. Then in the bleak muddy grey of winter a sunrise lifts me up briefly, reminding me that something extraordinary exist outside myself…and seems to be calling me, tugging at my heart strings, calling me home.













My hidden self

I live a different life

On virtual pages

where my feelings can take flight

Like many colored lights

On pine branches in winter

Or music-

Sad and slow and sweet-

Without judgement

Jesus you always come through

Whispering in my ear

The sacred scripture I need to hear.

So why do I feel alone and empty-

Somehow I feel unseen-

For is my shadow self the words I write,

Or the life I live?

Does anyone really know me-

The one who wears her heart on her sleeve…

the truth be told I think my poems are more a reflection of the soul.

Gods words are deeper,

And what I wear on my sleeve

May really be

A smear of fear

and not really me.



Mustard Seed

I cannot change this-

Not with pleading or tears,

Nor can I reverse the years-

I cannot call my self holy

At attempts to surrender-

You had the power,

The might-

But chose the cross anyway.

I am small-

What choice do I have?

So I fall on my face,


Thy will be done-

Hoping at your feet

I will find some consolation-

Where else can I go?




Sometimes the truth is hard to accept

and fatal to believe-

Yet we are told

It sets us free-

Even when it is painful.

Does pain teach us to endure,

Or rather to love

Without fear or reservation,

The whole wide creation-

And the One who made it all…

Is he not good?

Does the sunlight not fall on my face?

Is the world spinning out of orbit,

At life’s great disappointment?

Will the flowers fail to bloom in spring

Because my heart fails to sing?


Time will march on

In sorrow and joy

without my consent

I pray for the courage

To carry on

even when tears veil my eyes

This is my greatest victory.








The blinking black line

The soft blue light

Offer no real answers or truth

Just distractions

Leaving me with promises

That break my heart

Yet help me carry on

Follow me…

My yoke is easy

My burden light

The midnight path

Though it seem dark and narrow

Is streaked with light.