Tag Archive | flowers

Sedum Feast


“Hurry !” I whisper, eager for their blooms to

soften rusted summer days; of course they

pay no heed, breathing as they do the endless

patience of the stars; like chefs devoted to a

fine cuisine, these sedum pinpoints, sedately

poised on my front porch, so careful measure,

gather all they need from rain and sun and

cool of night; serene they toil, unruffled, unafraid,

‘til in the fullness of their time, with modest blush of

joy, take off their aprons, don their robes of rose

and stoles of green and lay before the bees and

butterflies—and me!–a spread rare, delicate, and rich;

with priestly nod invite us each to come for all is ready; sample,

sip, and feast with grateful heart; mystic feed at leisured pace on

mead and nectar fit for monarch, free to all who hunger, thirst for

taste of hallowed mystery, for wisdom of a patient heart, for

grace to still the fears that flit around the edges of our

falling summer days.

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food for thought

PCT flowertiny flower along the Pacific Crest Trail

(picture taken by daughter Karla as she hiked the PCT)


I have come to realize that the radiance of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not take away the fragrance of the little violet or the delightful simplicity of the daisy.  Perfection consists in being what God wants us to be.

(Therese of Lisieux 1873-1897)

Rhododendron Prophets


I listen with my eyes as

rhododendron prophets sing glad

fuchsia songs of summer days;

call me to prepare the way, to

level mounds of wintry gloom,

raise up dark valleys of my nights;

bask once again in life reborn beneath the

fingered rays of nearer sun, brushing

hope across my skin, burning faith into my

bones—for every now, for all that is to be

beyond the short-lived radiance of these blooms so

raucous in their joy.


Their life so short, but still they blaze and sing the

bliss of what’s to come; each rhodo-globe a cluster,

chorus bright of tiny flames of Pentecostal fire,

dreaming dreams and visioning renewal of the

earth, of me, of every creature, wave, and cloud;

vivid tongues that join as one to paint the world with

ecstasy that takes my breath away.


written in gratitude for Pastor John Havrilla

who has so colorfully sung to us of God’s love and renewal

on the occasion of his retirement




yellow flower

(late summer blooms)

“The only way to know God, the only way to know the other is

to listen.”


“Listening is reaching out into that unknown other self, surmounting your walls and theirs.”


“Listening is the beginning of understanding, the first exercise

of love.”

(from Father Joe, by Tony Henderson)

Queen for a Day

All night she regal waits beneath the

silent stars, the moon, the clouds;

caressed by whispers of the wind,

she watches for first blush of dawn to

call her name and open up her joy;

then stretching every muscle of her fragile

strength, she one by one uncoils her

tight-held petals to stand proud beneath the

sun, dance with the breeze, drink

moisture of the clouds, and happy glow in

majesty that rivals that of Solomon.  Yet

unlike him, and unlike most of us, she’s not

concerned with who may bow the knee or who

may not; does not lament the briefness of her

fleeting time.  She simply lives her truth and

hers alone, fulfilling ancient mandate hidden

deep within her root and stalk and bud; and

when the sun dips golden red behind the trees,

she turns her gaze to earth and gentle droops her

petals with a sigh, content to know her time is done,

her task complete.  Chirring insects sing farewell and

kindly murmur their esteem:  “well done, daylily queen.”

Silent, she has taught me much;

with Solomon, I bow the knee.


“The True Self does not stand around waiting for you to like it before it can like itself.  It doesn’t wait for accolades or external successes before it can believe in itself.  It quietly knows.”

Richard Rohr, Hope Against Darkness


day lily

A trinity of honest doubt



“Honest doubt, what I would call devotional doubt, is marked, it seems to me, by three qualities: humility, which makes one’s attitude impossible to celebrate; insufficiency, which makes it impossible to rest; and mystery, which continues to tug you upward–or at least outward–even in your lowest moments.  Such doubt is painful–more painful, in fact, that any of the other forms–but its pain is active rather than passive, purifying rather than stultifying.  Far beneath it, no matter how severe its drought, how thoroughly your skepticism seems to have salted the ground of your soul, faith, durable faith, is steadily taking root.”

Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss