Spark to Flame

Gloria in Elcelsis Deo, a hymn originating in the first century, begins with words sung by the angels to announce the birth of Christ to shepherds in Luke 2:14. Profound themes roll through the stanzas like luminous waves on an otherwise dark sea: glory, peace, goodwill.  Praise, blessing, worship.  Thanksgiving, mercy, prayer.  Holiness.  Lordship.

Gloria has been used by Orthodox, Catholic, and some Protestant churches for hundred of years, fanning sparks of grace into a steady flame.*  Living in our small worlds we often see dimly, and yet our most high, glorious God cherishes us with unfailing mercy. Glory to the almighty Father, the merciful Son, and the Holy Spirit.  

Glory be to God on high

And on earth peace, goodwill towards men.

We praise thee, we bless thee,

we worship thee, we glorify thee,

we give thanks to thee, for thy great glory.

O Lord God, heavenly King,

God the Father Almighty.

O Lord, the only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ;

O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father,

that takest away the sins of the world,

have mercy upon us.

Thou that takest away the sins of the world,

receive our prayer.

Thou that sittest at the right hand of God the Father,

have mercy upon us.

For thou only art holy;

thou only art the Lord;

thou only, O Christ,

with the Holy Ghost,

art most high

in the glory of God the Father.

Amen.

*A nineteenth-century Russian monk, St. Theophan the Recluse, spoke of the early church hymns as powerful and appealing: They “make the spark of grace that is hidden within us burn bright and with greater warmth . . . psalms, hymns and spiritual songs fan the spark and transform it to flame."

Un-Cheesecake

I’ll let you in on a little secret: cheesecake does not need to be made of cheese, sugar, and flour.

Take note gluten-free, dairy-free, and sugar-free folks, and anyone interested discouraging systemic inflammation in the body!  This little muffin-sized cheesecake offers expected smooth, rich, creamy, sweet delectability without setting off any guilt alarms or leaving you with that heavy, lead ball feeling in the stomach.

I call it un-cheesecake.  It is made with soaked raw nuts (almonds and cashews), dates, coconut milk, honey and a few incidentals like lemon juice and vanilla. 

May I have the other half now, please? 

Invitation

Fairy Bread

Come up here, O dusty feet!

Here is fairy bread to eat.

Here in my retiring room,

Children, you may dine

On the golden smell of broom

And the shade of pine;

And when you have eaten well,

Fairy stories hear and tell.

-Robert Louis Stevenson

* * * * *

The hand-blown glass pitcher pictured here belonged to my husband’s grandmother, a native of Hungary.  It is reserved for tea parties with little (and big) girls.

Today at the Pool

My childhood was spent along the water’s edge, and for years I thought the lake to be my best friend. Adults in my life teased me, claiming I was part fish or water rat.  Evidently they didn’t understand my more authentic kinship with contemplative clams and snails leaving shallow trails in the sandy lake bottom, and gentle, slow-blinking turtles that patiently tolerated my attentions. 

I acted like a fish though; swimming came naturally to me.  Even as an adult I regularly swam laps at the university pool.  Just a few years ago I navigated our lake north-to-south in one stint (a mile and a half); my husband followed in the fishing boat as a spotter. However, since then I’ve done little more than splash with the grandkids around the pier.

As I slipped into the pool today I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed distance swimming.

Ready with goggles, ear plugs. Slide off the edge.  Submerge. Feel the bubbles rise, champagne-like.

Press the water; rise to the surface. Breaststroke. Natural.  Easy.

Follow the blue stripe on the bottom of the pool.  Breathe. Glide through time, encased in silky smoothness.  Forget the dry life. 

Alone. Wet. Alive. Tranquil. Safe.

Calm.  Peaceful.

Eventually I emerge.  Dry air feels sharp, harsh.  Voices clamor. The world rubs me, and I engage with it. 

Hours later I recall the womb-like serenity of the underwater world.  Untroubled contentment.  Relaxed quiet. I will return soon.

Cattail Island

Frothy white caps chomp across the lake, nervous, tempest-tossed.  Raw. Determined.  We notice something bobbing half a mile away, headed toward us.

“Well, it’s not a boat.  A person would be crazy to be out there today. Probably a chunk of cattails from the opposite shore,” I remark.

Sure enough, Cattail Island steadily advances.  Finally it rams into our seawall with a dramatic crash, its spindly, dry grasses hurling wildly. I can imagine them screaming - not in agony or protest as much as celebration of purpose and fate.

The waves aren’t finished, however.  They batter and shove, forcing the clump along the shore - erratic, stumbling, drunk with adventure. I wonder at its lot here in foreign territory where smooth, manicured shorelines lack the cubbies of the wild shore.  I stare down this alien that has been torn from its familiar home and carried beyond, fluffy seed heads now stripped naked, legacy sprayed abroad.  The clump nods in return, laughing now, testifying to the freedom that comes with surrender to destiny.