Lost in Translation

 It was back in April, right after Easter, and we were traveling home from Brenham to Montgomery.  Even though we've lived here for awhile now, we still take notice of the geography and the names that we encounter, so different in some ways from the geography and names in our homeland of Minnesota.  I noticed at some point that we were in Brazos County, and that we had traveled over the Brazos River.  We both wondered what "Brazos" meant.  My husband thought that maybe brazes meant brown, because that seemed to be the color of the river, at least from where we could see.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I googled "Brazos" and discovered that it did not mean "brown."  It was Spanish for "arms."  I thought of all the other words derived from this one:  brace, embrace, bracelet, bracket.  I'm sure there are more.

And then I learned more:  that the full name of the Brazos River is this:  "Rio de los brazos de Dios" -- the River of the Arms of God.  That's what the Spanish explorers called it.  They didn't simply see a body of water, flowing -- they saw something of God -- wide, embracing, stretching out.  Somehow it made the river seem alive to me.  What else was I not noticing?

*****

Then it was July, and I was in Minnesota, a place I know well, or so I think.  We were staying a little north of the Twin Cities, near the City of Anoka, a small historic town that rests on the place where the Rum River flows into the mighty Mississippi.  We walked around the town and peered over the bridges, and drove along the edge of the Rum River, where there were flowering bushes and trees and picnic tables and swings.  I got out of the car and looked around.  I didn't know anything about the Rum River, although I had lived in Minnesota all of my life and knew plenty about the Mississippi and the Minnesota, the St. Croix and the Root Rivers.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I discovered that the Rum River flows from the great Mille Lacs Lake in north central Minnesota to the Mississippi.  Mille Lacs is French for "thousand lakes".  The Ojibwa people called it "Zaaga'igan" (grand lake), and in Dakota it was called "Bde Wakhan" (Spiritual/Mystic Lake.).  It was a place of spiritual importance, as was the river that flowed out of it. 

The Rum River.  The name is a mistranslation.  When explorers first heard its name, "Spirit River", they thought it meant "spirits" -- like rum.  But it really meant Spirit, as in God.

*****

The River of the Arms of God.  The Spirit River.  The water flows, and shimmers, and gives life.  It is true, what Jacob said.  "Surely God is in this place, and I -- I did not know it."

Contemplative Prayer

 One of the most consequential experiences of my short sabbatical this summer happened almost at the end of my time away.  I had spent a good deal of necessary time with family, both in Atlanta and in Minnesota.  I had finished my certification in Spiritual Direction course in South Carolina, had hiked in areas along the Blue Ridge Mountains, listened to music, and spent a week on the North Shore of Lake Superior, writing and hiking and just being near the water.  There is something about being near water, isn't there?  

At the back of my mind was something I wanted to do in July:  go to contemplative worship one Saturday night at Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church, in Minneapolis.  They offer the Saturday night service twice a month, as part of an emphasis on sabbath.  I had first thought about going on the second Saturday in July, but somehow we got distracted by a River Festival in a small town near my brother's place, so we went there instead.

Kara Root is the pastor of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church.  Back in 2020, I had read her book "The Deepest Belonging".  Then, this year, she published a follow-up, Receiving This Life, which also tells stories but offers prayers and faith practices as well.  Somewhere along the line I learned that her church offers a contemplative service, and I was genuinely curious.  My time was running out.  I knew I couldn't put it off again.

So we set out for this little church (she often describes it as a "tiny congregation").  Maybe that's one of th reasons I was a little nervous.  I couldn't be anonymous there.  Would they notice us?  How would it feel?

We got to the church a little bit before 5:00 when worship would begin.  I discovered that, due to the heat, they were meeting in their small fellowship hall.  The sanctuary did not have air conditioning.  

And it WAS a small group.  I didn't count, but I think that there may have been twelve people, including us.  We were greeted warmly, and initial awkwardness disappeared during the first few minutes.

I noticed that the small room was filled -- with a couple of floor murals (one was a map of the world, one, I think was a large heart), a stand with candles, a table with notebooks, paper, crayons, playdoh, and some other things.  There were coloring sheets, and there was at least one art display.  There was also an outdoor labyrinth if anyone wanted to go outside in the heat and pray by walking.

The service opened simply, with a few instructions, a prayer, and a little singing without accompaniment.  They were simple songs, and some people sang in harmony (including us!).  The pastor read scripture, someone lead a responsive prayer, and then there were directions about how to use the next half hour for prayer and meditation.  There was one particular station that was new and related to praying for either a current event or based on a sermon theme for the summer (I don't remember which).  

I wondered what to do for a half hour, but my husband settled in quickly with colored pencils and a coloring page with the word "Alleluia" on it.  I walked around for a few minutes, stopping to light a candle at one station, putting a couple of candles on the map for places I wanted to pray for.  I noticed a large heart and then small pieces of paper with names of people and occupations on them -- words like "EMTs", "single parent families", "abuse survivors", "nurses", "teachers","clerks".... and many more.  The large notebooks that I saw earlier had many directions for ways to pray during this free time.  Afterwards, Pastor Kara said that the book had developed organically over time, as they discovered, learned and incorporated prayer practices that worked for them.  There were sheets of papers and pens; one of the options was simply to journal your prayers.  So, for the rest of the time, that is what I did.  I simply wrote my prayers, my worries, my hopes, to God.

Somewhere during this time it occurred to me how odd and wonderful this was:  I wasn't rushing through prayers to get to the next thing.  I was simply allowing myself to sit, and to be, and it didn't feel lazy, it felt full.  I was simply allowing myself to be in the presence of God.  Why don't I do this more often, I thought?   

A bell called us back together for closing prayers and a closing song.  A few people stayed to help clean up the room.  Some people said it was nice to have a couple of Lutherans worshipping with them (possibly because of my husband singing the bass parts).   I introduced myself to Pastor Kara, and told her I had just completed a spiritual direction program.  She said that she was a spiritual director too.

Just one hour.  That's all it was.  But somehow, in just being, in listening, in prayer, God found me.

Openings

 Last week we headed up to the North Shore of Lake Superior for a one part of my sabbatical.  Most specifically, our destination was my friend Anna's retreat, called, "The Spent Dandelion", a place she created to offer respite and reflection time to clergy (and others, I suspect; we all need respite and reflection).  Her place is right on the border of Two Harbors, Minnesota, in the forest and close to the greatest Great Lake.  Besides reflection and respite, one of the virtues of Two Harbors in the summer is a break from the summer heat.  It rarely gets above 75 degrees Fahrenheit and almost no one has air conditioning.

When we drove in Sunday afternoon, Anna was standing in the driveway, waving her arms and pointing us to our designated parking space.  Her husband and their four dogs were also there to welcome us (their cat, not so welcoming).

Almost the first thing Anna did was apologize, though.  It was not 75 degrees.  It was unusually warm for the area that week, and was around 90 as we spoke.  In fact, we had been commenting as we drove north, that we were expecting it to cool down any minute, and it didn't.  Like everyone else, they didn't have air conditioning, but all the windows were open and the fans were going, and they were expecting some "weather" that would cool things off.

Living just north of Houston as we do right now, we are used to hot weather, but also to air conditioning.  So it was a slight disappointment, I'll admit, to go to bed hot, with the fans on and the windows open on both sides of the apartment.  Only the dog didn't mind.  She delighted in looking out the window, and curled up on the bed to sleep.

But during the night, something magical happened.  Indeed, it was just as my host promised.  Some kind of weather came in (although not a huge storm), and the breezes coming through our open window were cool and refreshing.

I remembered this experience from childhood, although I had not felt it for a long time.  In our house growing up, there was no air conditioning, and I remember the windows open at night, box fans in the windows, sleeping with just a sheet on those steamy night.  Then, sometime in the night, the wind would turn, and the air coming in would  be cool and refreshing.

These days it seems like we keep the windows closed most of the time; in the winter, to keep it warm, and in the summer to keep it cool.  I didn't realize how much I  miss the feeling of air coming through open windows.  I didn't realize how much I needed cross-ventilation.

We keep the windows closed for many reasons -- excessive heat and cold, certain noises, the highway is too close, we are distracted by the neighbors, their music and their conversations.  (I remember hearing through the wall a very loud telephone conversation in the middle of the night in my first apartment.)  But I forgot how much we need fresh air, not just cross-ventilation, but cross-fertilization, to be stirred up by the breeze or the music or conversations that float through the air (well, some of them anyway).  I forgot how much I needed fresh air, open windows, open eyes, and ears.  

The open windows reminded me of something else too:  they reminded me of a childhood enchanted with God's presence, in the mysteries of the world, of nature, of all the things I was thirsty to know, and didn't yet.  They reminded me of the stories of scriptures, and the stories in fairy tales, and the stories from the books that I was starting to learn to read.  When did I close the window and learn to live in artificially comfortable temperatures almost all the time?  

I am thinking about this.

I just completed a course on spiritual direction.  Theoretically, I can go and be a spiritual director now.  I am still learning what that means, though.  I am by no means an expert.  I need spiritual direction myself, someone to remind me that the Spirit is out there, and in me, and to open the windows that are closed in me and catch the breeze.  I need someone to remind me to be open to the enchantment that is already in the world.

I think, in its most basic form, this is what spiritual direction is.  It is to remind each other to open the windows in our lives, open the windows to the voice of God in scripture, to open the windows that point to God's presence in tears and shouts, in maple leaves in fall, in red-tailed hawks circling, in the wind.

Turn

 We haven't been up on the North Shore for ten years, I think.  I moved down to Texas in 2015, and although we have visited our family in Minnesota, there hasn't been the time to drive north.  But we used to go, every summer, for three or four days, and take our dog along.  Part of my sabbatical this year was one week on the North Shore at a theological retreat center run by my friend Anna.  It is a place to unwind and relax and get inspiration from the forests and lakes and the cool breezes.  

Of course, it was 90 degrees when we arrived on Sunday afternoon --with no air conditioning, because no one has air conditioning around here.  They promised that the weather would change, though and sometime during that first night, coolness rolled in through the open windows.  It was a feeling I hadn't experienced since my childhood, pre-air conditioning.  Fans in all of the windows, my mom coming into our rooms late in the night and changing the direction of the fans so that they would blow the cool air in instead of blowing the hot air out.  

On Wednesday we had planned to go to Grand Marais.  We had so many good memories there -- hiking trails, eating at restaurants (with our dog), the local artists, the World's Best Donuts (really!).  But some of the places we remembered weren't open (although the fabulous Drury Lane Bookstore was).  However, I couldn't decide which book to buy and ended up leaving empty-handed.

On the way home, we kept looking for places to stop and hike and get good views of the lake.  Inspiration.  That was part of the reason I came, right?  As Anna's tagline goes "Retreat Reflect Restore".  But retreating reflecting and restoring is not a straight line.

We stopped at Tettegouche State Park but decided that wasn't the right place, at least not on Wednesday.  So we continued driving, debating where to stop, until we remembered a Scenic Overlook close to "home", at Silver Creek Cliff.  That is where we stopped, and that is where we walked.  We walked part of the way up and back, because we were already tired.  There is a tunnel there, but it wasn't there until 1994.  Before that, the narrow road ran right along the cliff.  There were spectacular views, but with some unfortunate downsides -- for example, sometimes falling rocks would close the road for days (or perhaps longer.  I don't know).  The tunnel opened in 1994 as well as the walking path, so you can get close to the edge of the cliff (without rocks falling on you).

I walked with my camera out, because I always want to take pictures of what I am seeing, but I was disappointed in every picture I tried to take.  They just weren't spectacular enough, I guess.  But the walking was good, and I did see a monarch butterfly and some milkweed.

Then we got to the part where we decided to turn around.  I don't remember if it was right away, but in my memory it seems like it was.  I turned around, and there it was.  The Lake.

All I had to do was turn around.  Which doesn't seem like such a hard thing to do, but, at the heart of it, that is what repentance is.  Turning.  Turning around.  Returning.  I don't know about you, but when I usually think of repentance, I think of it in my head.  My brain.  My heart. Thinking, or feeling, differently,  But somehow I think that repentance, like faith itself, is really a whole body experience.  No offense to Paul, but we don't just change our minds.  We turn our heads, our bodies, our lives, in a different direction.  

Turn.  That is what Jesus asks us to do, and not just once, but every day.  You never know which moment it will be, when you will turn, and see something different, or see something, or someone, in a different way.  We will be astonished by beauty, by vastness, by grace.  

That is what repentance, that is what turning, does.  It is re-orienting ourselves to God.  But not just our minds.  Our faces, looking up into rain or sunshine. Our backs, leaning over a garden.  Our whole bodies, our whole selves, repent.  And it seems to me that this turning is also at the heart of our lives.  Again and again and again -- we turn.

The Kingdom of heaven has drawn near.