Lenten Writing Project Reboot 2020! Writers' Reflections in the Wilderness of Lent
Words of Faith
Spirit to Spirit Writing Project
The word Lentcomes from an old English word meaning lengthening of days. In Christianity, it refers to the time before Easter, traditionally observed through repentance and learning. It's a season to be intentional about changing and growing. Some people give up items to create space and time for new life and habits to grow. Instead of giving something up, I invite you to try to commit to answering these writing prompts each of the 40 days of Lent. The discipline it takes to set aside time each day to reflect and write about God and your relationship with spirituality is a journey that you will emerge from with a renewed spirit. Every writer has their own special voice to add to this project, whether poetry, prose, essay, thoughts, lists, or through comments, prayer, and encouragement.
How do I participate? Each day, a writing prompt will be posted. A prompt is a question or statement that is meant to inspire your thoughts in whatever genre you feel moved to write. Post your reflections as a comment under each day's prompt (for further instructions, see 'How To Post' on the right side of the page). It is up to you if you write, read, or pray along with us each of the 40 days of Lent or just drop in from time to time when the spirit moves you to participate. Writing regularly is a discipline that many writers struggle with and this is a way to involve that discipline as a Lenten practice. Through writing and leaving encouraging words for others in this project, we become a supportive spiritual writing community
Sunday, February 21, 2016
#11 Remove Your Shoes
Lenten Writing Prompt #11
Describe a place, time, or experience that was on holy ground, where you met God. (Exodus 3:5)
Holy Ground Doug Millar I have been to a lot of places I thought were holy, or places I was told were holy. One that surprised me was in Rome. Now there are dozens of places there that are considered holy and are very impressive. They are well decorated, well visited and well known. Many are places where people spend considerable effort and money to get nearer whatever spiritual benefit they might find. On our last trip, we were exploring the main Forum. Just imagining who else has walked there in the past is a staggering thought. Name anyone from antiquity, good or bad, and they came or were dragged down the main road. We wound our way around the Capitoline hill tying the piece together the wreckage we saw with the map we had. At the far end of the Forum from the Coliseum, I was trying to figure out what I was seeing. I turned away from the forum trying to get my bearings, and saw a little door and a little sign that said “the Prison of Mamertine”. The name rang a bell, but it was a soft ring. I went in the door and found myself in a cramped rock room with a short ceiling with a hole in it. There was nothing there- just rock, a hole in the floor and one in the ceiling. I think there were chain rings. There was a small altar, and on the front was one of the only upside down crosses you will ever see. Next to the door was a placard, about 8 by 4 inches on a stick, done the same way you identify a flower or tree. I was shocked when I read it. This was a prison where people didn’t stay long. It was the place where Peter and Paul were imprisoned before their deaths. Stories tell of guards being baptized and miracles happening during their stay. This was a marvelous, historical and magical place. It was odd that such an important place was so overlooked. But that obscurity meant that I was alone. The solitude allowed me to imagine myself back in those days and in this bleak rock room that was the last respite before the end. I could almost feel how they must have felt. All the pleasantries of life denied. Hopelessness called out to you from the rocks and chains. Yet even here Peter was able to minister to those around him, because he knew this wasn’t the end. It was as if he and Paul had just been taken out. The room seemed to be waiting for its next prisoner. It slowly sunk into me that I was able to be in the same place as those two apostles, and see the same things and feel and breathe the same dank air. I don’t know how long I was there. Time seemed to stop. Gradually my thoughts of the past and my communion with it began to fade away, and I gradually came back to the present. I stood up and walked out-a free man. Not a common experience, I thought. I had been sitting with the apostles; not so common either. I forgot to do anything: take off my shoes, light a candle, say some prayers, sing a song, read the Bible, or leave some money like all the other places. The experience was profound in its simplicity. I wasn’t trying to find anything, it found me.
After months of planning and praying for the Holy Spirit to bless our Youth Overnight Event, at church Wondering if it would make an impact on the young lives who attended
It happened
The whole weekend, I had glimpses, like a quick peek at someone passing around the corner
All through the initial nervous, giggling introductions and presentations games and songs movies and prayers
I quietly watched and observed:
Nineteen young girls seriously engrossed in looking up Bible texts; exploring the Sanctuary;
sitting quietly; learning about missionaries; discussing christian life choices
and, when they thought no one was looking, shyly walking the Prayer Labyrinth on their own
In silent grayness, brown decaying leaves, twigs and cones mixing into muddy silt, fallen broken tree trunks and stumps, former glory is remembered, times of gentle living, yet teeming with symphonic rhythm. God in motion amid repose.
Inside the scheme dwells growth renewing with true gritty resolve survival, regenerative seeds, roots stretching and traveling. God working through buried remnants compressed into clay.
Out into celebration, verdancy emerges, poetic beauty out of every newborn sprout; hidden blooms brought forth to adorn it all. God’s blessings flowering into brilliance.
Not just in nature’s wonders, but in human clumps, of caring, hearts together full of feelings pain and sorrow weeping, trembling, uncertainty of purpose, frustration with progress overwhelmed by fear of failure walking through the mists together Some glistening drops cling where they land despite wind, deer and elk listen, intent, while they feed. God present in the sharing of hopes, longings and tears.
Inside, She twirls wildly weaving a tapestry of scraps and ribbons brought to this gathering, this place each year. In the singing and the praying, in the worship and communion; in the laughing and the playing, in the hugging all around. Through the hiking, knitting, reading, writing, questions, and assurances, gentle handling of fragile confidences, strong threads forever bound We’ve met Ruha here in North Bend again.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSorry for the deletion. The story wouldn't let me finish and I had to change a few things.
DeleteHoly Ground
ReplyDeleteDoug Millar
I have been to a lot of places I thought were holy, or places I was told were holy. One that surprised me was in Rome. Now there are dozens of places there that are considered holy and are very impressive. They are well decorated, well visited and well known. Many are places where people spend considerable effort and money to get nearer whatever spiritual benefit they might find.
On our last trip, we were exploring the main Forum. Just imagining who else has walked there in the past is a staggering thought. Name anyone from antiquity, good or bad, and they came or were dragged down the main road. We wound our way around the Capitoline hill tying the piece together the wreckage we saw with the map we had. At the far end of the Forum from the Coliseum, I was trying to figure out what I was seeing. I turned away from the forum trying to get my bearings, and saw a little door and a little sign that said “the Prison of Mamertine”. The name rang a bell, but it was a soft ring. I went in the door and found myself in a cramped rock room with a short ceiling with a hole in it. There was nothing there- just rock, a hole in the floor and one in the ceiling. I think there were chain rings. There was a small altar, and on the front was one of the only upside down crosses you will ever see. Next to the door was a placard, about 8 by 4 inches on a stick, done the same way you identify a flower or tree. I was shocked when I read it. This was a prison where people didn’t stay long. It was the place where Peter and Paul were imprisoned before their deaths. Stories tell of guards being baptized and miracles happening during their stay. This was a marvelous, historical and magical place. It was odd that such an important place was so overlooked. But that obscurity meant that I was alone. The solitude allowed me to imagine myself back in those days and in this bleak rock room that was the last respite before the end. I could almost feel how they must have felt. All the pleasantries of life denied. Hopelessness called out to you from the rocks and chains. Yet even here Peter was able to minister to those around him, because he knew this wasn’t the end. It was as if he and Paul had just been taken out. The room seemed to be waiting for its next prisoner. It slowly sunk into me that I was able to be in the same place as those two apostles, and see the same things and feel and breathe the same dank air. I don’t know how long I was there. Time seemed to stop. Gradually my thoughts of the past and my communion with it began to fade away, and I gradually came back to the present. I stood up and walked out-a free man. Not a common experience, I thought. I had been sitting with the apostles; not so common either. I forgot to do anything: take off my shoes, light a candle, say some prayers, sing a song, read the Bible, or leave some money like all the other places. The experience was profound in its simplicity. I wasn’t trying to find anything, it found me.
#11 REMOVE YOUR SHOES
ReplyDeleteAfter months of planning
and praying
for the Holy Spirit to bless
our Youth Overnight Event, at church
Wondering if it would make an impact
on the young lives who attended
It happened
The whole weekend, I had glimpses,
like a quick peek
at someone passing
around the corner
All through the initial nervous, giggling
introductions and presentations
games and songs
movies and prayers
I quietly watched and observed:
Nineteen young girls
seriously engrossed
in looking up Bible texts;
exploring the Sanctuary;
sitting quietly;
learning about missionaries;
discussing christian life choices
and, when they thought
no one was looking,
shyly walking the Prayer Labyrinth
on their own
All this, and more....
Surely glimpses of
God at work
fHs
IN THE SHADOW OF MOUNT SI
ReplyDeleteIn silent grayness, brown decaying leaves, twigs and cones
mixing into muddy silt, fallen broken tree trunks and stumps,
former glory is remembered, times of gentle living,
yet teeming with symphonic rhythm.
God in motion amid repose.
Inside the scheme dwells
growth renewing with true gritty
resolve survival, regenerative seeds,
roots stretching and traveling.
God working through buried remnants
compressed into clay.
Out into celebration, verdancy emerges,
poetic beauty out of every newborn sprout;
hidden blooms brought forth to adorn it all.
God’s blessings flowering into brilliance.
Not just in nature’s wonders, but in human clumps,
of caring, hearts together full of feelings
pain and sorrow weeping, trembling,
uncertainty of purpose, frustration with progress
overwhelmed by fear of failure
walking through the mists together
Some glistening drops cling where they land despite wind,
deer and elk listen, intent, while they feed.
God present in the sharing of hopes, longings and tears.
Inside, She twirls wildly weaving a tapestry of scraps
and ribbons brought to this gathering, this place each year.
In the singing and the praying, in the worship and communion;
in the laughing and the playing, in the hugging all around.
Through the hiking, knitting, reading, writing, questions,
and assurances, gentle handling of fragile confidences,
strong threads forever bound
We’ve met Ruha here in North Bend again.