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In the beginning, there was a song, and the song was God’s, and the song came and dwelt among us, filling up the whole world. It wasn’t a surface song. It vibrated beneath what’s seen, way down, in the “deep down things,” as Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote. 1 This song was as real as my heartbeat, the rhythmic cicada songs, the pulse of the ocean. It was from God, and it was in me and the world around me.
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Christ sang into the world through all the acts of the church. He was found in the bread and wine, in all the other sacraments too. But his song was also found outside the walls of any structure, in the sacramental energy of earthly things—flowers, birds, friends, feasts, bread, wine, prayers, art, the land, the words of the saints. All these things began pulling her from despair because that’s what happens when we look for Christ’s presence in the world all around us.
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There are things I wish I could ask him, like: What did you do with the pain that the sacramental energy soothes but can’t erase? When your work was unappreciated? When you were discounted, discredited, or dismissed? What should I do when I feel discarded like a heel of bread? What should any of us do when pandemics rage or marriages fail or loved ones die or church leaders make too much of their own egos or the best laid plans of men bite the dust? Whenever whatever threatens to undo us and our God-given work, where can we find relief? I suspect he’d say to look around and notice all the places where God shows his divine love. Then spend time in those places.
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In his darkest days, Hopkins found God hidden in the things of earth. He found him in the trout, the flowers, the sea, the bread, the wine, the poems he wrote. And he showed us in that way of finding God, there was something like hope.
2. Tell the Story
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Through this imaginative prayer practice, I began to learn a deep down thing: every moment is an ordained opportunity, even the painful ones. In time and space, we can choose to connect with the Creator of the cosmos instead of the things that fill that cosmos. As I did that very thing, I began to see that created gifts—things like wine, food, sex, or whatever—comprise the good stuff, made good by the goodness of God, and they can be portals of connection to the divine if we order them under his creative love. But if we use these gifts as ends in themselves, as ways of numbing pain, then addiction is the natural result.
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And I’ve learned that all the good things of the earth are meant to be enjoyed in proper relation to the Christ who created them.
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Inside one grief were a hundred others.
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The river of grief is a complex moving body where so many things coexist. It can even harbor beauty or level out with some stillness we didn’t know we could find.
3. Find God in the Stuff of Earth
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And it’s been a season when there’s been so much to make sense of, like, What does it mean to be the one who carries hope?
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It’s been no easy thing carrying hope, particularly because the world seems hell-bent on burning it all down.
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This is why I run the trails. There, one foot in front of the other, I find truth, beauty, and goodness, which I could sum up this way: God meets us in the most ordinary things, and through them, he drives back the shadows. There are places—real, tangible places—where the God of love meets us, if only for a moment. And when we’re drowning in despair, we go to those places to connect with that love. We go there to attain love, and by attaining it, we push back the despair, even if just a little.
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I did not come from a celebrational people as much as I did a survivalist people.
4. Create Signs
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the Scriptures, we read of the cairnal drive of the faith fathers. Jacob erected a cairn after his bizarre ladder dream in which God promised to multiply his descendants. He set up another on the location where God changed his name from Jacob to Israel. Joshua dragged twelve stones from the riverbed and set them up in the promised land. Samuel set up a stone named Ebenezer after God defeated the Israelites’ mortal enemies, the Philistines. Elijah stacked rocks in his great showdown with the prophets of Baal.
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God can be found in even the humblest things, things like birds and sobriety.
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Not unlike the stacked stones on the riverbank, these images that line our walls are icons of hope. They remind us of those who suffered their own seasons of despair but somehow managed to find their way through them. If we bend our ears toward them, we can hear them say, “Look up to the hills���where will your help come from?”
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Memorial making is a human eccentricity, I think, something baked into our DNA, and I wonder: Why? Perhaps it’s nothing more than sentimentality, a way of making more out of a moment than it really is. Or maybe it’s because we are the descendants of Adam and Eve, people who set up markers that point us in the direction of home. Perhaps these cairns, these memorials remind us that even as we navigate this valley of deathly shadows, there is a way through, if only we keep our eyes on the markers.
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“But if you don’t write, even when you feel a little crazy, you’ll land sick in bed.” Because she herself landed sick in bed from not writing, I’m learning to not let myself be away from the deeper, written soul-work for long.
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We already knew Ashlyn Gagnon and her husband, Jesse, from our Anglican Church days, and we long imagined living near them and the brewery they were opening on their homeplace (Orthodox Farmhouse Brewery). We’d bought land near them in the land of Goshen (Arkansas, that is), and in the fall of 2022, we broke ground on what will be our permanent home. From that little outpost, we intend to trade sugar, share tools, and help tend to the Gagnons’ chickens when they’re out of town. We’ll watch their kids if they ever need it, buy pints to support their brewery, send our boys to help them build or mend fences. I’m sure we’ll share dinners and stories and maybe a song or two over the years. This is all to say that the Gagnons are the kind of people we hope to live life with for a long time, especially after what we’ve endured together in the church. When people meet Ashlyn, they tend to stick around. She has a way about her that’s hard to pin down. Maybe it’s her ability to woo coupled with her cooking skills. Maybe it’s her giant smile and her ability to make people feel at home no matter where they’re from. When a local beef farmer named Emily reached out to Jesse to ask about grains from the brewing process, Ashlyn quickly took up with Emily. As we’ve come to know Emily, Ashlyn and I have started calling her “the salt of the earth.” Want an icon? See Emily. In sunlight, her hair catches fire, and her eyes are seawater blue-green. She’s quiet and funny, and she is strong. At thirty weeks pregnant, she was easily outworking every human I’d ever met. We happened to have bought our land from her dad, who had already told me about her and her big sister, Liz, who lived nearby. Liz is a single mom with a corporate career. She’s also a sheep farmer and has always dreamed of starting a farmers market in Goshen to connect local food with local people. She’s the biggest dreamer I’ve met and sees a world without food insecurity as a doable thing. It was easy for Ashlyn and me to take our cues from Liz. We’d discussed wanting to see a farmers market get off the ground too. Our little beloved town of Goshen is one you can blink and miss if you’re just on your way to the Buffalo River, but for those of us who have lived there, we know the potential. We know the houses by what we see each other growing. When I met Emily and Liz’s dad, he was talking about their mama, Ms. Mary, who is a master gardener and preserver. I said, “Oh! Ms. Mary is the one who grows all those amazing peonies!” We planned our first meeting to discuss the potential for a farmers market and met in Liz’s house surrounded by a hundred house plants, which is how I knew I loved her. We left having decided we could and should and would make the market happen. When we had our first official meeting as the board of directors, Brett came too, a gorgeous soul from the Northeast with experience running a nonprofit and with every ounce of get-up-and-go as the rest of us. Maybe more. She happens to live right up the road, growing sunflowers and cooking gluten-free dishes as much a feast for the eyes as for the mouth. Now every Thursday evening until sunset, we set up market booths for Goshen’s makers and local growers. We usually have musicians playing and a food truck. In the throes of the pandemic, there were evenings when the virus never crossed my mind, because we were outside with plenty of room, kids darting across the lawn. The Arbor Board walks through pointing to their monarch butterflies. Everyone is proud. A few nights of the year, our sponsors provide free food for the entire town, and so many folks come to eat that we always run out. My boys set up the picnic tables for the guests, and people will come and sit with us, listening to the music until we take the tents down. It’s easy to spend every spare second looking at a screen, at the filtered faces on Instagram with ten-step plans for a more click-worthy life, but it seems harder online to stop and look for cairns and memorials, much less make them. It’s easy to find them in the little altars, statues, and icons around my house. It’s even easier to recognize them among our local farmers and the people who want to support them. It’s hard to miss the icons, the magic, and the poetry when you’re close to the earth, when you’re in a field of hay helping load watermelons into an old lady’s trunk. It has been hard for me to not see the Divine Love as I have come to know my neighbors’ names, when one gives my oldest son a bag of quail feathers so he can tie beautiful flies that allow him to catch more rainbow trout. The market is a memorial to me, something that reminds me not just who God is but also who I am. I was made to be an organizer and planner, a starter and dreamer, a grower and connector. I was made to appreciate what it takes to feed a people with nourishing food, which reminds me of what my previous role as curate was supposed to be. Every Thursday is a reminder that my work is sacred. It’s a sort of cairn that reminds me that where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going is sacred. When we make memorials or come across any icon, cairn, or sacramental thing of creation, we name it as sacred, allow it to point to something that is beyond us. There we see a timeless, transcendent, deeper magic—the magic of the Divine Love operating in the world—and it reminds us who we are. There, in that reminder, we feel ourselves becoming a sign.
5. Practice Silence
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In The Power of Silence, Cardinal Robert Sarah writes of the human need to flee from the noisy world and connect with God. This need is memorialized in the monastic tradition through the Latin term fuga mundi, which means “flight from the world.” Of fuga mundi, he writes, “It means an end of the turmoil, the artificial lights, the sad drugs of noise and the hankering to possess more and more goods, so as to look at heaven. A man who enters the monastery seeks silence in order to find God. He wants to love God above all else, as his sole good and his only wealth.” 2
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my natural inclination is to pursue turmoil, the artificial, the drugs of noise and consumption.
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I also think about the ways I’ll fill any silent moment with activity, with scrolling a social media feed or watching a video on YouTube or reading reviews for the perfect replacement backpack. (I am a bit of a bag junkie.) I consider how I fill even my workspaces with background noise. In all this noise, is there room to hear the voice of hope? Is there space to catch the whisper of the Divine Love?
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In his book Silence: In the Age of Noise, Dutch explorer Erling Kagge writes, “The starry sky ‘is the truest friend in life, when you’ve first become acquainted; it is ever there, it gives ever peace, ever reminds you that your restlessness, your doubt, your pains are passing trivialities.’” 3