Daily Dose (July 1 – 4)

TUESDAY JULY 1 —

Grace is an “unseen sound that makes you look up.” (Thank you, Anne Lamott)
Or, stops you. Quite literally.
And gratefully. Right where you are.
A reminder of the sacrament of the present moment.

Whenever I lecture about gardens (let me re-phrase, when I used to lecture about gardens), I’m introduced as an expert. But I do not consider myself so. Years ago, I wrote Soul Gardening as a call for amateurs, those of us who enjoy the air and watch for miracles. Amateur, that is, from the French: “one who loves” or “for the love of.”
Amateur is that part of us still thrilled by the miraculous sweetness of a freshly picked strawberry, or by the way the wind drifts through the wind chimes, heartfelt as a prayer, or by the reassuring strains of contented chatter coming from the finches who convene at the stream feeders. Somewhere along the way, there is something that gets under our skin. And that something begins to slowly transform us from the inside, regardless of whether we’ve ever planted a garden, or whether we know a Delphinium from a daisy. And in the stillness, gratefully, my soul catches up with my body.
Grace stops you. Quite literally. And grounds you.
Gratefully. Right where you are.
Say, on an ordinary day, now knowing in your heart, and at your core, that these moments carry significance because they are reminders—yes, sacraments—containing the full sustenance of grace.

Many of you noticed in yesterday’s Sabbath Moment, but I loved the note from reader, Del Fisher, “No new music? An oversight? Exhaustion? No ideas? Sorry, I miss it as an uplifting end to you posts.” And I answered with a big smile on my face, “Welcome to my Mondays. When I wake up, I take a look to see what I missed or forgot in Sabbath Moment.”
So. You’ve got a thought (idea) in your head, something to carry out or remember, and then you start another project, and at some point, say to yourself, “What was that thing I was supposed to remember?” Can any of you relate?
I’ve added the music to this Daily Dose.

Where was I? Oh yes… the full measure and empowerment of grace.
And this is fundamental: grace is not something to “comprehend”, like the answer to a test question.
Robert Capon’s reminder, “We live life like ill-taught piano students; so inculcated with the flub that gets us in Dutch, we don’t hear the music; we only play the right notes.”
Here’s the deal: when our focus is on keeping score, we miss the party, the fundamental reality that grace lights up our day, and our world—even in the bumpiness and uncertainty.
The healing, curative and restorative power of grace, regardless of whether we fathom it, or are able to put it “in a box”.
Let us not miss the wakefulness grace bestows, which is fueled by two simple words, “Thank you.”
On this ordinary day, Grace and Gratitude indeed.

WEDNESDAY JULY 2 — If you ask me, “Where did you learn about—where were you embraced by—the gentle healing arms and hands of grace?” I would tell you the story of my Grandmother, Gladys Andrews.
My grandmother—Southern Baptist born and bred—didn’t cotton to folks in her church who played the judgmental-eternal-damnation-card just to feel good about themselves, or for the sake of proving a point. She understood that in her church’s “theology,” there were many kinds of people “on the outside.” (Truth be told, in her church, “most” people were “on the outside.”)
But my grandmother lived by an overriding imperative: “Anybody is welcome at my dinner table, no questions asked, no matter what.”
My grandmother understood the power of presence.
In the latter years of her life, in the back yard of her home in northern Florida, my grandmother had a porch swing. She liked to sit, and swing, and hum old church hymns, like Rock of Ages Cleft for Me. I can still see her there, wearing a white scarf over her head, a concession to chemotherapy’s unrelenting march. When I visited her, as a young adult, she would always ask me to sit with her on the swing, for a spell. She would pat my leg, and she called me “darlin’.”
As long as my grandmother lived—and in spite of her pain—there was always a place for me on the swing. If I were asked to explain Grace, I would paint the picture of my grandmother’s swing. There, I never had to deliberate or explain or worry regardless of the weight I carried. The swing—my grandmother’s presence—existed without conditions.
And I am here today, because of that swing.
I can “hear” the invitation of grace.
I can “hear my song”—and the dance (empowered by grace) that unlocks my heart, and the extraordinary gift of being restored to myself.
The arms and hands of grace, that…
…remind us we are beautiful, when we feel ugly.
…tell us we are whole, when we feel broken.
…give us the power to dance, even when we feel shattered.
…allow us to take a step, even when we feel stuck, or shut down.
I have used this photo twice before in a Sabbath Moment… and realized the blessed gift of remembering the arms of grace, so decided one more time wouldn’t hurt (and my confession, it’s kinda nice to see pictures that remind us we were young once).

Around us, my friends, a lot of people are struggling. The world for so many, feels upside down. A kind word, a gentle touch, a seat on a porch swing, is a gift that makes all the difference. Let us be on the lookout for those who need that gift, and a seat at the table. And, I hope you find the permission and invitation to hear the song of grace.
“Dear God, soften our hearts and help us pull up a chair for one another. May we view one another with compassion and remember that we all have a seat at the table. Amen.” (Maria Shriver)

THURSDAY JUNE 3 — Grace is alive and well, person to person. Face to face. Skin to skin.
It is what connects us, and reminds us that the light in our DNA is alive and well, even in dark times, and even in times we don’t want to believe.
This week has been a good opportunity to remember and say thank you to those people in our lives (friends, healers, angels, Jesus in Skin) who have made a difference with the gift of grace.
One year ago this month, we lost one of those angels, my spiritual director, Francis Benedict (of St. Andrew’s Abbey in Valyermo, CA). For my years through seminary and into the early years of my ministry, Francis was my beloved spiritual director and friend.
In my early clergy years, let’s just say that I was wound a wee bit tight, moving fast, making things happen. You know, working on that long list we carried; what we hoped—no, planned—to accomplish.
I lived in Southern California and my friend from seminary, Paul Ford, introduced me to St. Andrew’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery and retreat center in the high desert.
It became my “go-to” sanctuary for renewal, where I would spend three days a month on retreat. But, let’s just say, unplugging and renewal takes some rewiring.
On my first visit, I met my spiritual director. At lunch we talked, and I told him I would be there for three days, on a “Sabbath Retreat”.
And then, outlined my plans. (You know, you can get a lot done in three days. I had sermons to write, editing on a book, and of course, books to read… I smile still remembering it all.)
We spoke again right after Vespers. And he asked, “How’s your Sabbath Retreat going?”
“I think I failed my Sabbath,” I told him.
He laughed and laughed. A laugh I gratefully carry with me to this day. And it is what spiritual directors are good for, to remind us not to take ourselves too seriously.
“How did you fail?” he asked.
And I told him that after lunch I went back to my room and laid down, for “just a minute”, and the next thing I knew, it was five p.m.
He laughed, and said, “I’m so glad you slept. You rested. You needed that. And while you slept, you’ll be glad to know you were held in the arms of God’s love.”
My Oh My. We’ve missed the point if we don’t see that unplugging and refueling is a laboratory for forgiveness, which begins with self-forgiveness. An invitation to befriend our scattered and wounded self.
Yes. Grace, indeed, is WD40 for the soul.
And the permission to let go of the strange measurements we lug around for self-worth. Here’s the bottom line: When I lose sight of who I am (or where I am grounded), I forget to be here now. The gift of enough in the sacrament of the present. As long as I’m preoccupied with apprehension of where I need to arrive, I’m unable to pause, or care, or give, or weep, or mourn, or heal, or contribute, or laugh, or savor.

FRIDAY JULY 4 — A very different day for me today. I spent all day in a garden, but not my own. Delightedly wearing my designer hat—Cotswold Garden—creating and installing a memorial garden with perennial beds (including a bench for reflection). All from scratch, alongside a man who had been my right hand, for 30 years in my garden business. It is an honor.
And was I physically spent? Oh, indeed. But, let’s say, in a rekindling way.
And a wonderful reminder of why I fell in love with gardens, and how gardens immersed me with wonder, and connected me with my heart.
I once asked my analyst why I was in therapy. He told me it would make me a better gardener. Gardening can be strong medicine—an elixir that nurtures and shapes the soul. For that reason, it is a tonic seldom taken straight with no ice. Gardening has a way of seeping into your soul, and one day you find yourself, in the words of poet May Sarton in Plant Dreaming Deep, spending the first half hour of the morning “enjoying the air and watching for miracles.”
Fortuitously, these are not lessons learned from books or classes. You are compelled to meander, if only in the garden of your mind. Better yet, the process demands putting your hands in the soil, letting the sun sedate your disquiet and warm your face, feeling your lungs fill with the honeyed sweetness of winter jasmine, or the rambling rector rose, watching a re-tailed hawk surf the currents, savoring the chamomile scent of crushed cedar leaves, allowing the garden to render its power and magic. In a world where we are enamored with image, it is in the garden we are slowly weaned off our steady diet of the spectacular, and the “real story,” in order to revel in the daily, the ineffable, the sacred, the surprising.
In other words, the garden—the everyday in our wonderfully ordinary world—is a place where it feels good to be alive.
“What is sacred is what is worthy of our reverence,” Phil Cousineau wrote. “What evokes awe and wonder in the human heart, and what, when contemplated, transforms us utterly.”
So. Let’s just say, it was a Grace infused day. And a tonic for the spirit.

This week we’ve been talking about grace and the gift of freedom, liberation, and renewal. And on this day, Independence Day—commonly known as the Fourth of July—which commemorates the ratification of the Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress on July 4, 1776 (establishing the United States of America), affirming, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men (yes, men and women) are created equal.” All. Please, let us not forget.
A happy Fourth Celebration to all. Be safe. And yes, I always think of the way I had to keep my dogs sane from the noise. Let’s just say that I like fireworks, only with the mute button on. Just saying’. And with fire restrictions in so many areas, please be cautious. And for those is very warm places, stay cool.

Prayer for our week…
A Blessing
Blessed be the longing that brought you here and that quickens your soul with wonder.
May you have the courage to befriend your eternal longing.
May you enjoy the critical and creative companionship of the question “Who am I?” and may it brighten your longing.
May a secret Providence guide your thought and shelter your feeling.
May your mind inhabit your life with the same sureness with which your body belongs to the world.
May the sense of something absent enlarge your life.
May your soul be as free as the ever-new waves of the sea.
May you succumb to the danger of growth.
May you live in the neighborhood of wonder.
May you belong to love with the wildness of Dance.
May you know that you are ever embraced in the kind circle of the holy.
John O’Donohue

Photo… “Hi Terry, More cactus blooms, Volunteer Park Conservatory, Seattle, WA,” Geri Hanley… Thank you Geri…  and thank you for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com