The Value of the Unread Book

By: Kerry Williams

Like many of us, I took full advantage of the Library’s renovation and checked out multiple stacks of books which lined all manner of surfaces in my home over the past six months. It was perhaps the most selfish favor I have ever done for someone. Really? You need me to bring home as many books as I can and just keep them for months on end? Twist my arm! I loved the freedom it gave me to throw my reading list to the wind and grab whatever looked good without worrying about whether I’d finish one book before starting another. I loved having a personal library just sitting there waiting for me, books of all sorts ready to match whatever mood I might be in at any given time. It wasn’t so much that I needed an abundance of choices, but rather the space for trial and error. Normally I feel the pressure of only having enough time on earth to read the most meaningful books, which causes me to prioritize and stay focused on the list that grows ever longer. I know that the library is always there with any book I need, but when I go to search for a new book, I pull out my “must read” list and feel immediately overwhelmed. With the request to help empty the shelves so that remodeling would be easier, I still referenced my list, but this time it felt expansive, since I could grab a random assortment of titles I had heard were worth reading without making an assessment about the correct order to tackle them, or even the likelihood of finishing them all. Having so many good books lined up in front of me also meant that any book I chose to read was a good choice, and any book I set aside didn’t plague me with guilt. I even picked some up, read a chapter or two, and decided I didn’t want to read it. That’s right, I gave myself permission to reverse a decision I’d made. Some of you may be thinking, what’s the big deal? You started reading something you didn’t like and put it back down, it’s only a book. Yes, I would like to think that, and yet…my whole life I’ve held the belief that there is a correct way to do things, not so much for others but for me, and it is very hard to convince myself otherwise. I give everyone else the license to approach life in any way they see fit and change course when they desire, but I am only allowed to stick to a prescribed path. Over time, I’ve encountered enough situations that have challenged this belief, and I have broken free from some very large expectations I had set for myself, but somehow remnants show up in small inconsequential decisions like how one should read books. It is only when confronted by a radically different approach that I am able to recognize the unnecessary restrictions I sometimes set on things. The wonderful news is that practicing letting go makes it easier to actually do so, and I am thrilled with the notion that I will ease up on myself and that never-ending book list. Will I toss it out completely? No way! But I like to think giving myself grace in this area will ripple outward and help me embrace ease and joy on a larger scale. I got the notice from the library this week that books are due back, and I haven’t even read half of what I checked out for that extended loan period. There are a few books that I’ve already returned without a second thought, but I’m going to renew at least a couple that I would miss not reading. So here’s to giving yourself permission to stray from the script, here’s to giving yourself grace in the face of high expectations, and here’s to things gladly left undone - may we all find ourselves able to move on a little lighter in the world.

Play-Doh-Re-Mi

By: Dilynn Wise

Play-Doh was originally made to remove marks on walls made by various bumps and swipes, as well as "art" from children. But like a lot of things, its intended purpose is not what it is used for now. Now it is a medium for creative play by children, and adults who don't “wanna” grow up.

After awhile the "dough" dries out and becomes all crumbly and yucky. Like with a lot of things, the use and enjoyment comes to an end. (Or does it??) This can be something to sing a sad song about, or simply unimportant and we move on to play with the next toy.

To “move on” and “get over it” are hard things to learn. And yet, Nature does it all the time. Actually, it just transforms into something else or something better. When the snow finishes melting it is time to move on, and distract us with a different toy. Can we say “mud pies”?

Go on and find something to play with. And maybe someone will fix the Play-Doh so the young and the young at heart have something to play with again later...

Golden Carrot Winner: Kate Huston & Anderson School

Written By Ali Thornton

April 14, 2023

We are proud to present our second Golden Carrot Award to Kate Huston and the staff at Anderson School for their commitment to making the school cafeteria a space where students can comfortably explore their boundaries with food, eat delicious local, scratch-cooked meals, and be part of a vibrant school community!

Kate grew up around gardening and food, which she has carried throughout her entire career. From working in the produce section of the Bozeman Co-Op to learning about the farm to table movement as a a farmer with a small CSA operation, teaching and starting a gardening program for her students, and operating a catering business, Kate has always strived to include local food into whatever she is doing.

In 2022, Kate became the Food Service Director at Anderson School. She says the job fell into her lap, but she couldn’t be happier! It’s the job she plans on retiring with.

In the first year, there was a steep learning curve; despite her impressive background, Kate didn’t have any food service experience and she had to familiarize herself in a new kitchen space and cooking environment. She said the biggest struggle that first year was learning how to navigate OPI and new software systems. But that didn’t stop her from making change in the cafeteria.

In the first year at Anderson, Kate not only reimagined the school food menu, but reduced the cafeteria’s pre and post food waste to zero, created zero plastic waste at the salad bar, and started scratch cooking meals, including the soup options! But Kate didn’t stop there.

This year, Kate has worked to incorporate as much local food as possible, including using the Montana Marinara sauce and creating a partnership with Pioneer Meats. Her goal is to highlight small farmers and ranchers across Montana who may not have access to larger markets. Kate has also worked to continue to push students’ boundaries with food by cooking recipes from around the world, including recipes from Europe, South America, and Africa. Of course there have been some challenges along the way, but if even one student says they tried and liked the new food, she’ll reintroduce it on the menu. This has encouraged kids to keep trying new foods and Kate has had a large success rate through this process. Meanwhile, Kate has also made sure that each recipe has zero added sugar or sodium, to ensure both teachers and students can have a productive day of learning.

Kate isn’t done though: she still plans on reimagining the school cafeteria space. By the end of this spring, Anderson will finish building three school garden beds and a site to grow the Three Sisters. She plans on using these gardens to grow produce for the cafeteria and aims to have the salad bar comprised of 50% local food by 2024. These school gardens will also double as an education space: Kate has a three-year plan to continue to build and develop the gardens, so that by year three, each grade at Anderson will have their own school garden program, which will contribute to the food in the school cafeteria. This isn’t her only initiative of getting kids involved in the school cafeteria though: she’s created a program through Extension to have the 8th grade students meal plan, order, cook, and serve an entire meal for the school to teach them leadership and cooking skills. She also currently has each class develop a ‘dream lunch recipe’ each week, that has to meet nutrition standards, which she randomly chooses to incorporate into the following week’s meal plan.

Kate has a strong food philosophy, which Anderson has readily supported:

Kids should eat well, try new foods to push their boundaries in a safe environment, and know where their food comes from.

No child should ever go hungry.

We should support and celebrate our state’s amazing farming communities that are underutilized, especially in schools.

None of this work happens alone. Kate says it’s a whole community effort in the kitchen, from her amazing staff and parent volunteers to support from the school itself. They all work as a cohesive team where communication and respect for each other are paramount. This shows in the lunch line, where the food service staff and volunteers work like a well-oiled machine and students and school staff readily line-up for lunch. The comradery between everyone is palpable and truly something special.

Kate is extremely proud of her team and the work they do, and will continue to do, in the school cafeteria. Her advice to other food service staff, especially to those working in rural communities and schools? Realize you’re not alone. Ask questions, reach out for support, and take ownership of your program.

Kate has graciously given us permission to share her contact information to anyone interested in learning more about what she does and to create a support network for food service staff across the county. If you would like to reach out to Kate, email Ali at ali@gvfarmtoschool.org and she will connect you.

Thank you to Kate, her staff and volunteers, and Anderson School for all the work you do!

Reprinted With permission from Gallatin Valley Farm to School

The Love Mandate

By Emily Heath

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” – John 13: 34-35

No one really uses the word “maundy” anymore in their daily lives. Which is why today can seem a little murkier than some of the other holy days in Lent. We get Ash Wednesday, and Palm Sunday, and Good Friday…but what’s “Maundy Thursday”?

The word “maundy” comes from a Latin word: mandatum. And mandatum means “mandate” or a “commandment.” And when we talk about “Maundy Thursday” we’re talking about “mandate Thursday.” We’re talking about the night before he died, when Christ told his disciples exactly what he expected them to do next.

And if you read a book or watch a movie about almost anyone else, you might think the lead character right about now would be saying something like “avenge my death” or “make sure there’s payback” or “don’t let them get away with this … strike back.”

But this isn’t any other story. This is a story that turns everything on its head. Instead, the mandate that Jesus gives is this:

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

It’s not my job to rename Christian holy days. But if it were, I might change the name of Maundy Thursday. I might change it from this word that none of us really know anymore to something we would all understand. Something like “Love One Another Thursday” or “The Last Thing Christ Really Wanted Us to Know Thursday.”

There’s a song that many of us learned as children: “and they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love…and they’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

It might not sound all that radical…but it is. It’s a song that reminds us of Christ’s true mandate. And it’s still the gauge of how well we are following him. Because, if we take Christ’s word for it, love is more than our mandate as Christians. It’s our calling card.

Prayer

God of love, help us to remember the mandate that Christ has given to us, on this sacred Thursday, and always. And God, may they know we are Christians by our love. Amen.

About the Author

Emily C. Heath is the pastor of West Dover Congregational Church, United Church of Christ, in West Dover, Vermont. She also serves as the chaplain of a local fire department, and as a speaker and writer on Christian faith and social justice. This reflection was originally posted on the United Church of Christ’s website as a Daily Devotional from the StillSpeaking Writers’ Group: https://www.ucc.org/daily-devotional/ on April 17, 2014 and accessed on March 21, 2023. Used with permission.

Look For The Shepherd

By: Carolyn Pinet

Edis fingers her strings and sings

"There is only love."

Pastor Laura has us search for the shepherd

as sun pours through high windows

on this March morning poised

between winter and spring.

The blind man's story goes unsung

except in John's gospel where

Nicholas, transported,

beholds a dazzling miracle!

"The gospel grows among outlaws and sinners,"

Eyes open wide in surprising places.

Here we live in "flyover country"

with more sheep than pastors

and lambs in spring snow.

Which of us lowly, forgotten,

hears the song of the shepherd,

or blind, begins to see?

Now Edis sings of the power of kindness.

We join and raise the spirit -

O hear our hymn of hope!

For Edis Kittrell who sang

"Welcome to the Circle" &

"Poem of Kindness."

Pilgrim CC, Bozeman, March 19, 2023

Poem of Perfect Miracles

By Bruce Smith

Lately, I’ve been reading a good bit about biological wonders and a variety of remarkable scientific discoveries. Having gone very lightly on science after high school, these have been a mind-expanding experience. Some facts stretch the imagination to comprehend the entwined vitality, unsuspected intelligences and incredible adaptations found in our natural world. Even mosses and lichens have remarkable stories to tell!

Last night I came across this poem and thought it caught a sense of the wonder and miraculous nature that exists all around us. If we take the time to appreciate, perhaps we can join Walt Whitman in his sense of awe and appreciation. Hope you enjoy it!

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether … I stand under trees in the woods

Or watch honey bees busy around the hive …

Or animals feeding in the fields …

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air …

Or the wonderfulness of sun-down --- or the stars shining

so quiet and bright

Or the exquisite, delicate, think curve of the new-moon in May,

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best –

Mechanics, boatmen, farmers

Or among the savans or – to the soiree – or to the opera,

Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,

Or behold children in their sports,

Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old

Woman.

Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,

Or my own eyes and figure in the glass,

These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring – yet each distinct and in its place

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same;

Every spear of grass – the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women

And all that concerns them,

All these to me are unspeakable miracles.

Walt Whitman 1855

And can you imagine what Whitman would make of discoveries we’ve since made in trees, fields, insects, space, machinery, and human biology since 1855!! More miracles than he even imagined!!

Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus/Happy St. David's Day!

By: Carolyn Pinet

This day dawns cold and bright

but "all through the night"

I dream of the land of my birth,

of the frilled, white-capped sea

and of the loamy green earth.

Today, as I walk abroad,

I see a Pilgrims' haunt,

deer in the snow,

a host of twittering birds on the wing.

A male-voice chorus is

raised up from the mines

and all hearts lift and sing.

"Be joyful and do the little things," St David of Wales

(Today the male voice choirs are singing all over Wales. South Wales is mining country.)

Montana, My Montana

By Susan Wordal

I was reminded the other day of a joke I heard from my Dad many years ago. Dad wasn’t much for telling jokes, but the ones he did tell were generally good ones.

A fellow decided to write a book about famous churches around the world, so they began their tour of churches in Europe.

On the first day, the Writer was inside a cathedral taking photographs when they noticed a golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read “£10,000 per call”.

The Writer, being intrigued, asked a priest who was walking by what was the purpose of the telephone.

The priest replied that it was a direct line to heaven and that for £10,000 you could talk to God. The Writer thanked the priest and went on his way.

As the Writer moved through the great churches, and some local ones, throughout Europe, the Writer saw the same golden phone with the same type of sign.  When the Writer asked, they got the same answer: It was a direct line to heaven and for the equivalent of $10,000 you could talk to God.

The Writer returned to the US and began visiting churches while making their way home to begin working on the book. In every church the Writer again saw the same golden telephone with the same “$10,000 per call” sign under it.

The Writer arrived in their home state of Montana and stopped in at various churches as they drove through the state.  The golden phone was the same, but the sign below it was “10 cents per call”.

The Writer walked into their home church and found the newly installed minister, an old friend from their days as undergrads.  “I’ve traveled all over Europe and the states and I’ve seen this same golden telephone in many churches. I’m told that it is a direct line to Heaven, but in other places the price was $10,000 per call. Why is it so cheap here?”

The old friend just smiled and answered, “You’re in Montana. It’s God’s Country, my friend – it’s a local call”

Now, I might have taken a little literary license with the language (especially since if you check on the internet, the state is often referenced as Texas) but I’ve always liked this joke. I suspect all those I know who are native Montanans, or those who have adopted Montana as their home, appreciate the take on “Big Sky Country” and our ready access to the open sky of the Treasure State, and the feeling we are in a place where you can easily commune with God or can access that space which speaks to your inner being and allows us to find our spiritual center. I’ve visited other states and even had the chance to visit other countries, and Montana has always called me home. The Alps may have made me feel dwarfed, but their majesty did not do it for me. Montana’s mountain ranges are “it”.

There is much to “treasure” in this state of my birth and that of my parents, and even my grandparents. But the treasures to be found have less to do with the copper and gold exploited by our settling forefathers (the Copper Kings) than they do the abundant natural beauty to be seen and experienced as we walk and camp and drive through our state. It calls out to us in a way nothing else really does.

This reminds me of a song from Manhattan Transfer: Operator.  The important parts of the song go something like this:

Operator…Give me Information.

Information…Give me long distance.

Long Distance… Give me Heaven!

…I’d like to speak to a friend of mine.

Oh, prayer is the number, faith is the exchange, heaven is the street and Jesus is the name.

Some hear the music, and some the roar of the river, and others just enjoy the blessing of silence. Whatever it is that calls to our hearts, know this - - - the phone call is free! And someone is sure to be listening!

Resisting Sin

By Wendy Morical

My church home has always been a UCC congregation, from infant baptism to the current day. Over the years, I’ve occasionally had discussions with people who have turned away from church, actively put off or damaged by practices in a church. When I’ve described why I find church-going a positive act of self-care, I’ve found myself asserting that “we don’t talk about sin” in the UCC. This is likely the position I have taken when speaking to those who were made to confess their sinfulness regularly and feel bad about themselves constantly, ultimately deciding they had no place for organized religion in their lives.

I have always known that God loves all of us, as we are, and didn’t understand why some felt they needed to earn back God’s favor, or that they must work to earn a positive judgment at their life’s end. God does love, God IS love!

Therefore, this past Sunday, I braced myself when sin, evil, repentance and even Satan were topics of the sermon. Pastor Laura opened by acknowledging that these are problematical and even abused aspects of Christianity, but in keeping with our search for the constant of God’s love in all places, she tackled the experience of temptations in the desert.

One of the most helpful touchstones in her sermon was a concrete way to reframe sin as, “that which separates us from the love and grace of God.” She spoke about resisting the “evils” that separate us from God. That was something that I could wrap my head around – and something that deepened my understanding of the experience of Lent.

To repent, we were told, is to change your way of thinking in order to cast off that which is evil. Jesus, though tempted mightily, resisted those things that would get in the way of His relationship with God. Pastor Laura called on us this week to be “resisters of evil.” Can we have the courage to resist the small evils that drive a wedge between us and our relationship with a loving God? Might we recommit during this Lenten season to check our impulses toward pettiness, cynicism, judgment, self-service, and other small but sinful habits that separate us from the love God offers us so freely?

Let us praise God not only with our lips but with our living; let us use this season of Lent to reassess what that might mean.

Road To Nowhere

By Kerry Williams

I’ve never felt that January 1st was the start of a new year. Maybe it’s because I was a dedicated student and orient to September as the annual time of change and transition. Or maybe it’s because I’ve always lived in a northern climate and celebrate New Year’s in the middle of the longest season of the year. Or maybe it’s because my birthday is in June, which means I myself turn a new page exactly halfway around the calendar from the day I hang it on the wall. Whatever the reason, I am not refreshed by the changing of the year. I don’t make resolutions because I feel no pull of a reset in my life. I don’t feel nostalgia nor a sense of possibility, sentiments I clearly see in those around me.

In fact, the past couple of years my main feeling in the month of January has been of burnout. The job that I’m currently in reinforces this sense of being stuck. I am in charge of bookkeeping in a nonprofit office that chooses to do a yearly audit. This means that the month of December I am churning out donation acknowledgments during the busy giving season, then roll straight into January wrapping up annual financials to set everything in order, only to then drop right back into the previous year to dig up all the random pieces of information needed for the accountants. It is overwhelmingly busy yet the work is circular.

I hear The Talking Heads singing “Road to Nowhere” on a loop in my head all month long. I spend the month of December tending to others’ needs, whether that’s getting a stranger a tax donation receipt or making sure that those I’m closest to receive meaningful holiday gifts, food, and memories, and the month of January cleaning up and prepping for others’ success at both work and at home. Emerging into February feels like a relief, though not a renewal. I am tired. I think the definition of burnout, at least to me, is knowing that you are depleted but not knowing how to fill your bucket back up. I keep asking myself, “What do I need?” and finding no clear answer. I might think peace and quiet would be good, but when I find myself alone in my cozy house I just walk around in circles, doing random chores instead of settling in and finding rest. I might think social engagement will cheer me up, but then I get stressed just trying to make plans to get together with others. All of this is to say that if you are in a cycle of your life that feels both overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time, you’re not alone.

I am grateful for the years I’ve spent on this planet (coming up on 50 now that it's 2023) that have given me the wisdom that “this too shall pass.” I know that it’s impossible to maintain a perfect “whelmed” state for very long, but I also know that I have the strength to get through this time. That and the fact that February brings lots of chocolate. It feels like my personal road to nowhere might end up having a destination after all in the very near future, and I’m thankful for all of you fellow travelers who make it enjoyable along the way, even when I’m driving in circles.

Maggie's Take

By Carolyn Pinet

The thirteenth bird

flies in on a wing and a prayer.

She's a magpie my granddaughter,

who likes euphony,

calls Maggie.

Her black and white feathers

plump up and glisten.

Something bad happened

to her whacky tail,

but she flutters

and improvises a two-step.

The number thirteen could

really bring you down,

but Maggie, imperturbable,

dances among our crumbs.

She knows a large crow

could beat her to them,

but she shares my granddaughter's

optimism about

the giddy generosity of life,

even when guns go off again

and Covid rises like a tide.

How unlucky could thirteen actually be?

Maggie spreads her wings and they splay

like big black kisses.

My granddaughter calls to her as,

sated, she takes off into the wide-open blue.

For Mimi who loves Maggie.

Sacrificial Love

By Liz Miller

 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant. - 1 Corinthians 13:4 (NRSVUE)

Last summer I toured Saint John’s Abbey Woodworking where a small team of craftsmen (mostly monks) build furniture they describe as sustainable, long-lasting, and utilitarian. I think their designs are better described as artistic, sublimely gorgeous, and eat-your-heart-out-Ikea minimalist.

On the tour, a woodworker explained that they had long outgrown their workshop. Soon they would be tearing down their buildings and creating a new, expansive workshop with space for all their tools, projects, and room still to grow. There was great anticipation about this long-dreamed-of woodworking shop.

The final stop on the tour was the lumber shed, where high above planks of red oak and maple was a loft soaked in natural light, sunbeams beckoning for a passerby to climb up and explore. For over 50 years this loft was the studio of a monk who is a prolific painter. Nestled above the woodworkers he births vibrant works of art that end up in the Vatican and Parisian galleries alike. When the old workshop is demolished, his sacred space will also be torn down.

The community helped the painter set up a new studio nearby. They assisted him in packing his canvases and brushes and gently unpacked his tools in the new space. They recognized that in the midst of the exciting growth for the rest of the community came this deeply personal loss for one among them. They grieved with him. They named and honored his sacrifice, just as the painter named and honored the need for a new woodworking shop.

This is the commandment to love one another. To accompany each other rather than insist on our own way. To tell truthful, tender stories rather than keep a record of wrongs.

Prayer

Together may we bear all things and endure all things. May Christ’s love never end. May we love one another as Christ loved us.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Liz Miller serves as the pastor of Edgewood United Church (UCC) in East Lansing, Michigan. This reflection was originally posted on the United Church of Christ’s website as a Daily Devotional from the StillSpeaking Writers’ Group: https://www.ucc.org/daily-devotional/ and accessed on February 8, 2023. Used with permission.

Rolling Through Life

By Rev. Danielle Rogers

Last Friday night I stepped into rainbow sparkly roller skates with bright turquoise glitter shoelaces and glided into a dark room at the Gallatin Valley Fairgrounds illuminated by strobe lights, while the sounds of Abba and other 70’s jams blared in the background.

Lots of little feet on wobbly legs skated by me while parents tried to keep the smallest from falling. Meanwhile experienced adults flew by on skates with lighted wheels , exuding confidence and style.

I hadn’t put on Roller Skates since 1995. The last time I wore them was at my High School Graduation afterparty for Seniors. The dark room, filled with advanced confident adults and overzealous children made me nervous. I was more then nervous, I was terrified.

I skated recreationally as a child. I loved the freedom of gliding through my hometown of NYC, and the joy I felt. I was an experienced skater, confident, assured with no fear of falling. I received my first pair of fisher price skates at 3, and by ten had a nice pair of leather semi-professional skates. I skated every day for a whole summer in our building’s backyard, I wore them to the bodega corner store, and they substituted my usual tennis shoes that year. I wore them in so badly, I broke the brake on one of the skates and had it repaired.

All my previous experience escaped me, as I took a trepidatious step into the dark room and gathered my courage. Slowly, I took one step gliding to the right and then the left, trying to find a rhythm while keeping my core engaged. I made it around the room and tried for another lap. Again, gliding to the right, then releasing to my left foot, and little by little I remembered an emotion I hadn’t felt in thirty years. Childhood exhilaration. All the memories of skating rushed back, every part of my body remembered the old sensation of skating and the joy it brought me. It took me back to memories with my mom and the knee pads I wore as a toddler. I remembered being 11 and feeling independent at the ability to travel short distances on my skates by myself to run an errand. More importantly, I felt Joy! Real joy.

As I made my way to my husband who was watching from the side of the room, I decided to try stopping by breaking, a maneuver done by lifting up your foot and applying pressure on the hard peg on the front of the boot. My beautiful skates were brand new and I had forgotten the breaks needed to be broken in. They were vinyl, shiny, glittery plastic. As I braked, down I went. I landed on my hip and extended my elbow falling on my wrist. My phone dropped and the screen broke. Instant pain radiated into my hip as I lay stunned and kind of embarrassed. I quickly got up skated over to my husband and had to make a decision. Should I go home, ice my middle-aged ego and leave this sport for the young people, or should I stay, as another fun song by Olivia Newton John played loudly. I stayed for another two hours.

Later that night I was mad at myself for falling and wished I had stayed home as the realization of buying a new phone and a trip to Urgent Care waited for me in the morning, then I remembered the feeling of freedom and joy. For those moments it was blissful movement, swaying to fun, methodic, music and exuding childhood joy. I praise God for roller skates, and the joy it brings to the world. If you are wondering if I will go back, the answer is yes and I hope you will too. Find your old joy, live in it for awhile and praise God for the ability to find it.

This Is the Day the Lord Has Made

By Bruce Smith

Significant

Back when I was much younger, our family became friends with Reverend Walter Reasoner. Reverend Reasoner left a successful early career on Wall Street to become a pastor. Besides ministering to a church some miles from us, he became a meaningful influence on us. I remember his resonant voice beginning a church service with the words, “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Over the years that verse has remained with me and even sits on my desk. For this week, I thought I’d share a couple thoughts about it.

First, I’ll admit that I have not followed that instruction on many days over the years. And probably I’ve missed some opportunities for more happiness by doing so. But, as we know, life can sometimes be trying. But let’s think about what beginning each day with this verse in mind might mean. The first recognition is that it is a gift from God with which we are blessed. God’s love is first in foremost in providing this unique 24 hours open to life’s experiences. He is the founder and grounder of our existence and he is looking out for us in providing this day.

That recognition may inspire us to a moment of thankfulness. We are blessed with a new day and new opportunities. We can appreciate the blessing of this day and so much else comes from God, a God who is happy to give us our lives and so much in them. That, itself, is enough to add comfort and hope to our morning.

There is the encouragement to approach this new day with an attitude of joy and expectation. Given the onslaught of negativity we so often find around us, what a different attitude this can engender! Rather than dwelling on the usual litany of problems, dangers, and dire predictions we can approach this new day with a smile and a bounce in our step. And isn’t it often said that your attitude and smile can be a positive on those around you? We can take our sense of appreciation and joy and pass it along to those around us.

We can also rejoice in the wonder that is our life. That in the endless universe we exist with our incredibly intricate bodies and their interactions of chemicals, nerves, muscles and, even now we learn, the host of bacteria that comprise our existence. Each day can start with the recognition of the wonder that we are and appreciation for the God that produced us.

And, when it comes down to it, this is the only day that we’re sure that we have. So why not fill it with rejoicing, thankfulness and as much happiness as we can?

I’ll try to do better by starting my day with a moment to think of this verse and hope that you can benefit from it as well.

Let Your Light Shine

By Wendy Morical

During an appearance on Stephen Colbert’s talk show a few weeks ago, RuPaul described his present practice when watching television: “I can’t take meanness anymore. After the past five years, if, like, there’s a movie or something on television where they’re starting to be mean, I have to look away. I only can do lovely, kind, sweet things.”

In the comments following this clip, many respondents said they were also “burned out on hate, anger, and violence,” including one person who commended RuPaul for his perspective, saying, “He allows his love and light to permeate the atmosphere and lift the spirits of all who come near. That is a gift straight from God.”

Yesterday, in our Epiphany service, Rev. Danielle guided us to pray to a God of light and love “who shines in our hearts”, and we sang together the upbeat hymn asserting that we were each going to let “this little light of mine” shine. Yes, please!

Like RuPaul, I have felt overwhelmed by the toxicity of discourse in our country over the past few years and paralyzed by my limited ability to address social injustices. We are traversing a painful stretch in our country’s life. Rifts in our society, laid bare by events in recent years, have been parlayed by the media into a never-ending stream of humankind’s least attractive attributes: violence, greed, divisiveness, dishonesty, vulgarity. What passes for entertainment often echoes these same themes. I have chosen to tune out, too.

So where do we find the “little light” of God’s still, small voice?

Well, there is something I have noticed recently, framed by the fact that nothing seems to run smoothly or efficiently these days. Last week, I was in the Post Office for over a half an hour to conduct a small task. The counter was understaffed, and the line exceeded 20 people. A few cheery children, unaware that standing in the Post Office for 30 minutes isn’t acceptable or normal, were playing and chattering, bringing smiles to the faces of some of the line members. Several people visited with those near them. Slowly, slowly we approached the counter – and as people arrived, not one person grumbled or complained but instead all greeted the postal workers pleasantly, even thanking them for their hard work. I realized I had been on alert, anticipating an episode of rudeness or disrespect, and it was a relief to witness goodness.

Likewise, in the grocery store, funneling slowly through the lone open checkout lane, people around me were pleasant in their resignation to the situation and each person was kind to the cashier in their turn.

Could it be that a groundswell of kindness and respect may be our national reaction to “meanness burnout”? What if, in years to come, historians look at this current ugly climate as a small blip and write about the years of goodwill that were ushered in as a nationwide reaction to behavior that was not acceptable to the good people of America…

That may not ultimately be our shared reality, but what is real is that each of us can gratefully receive the gift of God’s love and let it shine through our actions every day. At the conclusion of a long-ago yoga class, my instructor shared a focusing intention that I copied and have used as a touchstone when I am feeling put-upon, discouraged, or overwhelmed by events out of my control: Love is my gift to the world. I fill myself with love and I sent that love out into the world. How others treat me is their path; how I react is mine.

In this new year, and embracing our Epiphany celebration confirming Christ’s light in the world, let us all commit to sharing our gift of love, to letting our light shine.

Numbering Graces

By Carolyn Pinet

I have no idea why

my mother always ended

her notes and cards

with 13 kisses.

Was she defying "unlucky"

or simply convinced,

against all odds,

that she could magic a negative

into a positive?

During the war she sat with me

on a beach in Wales,

while bombs pounded near and far,

and she waited for my flying father

to return home.

She sang to me, two in 1945,

about blackbirds in a pie,

all twenty-four of them,

alive and twittering away,

when it was cut open

and set before the king.

Numbers are funny, remarkable things.

Stevenson immortalized 13 in one whole poem,

the Bible conjures Three in One,

and, all these years later,

each of my mother's letters

still sports 13 exes

It's intriguing what figures and crosses can do,

how birds and kisses can elude us,

spread wings and fly away,

then come back down to earth,

break into song

and simply astonish us.

Ring In The Year

By: Susan Wordal

It’s a New Year! 2023 rolled in on Sunday with a delightful story read by Carolyn Pinet. We were so cozy in the Boyd Room, but probably a little startled to see more people on a Sunday after a night spent “ringing in the new” or spent comforting our canine and other furry friends or our dear ones who do not handle all that popping and banging from fireworks. We sang lovely hymns with Chris Fastnow, who wore a sparkly jacket and looked ready for the season. We shared hot beverages and lovely cookies and left feeling we’d started off the next adventure in the company of those we love and with a look forward rather than back.

But looking back can also be a good thing. The Advent Season is so full of wonderful things and we get so busy plotting the surprises under the tree and enjoying the hustle and bustle that we sometimes forget to reflect on the year coming to a close.

The one thing I realized I was missing this year was playing with the handbell choir at church. Odd how when you don’t do something for a time, you realize other things have filled in for that activity. Not always with the same level of enjoyment, but there it is. We adjust. We’ve done a crazy amount of adjusting the last couple years with Covid and social distancing and figuring out new ways to communicate. But despite our ability to do many things through electronic means, there is just something about being part of a group creating music. But people are continuing to share their inspirations on that front, as well.

Then I had an invitation from M.A. Bellingham, our Bell Choir Director, to join in a concert with Bells of the Bridgers and play chimes. I was excited! And, it was fun to see familiar faces (when we weren’t covering up with masks to protect everyone) and join in this collective musical endeavor.

As I listened to the concert both nights, I realized how much I’ve missed this collective experience. It’s truly a unique one. Imagine standing at a piano and knowing you are only responsible for hitting a total of 3 or 4 notes (depending on whether you need to play the white keys, the black keys, or some combination of them). Talk about a crowd around a piano. But with bells, you can stand in a line, or 2 lines if you have enough bells and ringers, and you can strike your individual notes and collectively you play the music. It’s not like an orchestra where each instrument layers over another to create the piece. In this case, it’s truly a collaborative effort. And the sound….! It has such richness to it. The chimes add such a dimension, somewhat like the changing tonalities of an organ without all of the “noise” as some people view it. It’s softer and richer in some ways. [Sorry Grandma Norma, but I never could get the hang of the organ, even though you played one for YEARS!!]

There’s a sense, as we head into this new year, that we need to begin to find ways to start picking up things we have left off doing. With Covid still rearing its ugly head, doing that can be a little interesting. Singing is difficult while wearing a mask, but it can be done. Bell playing, on the other hand, can be done with masks! Some of our ringers at Pilgrim will not be returning for one reason or another. But, if there are some folks out there who can count, and can follow directions, and maybe have a little appreciation for music, maybe it’s time to begin to “ring in the year”. I’m hoping that this year will see that dream come alive and the music flow.

Care to “ring” with me? Come on……let’s RING!

"Tell it slant" - What Emily Knew

By Carolyn Pinet

What was Noah waiting for anyway?

Isn't it preposterous to cram a whole zoo

into a small space, and float about?

But here we are, the first Sunday of Advent,

asking ourselves what should we really be doing?

Should we be making lists and dashing ahead,

panic stricken that we'll never get it all done?

Still, Emily speaks to us of feathers and hope,

and I'm picturing a rainbow above the ark,

it hangs, a slide of promising, radiant colors.

Here we sit, pilgrims at rest, and time stretches out,

with poinsettias gleaming in a field of red,

while a mother and daughter, on keys and strings,

conjure "Le Cygne" -

a swan glides softly, slowly over water

and we fall in love with a concave, shining mirror.

But listen, now we are raised ever higher:

a glorious organ Toccata buoys us up -

together we float, feathers among blond rafters.

Many thanks to Ilse-Mari & Elizabeth Lee and for Pastor Laura's Sacred Time

"Hope is a thing with feathers..." Emily Dickinson

Le Cygne, Saint-Saens

Festival Toccata, Fletcher

Pilgrim CC, Bozeman, November 27, 2022, Advent

Imagining Gutsy Mary

Mary said, “My soul magnifies my God; for you have looked with favor on the lowliness of your servant. You have brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; you have filled the hungry, and sent the rich away empty.” – Luke 1:47-48 & 52-53 (NRSV, adapted)

In this song, Mary calls herself “lowly.” Which doesn’t mean “humble” or “meek.” It means “poor.” It’s not a metaphor. Mary was poor, dirt poor. She sings about God’s new world in the way poor people always have, in the midst of life’s hard grief. She feels its joy while up to her neck in privation, which is, perhaps, the only place where such imagination is even possible.

It takes imagination to sing about a new world in the midst of the violence and pain of the old. No matter when or where, it also takes guts to sing of the powerful dethroned, of poor bellies filled. It’s like a raised fist. Try doing it in the boardroom of Amazon. The gift is not welcome everywhere.

Mary’s got guts, and she’s pregnant with imagination. Pregnant with a Child. And like pregnant women, she dares to believe that it’s God’s new world growing in her womb, that her child will one day make all the difference.

You don’t have to be pregnant to imagine like Mary. But we can’t imagine at all if we won’t relinquish our privilege and confess that things aren’t the way God intends, and that we’re part of the problem. If we can’t contain our avarice to receive the dream with uncluttered hearts. If we never find true solidarity with the dirt poor, with Marys everywhere.

And if we can’t imagine, we can’t hope. And if we can’t hope, we’ll only fear. And if there’s only fear, we know what that does to us and where it leaves us, where it’s always left the world.

Prayer: We want to hope. We want a new world. Give the church, give me, the guts and imagination of Mary.

Discussion Questions

1. What hinders (or perhaps tames) your imagination of God’s new world?

2. How do you practice confession during Advent? When are you tempted to practice denial instead?

3. What lessons of joy, persistence, and resistance do you learn from Mary?

About the Author: Mary Luti is a long time seminary educator and pastor, author of Teresa of Avila’s Way and numerous articles, and founding member of The Daughters of Abraham, a national network of interfaith women’s book groups. This reflection was originally posted on the United Church of Christ’s website as a Daily Devotional from the StillSpeaking Writers’ Group: https://www.ucc.org/daily-devotional/ and accessed on December 20, 2022. Used with permission.

Christmas Waxwing

By: Carolyn Pinet

Hosts of Bohemians

flock from tree to tree,

swarm and gather

in dense communion,

a chanting, chattering

crowd of pilgrims.

The red wine of berries

drops from their beaks and

they coast, heady on the season.

A Christmas chorus,

raised in cold and snow

in ascent, descent,

cheers us

and caresses the air:

a caroling lustily sung

at windows and doors.

Blessed be the birds

at the manger

and under the Star,

a thousand throats

twittering in glistening Hosannas.