Black-capped chickadees tip and tumble in the hemlocks. Jays dart to the bird-berry bushes which are full with red autumn gifts, round and small. The maple tosses orange and gold to a blue sky, fading. Day is going down.

The pine stands tall, as does the house, bathing me in shadow. Blueberry bushes fan crimson leaves in the breeze. Bronze needles have flung themselves as one over the grass. Green and bronze kiss, embrace, quiet. A long body of love.

But this is what pierces my soul. The breath of wings floating upward, a tiny moth. Captured the light on its wings just right. And I was here to see it. A barely-there grace, a whisper, new drifting from Your hand.

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From birth, long months
you had lain triple broken
hearted, needle pricked,
wired, ravaged by fire

of fever and untold pain. Still.
Just yesterday you quietly came,
a blue cloud of promise o'er rise
of hill— late summer rain.

Thank you, Lord, for keeping my niece Summer Rain, through heart surgeries and suffering and danger and for bringing her home to arms of love.

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Jubilee God, who frees the slaves...


Creator God, who weaves new lives...


Merciful God, who feeds the poor...


Open our hearts to do the same,

and the nations will sing...

praise! praise! praise!


The High Calling's Blog Action Day is Coming



Abbey in Marseilles

Abbey in Marseilles

This abbey old,
one thousand, one
thousand six hundred
years. Two columns

buckling, held in place
with wood supports and
chains, still stand. Mottled
bricks, set with hands long

gone, crowd overhead, silent,
still joined. One thousand,
one thousand six hundred years.
My shoes scratch 'cross these

stones. Brown suede o'er my toes,
feet touching, treading how many
distant dreams, hopes, prayers,
tears? A silence meets me from

beyond the years. Enfolds my
soul. I feel quite still, quite whole.

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Golden Ceiling

We climb high— past sheer, chalky white rocks— brush by wild fennel and what look like dandelions on dianthus stems. The air is dry, feels thin as we ascend. Up and up and up, above the city and the blue, blue sea.

Sun is pure and hot, blazes, reflects from golden steeple that guides us ever upward. If heaven is somewhere, maybe it is here.

Hushed, we pass over an old wooden drawbridge, into the coolness of marble, red and ivory. Into the artistic order of fine mosaic on floor and wall and ceiling. Golden light from windows drifts silken over gold laid long ago, overhead— intricate worship of You, the finest Gold given to our poor hearts.

Finest gold that leaves us without words, mouths open, awed... tasting anise sweet, strong, wild.

Golden Ceiling in Marseilles' Notre Dame, by L.L. Barkat.

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