My Porch

My porch, in the historical center of Edgartown, maybe 8' from the sidewalk, is a ministry of sorts, as it turns out.

A couple of Saturday nights ago I was hosting a small Irish traditional music session, a regular occurrence for me on a Saturday night. The conditions were favorable - low humidity and no bugs - for playing out of doors so we repaired to the porch for an evening of jollyment. After an hour or so of a friendly back and forth session of tune-sharing on fiddles and guitars, two gentlemen stepped up to the porch - Teng, a 1993 escapee from Laos, now living in New York city; and Carl, from Boston. Before long it was discovered - as is often the case with visitors to the porch - that one of the gentlemen, Teng, played guitar. Indeed, Teng played and sang beautifully and regaled us, first of all, appropriately, with The Fields of Athenry. Teng offered a couple more pop-folk songs to the mix while also sharing the fact that he was having a tough time due to his twenty-year-old nephew having been shot dead in Milwaukee the previous night; at least one of Teng's songs was offered up in memory of his nephew. So, during the course of the night the music shifted from Irish to folk to the classic Catholic hymn Here I Am, Lord in three-part harmony. I even managed to get my Gloria into the mix. A lovely evening.

The Parable of the Sower

The best words I heard this week: "You're not in exile; you're in the center, in the heart of the matter." Indeed, the center of the Gospel includes betrayal and heartbreak.

My Sunday offering - June 13, 3014, the 15th Sunday of Ordinary Time.

Parable by M.D. Ridge, a beautiful combining of Kohelet and Matthew, and a nice alternative to the Byrds.



Parable, by M.D. Ridge
Based on Ecclesiastes 3:1-9 and Matthew 13:4-8

1. To everything, there is a season;
a time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant, and a time for harvest;
a time to meet and a time to part.
A sower went out to sow the seed.
Some of it fell upon the path,
some fell on shallow, rocky soil,
and some among choking thorns.

2. To everything, there is a season;
a time to speak, and a time for silence;
a time to wound and a time to heal.
Nothing can grow in barren soil;
briars and ravens take their toll;
still there is grain a hundred-fold
from seed that took root and grew.

3. To everything, there is a season;
a time to be born and a time to die.
A time to speak, and a time for silence;
a time to seek and a time to lose.
God's word is like the farmer's seed,
rooted in joyful, loving hearts,
growing like grain in fertile ground,
a harvest that overflows.

Bread of Life, Feast of Corpus Christ

My heart breaks from not being able to attend Mass these days, so I offer this.

Father's Day

I never met my father, which on one hand was a real drag and the cause of a lot of confusion in my life, but on the other hand, being born with a broken heart set me on a search for healing ("there is nothing as whole as a broken heart" - a great Yiddish expression) that resulted in finding my Father-God; a priceless gift that I wouldn't trade for anything. Ultimately, I did find my father - in my hand-work skills that I inherited by way of his violin-maker's hands - in my music, especially in my violin - and the way he has spoken to me along the way: playing my violin back to me on the wind on a visit to his grave (true story as God is my witness), in his love letters to my mother, and recently, in the little violin brooch I dug up out of my garden. I see him in my older son's eyes and receding hairline, and in Ethan's dimpled chin. Being found by and meeting some of my father's family for the first time last year was the frosting on the cake. I am most especially grateful for the strength and knowledge as well as the gift of faith I have gained as a result of this particular journey. Happy Father's Day, everyone.

Annunciation

I'm behind in my writing these days, not that I don't have anything to say; but rather, I have so much to say I don't know where to begin, so I'll simply say some of it via a song I composed back in December, inspired by the readings of the day. The same Luke reading came up again yesterday for the Solemnity of the Annunciation of Our Lord, which was my inspiration for sitting down and recording it. It's about saying yes to God and trusting His plan. Not all that easy, most days. Full disclosure: still recovering from a nasty cold, so the voice is not exactly where I like it to be (but inspiration waits for no-one).

Sara on The Journey Home

How Can I Keep from Singing

This hymn says it all. (a quick take, recorded in my living room)



My Life flows on in endless song, above earth's lamentations
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear the music ringing
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing!

What thought the tempest 'round me roars, I know the truth it liveth
What though the darkness 'round me close, songs in the night it giveth
No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I'm clinging
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing!

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin, I see the blue above it
And day by day the pathway clears since first I learned to love it
The peace of Christ restores my soul, a fountain ever springing
All things are mine since I am His, How can I keep from singing!

Composed by Robert Wadsworth Lowry

Epiphany

"What star is this, with beams so bright,
more lovely than the noon-day light?
'Tis sent to announce a newborn king,
glad tidings of our God to bring."


This is the view from my window, looking east towards the center of Edgartown (brought closer by my telephoto lens). This star has been shining on top of the town clock (above what was once the town's Methodist church, my grandmother's church) every Christmas for probably 60 years or more. When I was a little girl, I thought it was the real star of Bethlehem. Actually, I still do.