A Warning to My Readers, by Wendell Berry

Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
...a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.

Breastplate prayer (or Lorica), by St. Patrick

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ's birth and His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion and His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection and His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of cherubim,
In obedience of angels,
In service of archangels,
In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In preachings of the apostles,
In faiths of confessors,
In innocence of virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of the sun,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of the wind,
Depth of the sea,
Stability of the earth,
Firmness of the rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's hosts to save me
From snares of the devil,
From temptations of vices,
From every one who desires me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone or in a mulitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and evil,
Against every cruel merciless power that opposes my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of women and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul.
Christ shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that reward may come to me in abundance.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the Threeness,
Through a confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of creation

St. Patrick (ca. 377)

from Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson

I heard a man say once that Christians worship sorrow. That is by no means true. But we do believe there is a sacred mystery in it, it's fair to say that. There is something in her face I have always felt I must be sufficient to, as if there is a truth in it that tests the meaning of what I say. It's a fine face, very intelligent, but the sadness in it is engrafted into the intelligence, so to speak, until they seem one thing. I believe there is a dignity in sorrow simply because it is God's good pleasure that there should be. He is forever raising up those who are brought low.

by Thomas R. Kelly

Hasten unto Him who calls you in the silences of your heart.

Driving Down the Lane, by Gladys Schaefer (my dear, lovely friend)

Driving down the lane

on a cold spring morning,

sipping coffee

from a thick mug,

we are wrapped in winter’s clothing

grasped from the back

of the closet.

The yellow forsythia joins

the purple tulip tree

shouting aloud

“Spring has come!”

We pass a creek bed

overflowing its banks.

The rains have made the water reach for more.

The world has captured our attention

and we are grateful.

from Homily XXVII On Numbers, by Origen (cited in Depression, A Stubborn Darkness, by Ed Welch)

"My soul has long been on pilgrimage" (Ps. 119:54). Understand, then, if you can, what the pilgrimages of the soul are, especially when it laments with groaning and grief that it has been on pilgrimage so long. We understand these pilgrimages only dully and darkly so long as the pilgrimage still lasts. But when the soul has returned to its rest, that is, to the homeland of paradise, it will be taught more truly and will understand more truly the meaning of what the pilgrimage was.

this one is my own

Legacy

Like a tidal wave,
emotion surges,
slams against a wall of disbelief,
halts,
momentarily suspended.

Submerged in childhood narrative,
she remembers.
She, the child. Them, the mothers.
Sweet, broken women.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Against so great a torrent,
she has no control.
Barrier breaks,
floods fall.
Powerful. Intense.
Containless.

Immersed in dreams unrealized,
she grieves.
Them, the child. She, the mother.
Redeemed, broken woman.
Earth’s heartache,
Heaven’s mercy.

Waters recede.

from bird by bird, by Anne Lamott

Becoming a writer can also profoundly change your life as a reader. One reads with a deeper appreciation and concentration, knowing how hard writing is, especially how hard it is to make it look effortless. You begin to read with a writer's eyes. You focus in a new way. You study how someone portrays his or her version of things in a way that is new and bold and original. You notice how a writer paints in a mesmerizing character or era for you, without your having the sense of being given a whole lot of information, and when you realize how artfully this has happened, you may actually put the book down for a moment and savor it, just to taste it.

from The School of Essential Ingredients, by Erica Bauermeister

"That's wonderful," said Abuelita when Lillian recounted the story to her the next day. "You made [your mother] remember her life. Now she just needs to reach out to it. That recipe," Abuelita said in answer to Lillian's questioning face, "must be yours. But you will find it," she continued. "You are a cook. It's a gift from your mother."

     Lillian raised an eyebrow skeptically. Abuelita gazed at her, gently amused.

     "Sometimes, nina, our greatest gifts grow from what we are not given."