Autumn Leaves and a renewed heart

You cannot fully catch such a thing. Cameras catch the leaf color and the line of the hills. Memory holds the feeling of the wind and the sound of leaves falling. But the beauty that strikes to the heart can hardly be captured.

Out there, beyond the mist on the edge of the world, beyond sun shining on golden leaf, is something more than an Ozark hillside aflame with color. There is a lost memory fighting for recovery, calling out in quaking leaf and dancing light. How we need to recall what that beauty means.

"Thank You, Blessed God, for Your created beauty, for falling leaves, and gaps in the hills. Bring us, by Your Grace, to that special memory, to the saving knowledge of redemption in Christ, world maker, rescuer. Reawaken the beauty within us, the beauty of a new heart.

Willard Spencer

The above photo was taken in western North Carolina

Rain, thunder and Lightning.

The lightning is brighter and the thunder louder in the hills. I discovered this when I was a boy. I watched the steady black lines of rain move across Shepard Mountain (correct spelling, a family name), saw the trees across the valley bending wildly, even before I heard the wind. Then the storm would break with full fury on the hill at Epworth. Thunder would roll through the valleys and hollows like a gigantic fast freight traveling at unknown speeds, shaking the switching signals, the towers, the houses near the tracks and even the mighty oaks stirred from their deep sleep when the storm diesel, like death's chariot, roared by. Rain? Yes, pouring rain, quickly caught by dry creeks and tumbled over stone and stump, cradled in a narrow earth bed, channeled, hissing and howling down the ridge, swelling the little creeks...Hurricane Creek and Turkey Creek...till they spilled over banks and washed away the old campfires left by yesterdays hikers. (Storms...still leave me breathless, excited.)

Then the next morning we would sing: "I saw God wash the world last night with his sweet showers from on high, and then when morning came, I saw him hang it out to dry." And earth did seem fresher, the air clearer, and the morning sunlight danced upon the riffles in the streams. Life and death had clashed with a grave ferocity, and life had prevailed.

I guess, even all these years later, I still believe that. Life prevails! The hill storms now echo in memory, but they tell of other storms through which we must travel. So on with the journey, friends, singing, "I saw God wash the world last night..."

Willard Spencer

Prayer for Those Hurt on the Running Stream of Life

Dear Lord Jesus, the momentum of the day pulls us toward the distant shore. The earth tilts and the sun slips south, shortening the day, multiplying the night, and we flow down the swift river, through the riffles, past the sunken logs, gaining speed as we catch the full current of time. The days draw us onward, Dear Lord Jesus. We scan ahead, looking for river marks, pointers you have left us, little signposts of creation, icons of redemption. We cannot see beyond the bend. The river swings away, out of our earthly vision, but we know that you are there. You are the end. You are the goal. This entire journey through the days and years, this journey is toward you, to you, home.

We thank you for this immense journey. We thank you for your Spirit guide. We thank you for the companions of the long journey, and we thank you that you refresh us on the way.

Dear Lord, Jesus, we pray for those injured along the running stream of life, crushed on rocks or sunken logs, caught in the intruding debris of chaotic adversaries. Lift them with your caring strength, and heal them, and set them again on the river, or, if the hurt is beyond what breath can bear, beyond the beating of the heart, then swiftly take them home, Dear Lord Jesus. We commend them you your love and care.

And keep us in your sights, Dear Lord Jesus, as we negotiate the next turn in the river. Watch over us. Sustain us, and let us always remember your unfailing love, your unfading hope, and that when we finish the journey we will be home.

Hear us, Dear Lord Jesus. Hear our heart words to you, and hear the sacred words we now pray together….Pray the Lord's Prayer.

from Prayers by Willard Spencer

The picture above is of the middle fork of the Black River at Johnson Shut-ins State Park, Missouri. Photo by W. Spencer

Christians and agnostics

Many agnostics think of religion as a flight from reality. They say "primitive" man was afraid of the elements and invented gods to protect him. All religion, they think, does this. I used to give that kind of thinking a little tip of the intellectual hat. Now I don't.

Religion is not a flight from fear into protection. Religion takes you closer to God. As you get closer you find love and a cross. The beating heart of the universe is love, but love was subjected to death. The cross tells all; it tells of sacrificial love.

In an interview, Annie Dillard, author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, said "agnostics often think that people run to God because they are afraid of dying. On the contrary, the biblical religion is not a safe think . . . they weren't using religion as an escape hatch. Faith forces you to a constant awareness of final things. Agnostics don't remember all the time that they are going to die. But Christians do remember".

It is the agnostic who flees to safety. They try to fence themselves off from God, love, the cross, and thus hold death at a distance. They attempt to stay safe in their manageable world. In Pilgrim Annie says, "The terms are clear; if you want to live you have to die". (Pilgrim, p. 80)

So don't let the old agnostic defense put you on yours. Be true to your faith. It is reality, not a flight.

Willard Spencer

We Live in Little Worlds

He was just a working man. He spoke to me in broken English. (Much better than my broken French.) We talked about the weather. We laughed about some politics. I complimented him on his beautiful country and fluid language. Whether he was really being friendly to me or was just playing "help the tourist," I'll never know. But I will long remember his answer to my question, "Do you know where Missouri is?"

He said, "Isn't that south of Pittsburgh?" I quickly changed the conversation when I realized that he had no idea where Missouri was. We were worlds apart.

I've gone back to that in thought a number of times. Here was a human being with home, family, work, and a network of kinfolks and culture, who never knew of all of us who were living, working, playing in Missouri.

We live in such little worlds . . . insulated from peoples of different languages and values. There are myriad separate little universes and we fit neatly into one or another of them. I know... How could it be otherwise? But it clearly indicates the urgency of remembering that we are co-creations of the Living God. And all those in "other" worlds, from my acquaintance in Quebec to the stranger in the car next to mine, are people for whom Christ died. Doesn't that help break down the walls a bit?

Willard Spencer

Seized by Silence

Seized by the Silence

I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.

It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.

It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.

Willard Spencer

Siezed by Silence

Seized by the Silence

I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.

It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.

It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.

Willard Spencer

The Frost and Life

Does the frost have a life of its own? Of course it has. A few years ago we lived in a house on a hill. On wood-fire mornings in October we would look out to see if the frost had arrived. First we would see it along the banks of the creek at the base of the hill. Then, day by day, the frost would edge up the hill until it peered in our window panes and crackled on the cold stone of the rock garden.

Frost has a beauty all its own. Have you seen the sparkle of street lights reflected on the gem stones of frost? Have you not traced (with your vision) the moonlit patterns of crystal on your window pane? Hunter's moon is frost's light.

The frost comes asking questions. What about the year? Has the passing brought you closer to the frost's creator? What about the winter? Are you prepared for the slackened light? The frozen breath? Have you a supply of wood? A hearth
fire? A haven beyond soul chill?

The frost has a life of its own and brings, in its own time, beauty to behold and questions we should answer.

Willard Spencer

A Blue Stone, Pressure, and Creation

It was just a piece of rock. Long lost to human sight, it slept the timeless sleep in a passageway beneath the building. How long had it been there? Where did it come from? Who had seen it before?

A deep cobalt blue, whirls of white, a few spots of ordinary stone. . . what a lovely reminder of primal creation. Fired in ancient depths, polished by movement and heat, some unknown upheaval brought it to our surface. And there it is, on my desk, a lovely stone.

"We remember Your might, Blessed God and Your plan for the whole creation. . .that it might be redeemed. May the pressures and upheavals in our lives, along with the spiritual fires, leave us more lovely, polished, redeemed."

Willard Spencer