Word by Madeleine L’Engle

I, who live by words, am wordless when
I try my words in prayer. All language turns
to silence. Prayer will take my words and then
reveal their emptiness. The stilled voice learns
to hold its peace, to listen with the heart
to silence that is joy, is adoration.
The self is shattered, all words torn apart
in this strange patterned time of contemplation
that, in time, breaks time, breaks words, breaks me,
and then, in silence, leaves me healed and mended.
I leave, returned to language, for I see
through words, even when all words are ended.
I, who live by words, am wordless when
I turn me to the Word to pray.  Amen.


There Will Be Days Like This

As most of you know, depression has been a part of all my adult life. Some of you also know that I was diagnosed with a chronic illness earlier this year. One of the things that helps most is knowing that I am not alone; that there’s a large community in each camp, many members of both camps. We are drawn together somehow, in ways ranging from deep personal relationships to passing acquaintance to simple silent nods of recognition when we see each other across crowded rooms. We support each other. When we speak, we offer worn-out words that are nonetheless true and meaningful. “I am here with you.” “Hang on.” “Take it one little step at a time.” “There will be days like this.”

What I have to say today is, “There will be days like this.” You’ve heard it before, you’ve said it before, you’ll hear and say it again. And again. But wait. Listen. There will be days like this!

This day, I feel good – almost unbelievably, delightfully good. This day I can do simple tasks without pain and enjoy the home-iness of my home. This day I can take real pleasure in my husband’s excitement about his latest pet project. This day I can share my daughter’s joy in dancing. This day I can look forward to spending an evening with friends without effort. This day I can smile in the sunshine and laugh without faking it.

Never forget. Thanks be to God, there will be days like this.


Fog by Rebekah Choat

I wrote this some months ago, out of my own experience of a very difficult time. I post it today in limited understanding and great sadness for Robin Williams.


image by Chris Choat

image by Chris Choat

The fog does not come pussy-footing
around a bend in the road.
It does not roll in ominously from the sea;
nor does it cascade in slow motion
down the mountain into my valley.


The fog seeps up from the ground,
from this very earth greening beneath my feet.
It does not puddle about my knees,
nor swirl in terrifying eddies around me.

It simply rises to envelop me in a fine mist,
which I cannot help breathing,
cannot prevent my pores absorbing.

Climbing the tallest tree does not lift me above it.
Bathing in the river does not wash it away.
Walking doggedly on does not carry me beyond it.

Not yet.


When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention by Mary Oliver

Ely Cathedral Rose image copyright Rebekah Choat

Ely Cathedral Rose
image copyright Rebekah Choat


“As long as we are able to
be extravagant we will be
hugely and damply
extravagant. Then we will drop
foil by foil to the ground. This
is our unalterable task, and we do it

And they went on. “Listen,
the heart-shackles are not, as you think,
death, illness, pain,
unrequited hope, not loneliness, but

lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,

Their fragrance all the while rising
from their blind bodies, making me
spin with joy.