There are no atheist farmers.............

Sunday ... at church ... we had an amazing service on prayer.

For an hour ... we prayed.  We prayed prayers of confession and prayers of joy.  We sang songs of praise and songs of worship.  We prayed for friends, family and those that are hurting.

It was beautiful.

Recently ... there have been too many days of sadness.  Too many memories of old times that will never be reminisced.  Too many friends lost.

As I was in the garden ... working with my fingers deep in the soil..... the robins surrounded me with song.   The frogs in the pond were wooing potential mates.  The hens cackled with delight as I tossed fat grubs to them along with the freshly-pulled weeds.

The sun was hot on my back and the chives filled the air with their peppery scent as I brushed against them.

And it is in the garden .... that I can truly escape in prayer.

It is there ... I can feel the power and glory of God's goodness and salvation.  It is there ... I can confess my sins and sing his praise.

It is in the garden ... that I feel whole.

Yet ... sometimes .... I feel amiss as a Christian as I feel closer to God in that garden ... than in any church.

I was feeling the "disconnect"  yesterday ..... when I opened a wonderful letter.... with a delightful picture.... and this poem that can say it much better than  my words ever will.

 Thank you, my dear friend.  Love and joy to you always.

Messenger 

by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird--

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be 

astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.