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Something is baking.

Whenever I am on Job’s Pond in the morning, my neighbor beyond the yew tree is up early and I hear the sounds of utensils and dishes; spoons hitting the edges of tables; eggs being broken open and the like.

Every morning, in her 81st year, she arises and joins God in the activity of continuing creation. She does not create ‘ex nihilo’ as God does, ‘from nothing,’ but she constantly takes up the good things God provides and makes of them something wonderful.

The ingredients are there, all around us. Am I, are you, are we daily taking up the invitation to co-create with God what we are capable of making?

Maybe a smile on a child’s face?
Maybe a loved one reminded that she is loved?
Maybe a meal to be shared with a hungry person?
Maybe . . .?

Your move.Blueberry muffins

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There is an end. And a beginning.

Forty minutes ago I arrived at Job’s Pond at Portland, Connecticut. I got out of the car and just breathed. Blue cloud-marked sky. Green grass. Quiet waters of the pond. Absolute silence. Just the kind of moment I love. Just the kind of moment I need much of the time.

But tonight it is different.

Across the water is the local YMCA summer camp. It is still set up as it has been since June. Kayaks and peddle boats upside-down along the shore. The enclosed area marked out where it is safe for the kids to swim. But the sounds of their summer joy have drifted away.

Everything felt different. What was it?

Ah! Obviously. It is the first time this year that I have felt the summer slipping away, pulling away from the dock and beginning the trek to wherever summer’s spend their winters. That must be somewhere deep in the heart of God.

I stepped out on the deck and sat down. I looked over at the empty camp. Although I interact with people all day every day, as individuals or in groups, I also make sure that a certain amount of the time I am on my own. In those latter times I almost never feel what I have felt on this beautiful evening. Alone. Without. Alone.

I am glad that this does not come to visit me much. This feeling of emptiness which teams up tonight with that sense (true sense!) of the passing nature of all things. The camp and the kids were here. Now they are not. The summer was here. Real and bright and loud and happy. And now, it is passing away.

The passing nature of the present moment – as my friend Marina McCoy drew it forth skillfully from her love of Saint Augustine in her post on this, his feast day [see – is always true. But there are some “now’s” when that truth can almost take your breath away.

I have been privileged (sometimes in very difficult circumstances over the passing years) to stand with families, to pray and cry and hope with them when a loved one has left this world. In all that time I have managed somehow to almost never think of my own mortality. Maybe the time was not right, although I believe in my heart that to live with a sense of the reality of one’s own passing nature through this life makes life infinitely richer and love (actually) possible at all.

But tonight, I do think, not in a morbid sense but truly – and unexpectedly – I am going to die. I am going to die. There is going to be a day, and indeed hundreds, thousands, likely millions of days, when I will be a memory if that, a part of the past, here no more.

The thought makes me want all the more to live this evening, and this night, and tomorrow. To live them fully and humanly and lovingly and well.

Out on the deck one of the neighbors greeted me as she swam by, as she does the length of the pond every morning and every evening. We each commented on the beauty of the evening. And of the truth that summer is passing, and of our hope for an easier winter. And then my next-door neighbor, out on her porch, unseen through the century-old yew tree between us said, “And then spring will come, as it always does. A new spring. Thank God for that.”

Indeed. Thank God for it all. For the coming of all, for its growth and blooming, for its life and color and noise, for its quieting and weakening and moving toward divine silence, and for the rebirth of new things that are also the same.

Thank God.

Job's Pond, Portland CT
Job’s Pond, Portland CT
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China, $$$, Disaster, and Hope

Early this morning the world broke into morning prayer time to inform me that the stock exchange in China dropped almost another 8% overnight and that I should expect more trouble today on Wall Street.

Several thoughts occur.

Being a bona fide complete and total non-economist, I have absolutely no idea whether this all represents the biggest financial story of the 21st century in development (eclipsing 2008), or the second biggest, or merely a blip on the big computer screen of the world.


I can’t help thinking.

Would it not be the height of irony if communism finally did bring down capitalism, not in the ways envisioned by any earlier revolutionaries, but rather by a communist system undertaking to do capitalism and ultimately not sustaining it well, or perhaps at all?

Are you and I compelled to follow the scenario that this trouble represents absolute threat to what might be called variously our ‘happiness,’ or ‘way of life,’ or our ‘hopes for the future’? For years now I have heard about China pouring money into the USA and owning a lot of ‘stuff’ in this country – certainly not least in the world-class megalopolis beside which I sit and write this morning.


Does my happiness and life and hope depend in the end on dollars and cents? (I know, now I’m getting crazy!). I must learn about economics so that I can speak to whether or not …

I agree with what I hear Pope Francis saying, that an economic syste

m that puts humans first is the only just one; and that a system that puts profit first is ultimately not only inhumane but immoral,


must I agree with ‘the Donald’ whose every word and gesture seem to indicate that the economic system works when it works for ‘Number One,’ for little old me, and the rest of you be damned?

For the moment, and I suspect for longer, my native sympathies – formed as they are by the Gospel of Christ, though I am a miserable disciple of his and carry on only by divine mercy – are toward Francis.

In fact, whatever might happen on the markets today, if it just happened to remove from Donald’s personal coffers the $1,000,000,000 he is willing spend on the run for the presidency, it just might be worth the sacrifice this would impose on my retirement and yours.

Is human life a numbers game? Or is it something more?

Maybe we are going to find out.

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“Travelling In,” by Monica Furlong

During the two years just before and after I was twenty I had two experiences which led to religious conversion.  The first occurred when I was waiting at a bus stop on a wet afternoon.  It was opposite the Odeon cinema, outside the station, and I was surrounded by people, shops, cars.  A friend was with me. All of a sudden, for no apparent reason, everything looked different.  Everything I could see shone, vibrated, throbbed with joy and with meaning.  I knew that it had done this all along, and would go on doing it, but that usually I couldn’t see it. It was all over in a minute or two.  I climbed on to the bus, saying nothing to my friend – it seemed impossible to explain – and ast stunned with astonishment and happiness.

The second experience occurred some months later.  I left my office at lunch-time, stopped at a small Greek café in Fleet Street to buy some rolls and fruit, and walked up Chancery Lane.  It was an August day, quite warm but cloudy, with the sun glaringly, painfully bright, behind the clouds.  I had a strong sense that something was about to happen.  I sat on a seat on the garden of Lincoln’s Inn waiting for whatever it was to occur.  The sun behind the clouds grew brighter and brighter, the clouds assumed a shape which fascinated me, and between one moment and the next, although no word had been uttered, I felt myself spoken to.  I was aware of being regarded by love, of being wholly accepted, accused, forgiven, all at once.  The joy of it was the greatest I had ever known in my life.  I felt I had been born for this moment and had marked time until it occurred.

~ Monica Furlong, 1971

About Monica Furlong

Monica Furlong
Monica Furlong (1930 – 2003)