Small Boat, Wide Sea ~

I’ve been worshipping at St. Luke the Physician, a small Episcopal church, for about six months now. I’m slowly finding my way through the liturgy, the Book of Common Prayer, the hymnal, the caring and gentle faces that make this a place of genuine sanctuary.

A cherished moment in the service comes for me when Rev. Jennifer leads us in this prayer after the Gospel: “Dear Lord, be good to us. The sea is so wide, and our boat is so small.” I had not heard this prayer before coming to St. Luke’s. I am moved by the simplicity, desperation and trust it speaks all at once.

My great-grandpa Sam Morris was a lighthouse-keeper on the coasts of Oregon and Washington in the early 1900s. Up until a year ago, we had our family history details scrambled, thinking he was keeper in Bandon. A bit of research and a dear old woman at a tiny maritime museum pointed us in the right direction. He was keeper at Cape Meares near Tillamook in 1903. As a child, my family camped nearby, but never visited the lighthouse. We didn’t realize that we were gathering seashells, wading in the tide, and sleeping in the shadow of the great spruce trees that Grandpa Sam lived among.

My mom and I traveled to Cape Meares last month. We left the car in the lot where Grandpa Sam’s house once stood, and walked the tranquil, fern-lined path toward the water. Just a few steps down the walkway, the lantern room appears. It colored in a few plain spots in our stories to see it, to press our hands against the tower, to take in the sea-air he breathed, the lush ground he walked, the brilliant light he kept. I’ve wondered what it was like for him, keeping that light, tending to it, so that its beam could warn of dangers and provide safe passage through both gentle and howling waters to the small boats on that wide sea. Providing light in the dark to those trying to journey home.

Grandpa Sam is not the first keeper I have known.

“God is light. In Him there is no darkness at all.” ~ 1 John 1:5

There is danger on that wide sea. Darkness and deeps, shadows and shades that leave us feeling isolated, afraid, overwhelmed, drowning. And yet, there is a Keeper, a Light. God himself, offering Passage through, and Presence in, that wide sea.

The boat is small. But there is room enough for two… my Keeper and I.

This is why we can whisper our simple, desperate, trusting prayer.

Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus,
Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free
Rolling as a mighty ocean, in its fullness over me!
Underneath me, all around me, is the current of His love
Leading onward, leading homeward, to His glorious rest above
(Lyric by Samuel Francis)

The sea is wide.
The boat is small.
The Lord is good. Amen ~

Come and Dine ~

A long mesh sock filled with thistle seed hangs from a low branch on my lilac tree. My friend gave it to me a few months ago with a gentle warning that I’d need to be patient and wait awhile until the promised finches would discover it and call their finch-friends with their finch-song to come and dine.

It’s been 54 days. Not that I’m counting. No finches yet. They haven’t noticed the feast I’ve set out for them.

I know. I’m supposed to be patient. Instead, I’ve been acting like a frantic Ward Cleaver, chain-smoking and loosening his tie, pacing the maternity ward til the ‘Beav shows up. Perhaps I exaggerate, but still. Where are my finches?

I haven’t been a life-long bird lover. Buying the little yellow house with the lilac tree in the front yard changed all that. I signed the papers a handful of spring-times ago when the lilacs were in deep, rich, purple bloom. The tree was showing off and she got my full attention. I didn’t realize at the time that she already belonged to several wing-ed others.

I tried to study a “know-your-birds” book once to learn the names of my housemates, but I possess very little left-brain, and the scientific descriptions and names left me flustered. I was hoping for descriptions I could easily interpret: little gray face, light brown speckles, soft orange beak, sweet happy song. I know my robins and my blue-jays, of course, and I had a run-in with a pheasant once while trimming back the laurel hedge (she was as scared of me as I was of her), but other than these, I don’t know who my little birds are.

What I do know is that watching them through the lacy curtain at the dining room window, or from the comfy chair on the front porch offers me an almost daily dose of gladness. And their songs, well, they provide a lovely hymn to their Maker that I get to enjoy. My favorites are “Good Morning in C”, “Welcome Home in D”, and “Goodnight in G#”.

Sure, the care and feeding of the birds-I-can’t-name adds a few extra tasks to the chore list: hosing off the paving stones that encircle the lilac tree (maybe I should reconsider the paving stone placement), tending to the houses and baths and feeders, sweeping up the piles of birdseed that always travel from the feeders to the walkway, mowing down patches of grass that sprout up in unintended (and entirely impractical) places after the birds get hold of the grass seed I’ve planted in the bald spots, picking up the bits of string and foam and wire and straw that they collect and store in a corner of the backyard, their birdie-version of Home Depot. I found a size 11 running shoe in the stockpile once, I don’t even want to think about the bird that hauled that back there.

And yet, where are my finches? When will they notice, when will they come?

I suppose I understand. The desire to be fed and sheltered, to find water and care is universal, all “kingdoms” included. And yet the path between need felt and need met is not always a clear one. There are lots of lilac trees out there. We don’t always notice the feast that waits for us.

"Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;
and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost.
Why spend your money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?
Listen, listen to Me and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.”
Isaiah 55:1-2

God’s invitation through the prophet to the hungry, the thirsty, is both strong and gentle at the same time. He provides, there’s plenty, and what He offers is just what we are hungry and thirsty for - the “richest of fare”. He has been inviting us to come and dine since before we took our first bit of breath. The invitation is so clear, we simply need to notice, to respond. To come and dine.

I want to fix my eyes on You
But Lord, I know sometimes the hardest thing for me to see
Is standing right in front of me
I’m blinded and I’m broken
But your great love can clear the haze so strong
And show me You’ve been there all along

He knows my hunger, my thirst, my need for protection and care. He knows my name. The invitation is open. He watches, He waits. And once I notice and respond, He welcomes me.

I believe that one of these days the finches will notice the feast waiting for them in the lilac tree… the seed, the water, the shelter, the shade. They’ll add their ‘alleluias’ to the front-yard hymns. I’ll be filled with gladness. One of these days, they will come and dine.

It’s been 54 days. Not that I’m counting.