On this, the Eve of yet another new year.  I wanted to share The Merton Prayer.  It is one of my favorite prayers and one that, I hope, will bring comfort as we look forward in faith, hope, and love.  

“The Merton Prayer”
By Thomas Merton
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. 
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.
Amen.
 

The Necessary Work of Change
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
-Isaiah 43:19
 
It is absolutely frigid out in the Garden on this frosty late-December morning. The Doodle girl and I did not linger long in the cold darkness. The warmth of the fireplace and a waiting cup of coffee were far too enticing for this old gardener.
 
Yesterday was a wild weather ride here in the Midwest. Morning sunshine carried us up to a balmy 76 degrees, but by afternoon the rain swept through, and the wind began to howl. Temperatures plummeted until they landed in the teens. A sixty-degree drop in about twelve hours. If you don’t like the weather in Saint Louis, stick around; it will change.
 
So often I fear change. I resist the updates and want to stick with the way I have always done things. It seems every few days some computer program I have used forever announces a major upgrade with “new and improved” features. These updates are usually followed by this old gardener spending an inordinate amount of time searching for a function that was always in one place and has now been moved “for my convenience.”
 
Change is hard for this old man. Yet I recognize that change is constant and essential for growth. It does not mean I have to like it. Sometimes I shake my fist and mutter not-so-kind things under my breath. But in the end, I know change is inevitable and necessary.
 
As we walked about this morning in the cold, we checked in on the leaf mould pile slowly disintegrating in the back compost bin. In November it was overflowing. Now it is down to about three-quarters full. The leaves are changing, evolving, breaking down, and eventually becoming nourishment for the blueberries and hellebores. Change is inevitable and necessary.
 
Change can be difficult. But it can also open the door to good. To growth. To renewal. To a deeper understanding of the Creator. Change strengthens our resilience. And as we move closer to another new year, another new beginning just around the corner, I am reminded once again that change is necessary work and good for the soul.
 
May you welcome the small shifts and the great ones,
trusting that the One who tends the seasons is tending you as well.
May every change, wanted or not, become nourishment for your becoming,
and may you find warmth, renewal, and quiet courage in the days ahead.

Great Is Thy Faithfulness
 
The words of the old hymn “Great is Thy Faithfulness, O God, my Father” were bouncing around my mind yesterday as I stepped into the Garden to harvest a bit of rosemary for our Christmas stuffing. I once read that rosemary stands for faithfulness and devotion, and the thought lingered with me.
 
The old hymn rose up again:
 
Morning by morning new mercies I see;
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.
Great is Thy faithfulness,
Lord, unto me.
 
As I stood in the Kitchen Garden, tired and a bit desolate in December, I noticed how the rosemary continues to flourish in spite of the wild swings of weather these past few weeks. When I stooped to cut a few sprigs, its powerful aroma filled the air. Even in the harshest of seasons, the rosemary stands tall and fragrant. Great is Thy faithfulness.
 
The words of Lamentations came to mind. Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
 
As we move from Advent into Christmastide, we are reminded again that our Creator is faithful. We were promised a Savior in Isaiah. The Light has returned. The days are lengthening. And this morning, the sun is shining here in the Garden. Great is Thy faithfulness.
 
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.
 
As the rosemary endures in the Kitchen Garden, may your heart rest in the quiet faithfulness of God.
​

​I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day
 
On this Christmas Day, as we walked through the Garden, we heard the church bells ringing the hour. Hearing those bells throughout the day is one of the quiet joys of living in our little corner of the city.
 
I came inside, poured my first cup of coffee, and turned on some Christmas music. The haunting hymn by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” began to play.
 
As I sat listening and thinking about this past year, I was struck by how true Longfellow’s words still are for the world today:
 
And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”
 
It is much too easy to fall into despair. We wait. We keep listening. And the bells keep ringing, offering us a small, steady measure of grace:
 
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”
 
This carol gives us hope. Despite the chaos. Despite the injustice. Despite the anger and derision. There is hope that the wrong shall fail and the right prevail. Out of despair comes hope.
 
On this Christmas Day, I am reminded of the power of faith even in the darkest of times. Pain can give birth to hope.
 
“Peace, I leave with you; my peace I give you.”
-John 14:27
 
Peace on earth, good will to men.

​Reflection on Faith, Hope and Love
 
We have just come inside after a quick tour of the garden with the Doodle girl. The morning is cloudy and dark, yet the coffee is poured, and our tradition continues: listening to the BBC broadcast of Nine Lessons and Carols from King’s College, Cambridge. For more than forty years, this has been our Christmas Eve ritual, and this year it feels more poignant than ever.
 
The service itself was born out of longing for renewal. After World War I, peace had finally come to Europe, and the new Dean of King’s College, himself a decorated chaplain who had witnessed the horrors, introduced this program to bring forth faith, hope, and love for those returning from war.
As we sit and listen to the soaring music and gentle readings of scripture—from the fall in Genesis to John’s Gospel proclaiming, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God”—we are reminded that the light is coming. Renewal awaits.
 
Yet the truth is we are not waiting. The Word is here, now. Ready for our acceptance, ready for our embrace. On this Eve of Christmas, we are given a gift: the gift of Love. An unimaginable gift of forgiveness, hope, and grace. All we need is a bit of faith.
 
The little Doodle girl rests quietly beneath the Christmas tree on this gray morning. We, too, are ready for renewal. We listen, we pray, we remember, and we welcome the truest spirit of this holy season.
 
O come, O come, Emmanuel.
Renew in us a spirit of faith, hope, and most of all love.
Let love break through the darkness.
Let love break through the chaos.
Let love break through, we pray.
 
Merry Christmas.

Even In the Longest Night, Hope Rises
 
This year, the winter solstice and the fourth Sunday of Advent converged. Even as winter begins, we are reminded that brighter, longer days are on their way. As Isaiah proclaims, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” Even in the longest night, hope rises.
 
We tend to fear the darkness. We fear the unknown. We fear the quiet. Our lives are filled with “busy-ness.” Yet this darkness offers a blessing: rest. Hope for the possibilities of coming light. Rest is necessary for the garden. Beneath the soil, the roots quietly gather strength, preparing for the springtime burst of beauty yet to come.
 
This is the season when gardeners dream. Seed catalogs arrive, and we imagine fresh vegetables and new beds. Now is the hopeful season, planting the promise of next year’s garden in our hearts.
 
Until then, the deep darkness helps us see the habits and burdens we are ready to release. Let this season be one of quiet anticipation yet let us remember: Advent is not only waiting, it is preparation. Preparing our hearts for peace. We are called to let go of fear, and to embrace faith and hope.
 
This is a sacred time, a time to reflect, renew, and remember. We embrace the quiet. We honor the stillness. We prepare for the growth of spring even as we give thanks for the year behind us. Now is the time to allow the Creator to guide us simply and steadily toward hope. A bit of faith, hope, and love for all of us.
 
In this final week of Advent, my prayer is simple: renew my faith, restore my hope, and fill me with love. Even in troubled days, love breaks through the darkness. The light is coming. Love breaks through.
 
In the quiet of winter’s night, may hope take root, faith blossom, and love break through. The light is coming, and it will not be overcome.

Mercy in the Ordinary
 
The sun is shining in the Garden on this chilly December morning. Coffee is brewing, music hums softly in the background, and the twinkling Christmas tree glows behind me. I am choosing, for now, to turn away from the news and hold onto joy in this season.
 
Today I want to notice.
Notice those who keep trying.
Notice the small kindnesses that happen every single day.
Notice the quiet courage of simply showing up.
 
There are mornings when rising feels like a struggle, yet still we rise. We show up. We try our best. We become grace for one another. We offer hope in hopeless times. We become the love we need. We do the works of mercy.
 
So many are feeding the hungry in countless ways. Clothing the naked. Giving drink to the thirsty. Friends visit prisoners week after week, even in their weariness. We care for the sick. We bury the dead, more often now as the years go by.
 
The works of mercy are not showy or flashy. They are not influencer-ready moments. They are work. Hard work. Necessary work. Sometimes it is a few dollars for the food bank. Sometimes a box of food. Sometimes simply showing up. We do our best, the best we have right now.
 
Thank you to everyone who keeps trying. Everyone who keeps doing their very best. Love conquers all. Love breaks through the darkness. Love breaks through.
 
Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.
-Galatians 6:9
​

Broken Things, Gentle Light

“If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.”
-Isaiah 58:10
 
This promise from Isaiah feels both distant and necessary today, a reminder that even in the heaviest seasons, light still rises.
 
As I sat with my first cup of coffee this morning, an instrumental version of Blue Christmas drifted through the speakers. It was slow and mournful, exactly how I am feeling on this mid‑week, mid‑December morning. We are inching toward the longest night of the year, and it seems the darkness of the season has seeped into the world around us.
 
I must admit, it is difficult to find joy right now. There is so much sadness and hurt everywhere. I know I am not alone in this. A 2019 Pew Study found that three in five Americans felt their mental health suffered during the holidays. My guess is that number is much higher this year.
 
And yet, even in these heavy days, I have realized something important: joy does not just happen. You have to work for it. You have to look for it. You have to want it enough to take a chance on receiving it. Sometimes it is found in the simplest things, a warm cup of coffee or a walk around the neighborhood with a little Doodle dog. Joy grows where you plant it and where you choose to nourish it.
 
Sometimes the sadness we feel is simply our souls aching for silence. Yesterday we turned off our electronics. We stepped away from the noise and created instead. We cooked. We baked. We even tried our hand at making candles. There is something healing about making light, literally, when the world feels dim. Creating sparks a bit of joy. It mends the brokenness, even if only for a moment.
 
I have come to believe that God uses broken things. The Creator has to use our brokenness, because we are all broken in some way. You have to break an egg to enjoy the bread. The ground must be broken to plant the seed. We are all broken, but somehow, like a jigsaw puzzle, we fit. We fit together. We simply need to remember to love. To find the joy. To find the faith and the hope. But especially, to find the love.
 
Thomas Merton once said, “Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy.” Our job is to love even the broken people. Even the broken person staring back at us in the mirror this morning.
 
So go ahead and light a candle. Dispel a bit of the darkness. Spark a bit of joy. Love those broken people.
 
Love breaks through the darkness.
 
Love breaks through.

​A Frigid Morning, A Surprising Bloom
 
“We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name.”
—Psalm 33:20–21 (NIV)
 
On this mid-December morning, as the Doodle girl and I wandered the side path, we were struck by tender shoots of new growth. Every year I am surprised by the rebirth of the Christmas Roses. Renewal happens here, even in the harshest chill.
 
The world feels frozen in hatred, anger, and ugliness. Yet even here, grace insists on entering, quiet, steady, unyielding.
 
These hellebores push up through frost and shadow, showing us that strength and endurance win. Life goes on. Hope survives. With faith, love, and courage, we too can endure and even thrive.
 
This third week of Advent we light the Gaudete Candle, the Candle of Joy. Darkness is almost over. The light is coming soon. Gaudete means REJOICE! This is the perfect time to reflect, to pray, to remember. Joy will come again.
 
As Philippians reminds us: “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be clear to all. The Lord is near.”
 
Somehow, Love breaks through the darkness.
Somehow, Love breaks through despair.
Somehow, Love breaks through, and we rejoice.
 
Because love always breaks through. And joy will rise again.

Winter’s Whisper
 
Winter is knocking at our door. The forecast calls for plunging temperatures this weekend, with lows in the single digits. Yet somehow, through the cold nights, the heavy frost, and the snow of recent weeks, there are still glimpses of grace in the garden.
 
The winter pansies have miraculously continued to offer color and brilliance, even on the cloudiest of days. While most of the garden has slipped into hibernation, these pansies still shine as quiet messengers of hope in the darkness of the coming season.
 
With plants shriveled and trees standing bare in the dim light, holiness lingers. A gentleness covers the garden now. Yes, it is dark and somewhat gloomy, but it is also quiet and less hurried. Winter slows the pace for this old gardener, gifting me time to reflect on the year gone by, the successes and the failures, the joys and the sorrows. We remember. We ponder. We pray.
 
On this mid-December morning, in the chill and the silence, I pause to listen. I hear the whisper of the Creator offering peace in a chaotic time. We pray for hope. We pray for faith. We pray for love. And just when it seems our prayers rise into emptiness, a vision appears, a small red flower blooming in the cold.
 
Love breaks through.
 
John 1:5
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
 
Because love always breaks through.

Where Darkness Softens Into Light
 
Hope begins as a whisper long before it becomes a song.
 
“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”
— Isaiah 9:2
 
As I walk around the garden on this windy, chilly morning, I can almost hear the soundtrack to The Lion King playing in my head. The words from “Circle of Life” have become an unexpected earworm on this late autumn day. The once vibrant plants are laying down now, beginning their quiet return to the earth, slowly becoming soil again and preparing the way for future life in the compost bin.
 
We were out having dinner with old friends last evening, celebrating recent birthdays, when that text came through. It was the kind of message none of us want to receive yet are never surprised by. Our friend’s aunt passed away after a long illness at age 95. A full life, a blessing in so many ways, and still the ache remains, especially in this season.
 
Loss has a way of showing up uninvited this time of year. The chair sits empty. A bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey remains unopened. Traditions that once anchored us simply do not happen anymore. I always feel a touch of the Holiday Blues as December settles in. And yet, I still find myself looking forward to the small things that make this season shine.
 
This past weekend we went to a Christmas concert. The lights dimmed, and a children’s choir entered holding candles and singing “Silent Night” with voices that sounded like they had drifted straight from heaven. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and for a moment I knew I was not alone. Advent became real in that instant. We were not celebrating Santa Claus. We were preparing for the Light of the World to come and scatter the darkness.
 
The circle of life keeps turning. The darkness will end. The light will return. For now, we wait. We wait and we listen. And sometimes, if we are paying attention, we catch a glimpse of heaven, like when children gather and sing of a holy night where all is calm and all is bright.
 
For now, we pray for that heavenly peace to come and fill us all.
 
Because love always breaks through.

​Peace in the Stillness
 
The weekend warmth melted the last of November’s snow, leaving only scattered leaves upon the damp ground. In this second week of Advent, we light two candles as we prepare the way of the Lord. The Gospel of Matthew tells of John the Baptist, blazing a trail for the One who is to come. We, too, wait and long for the light’s return.
 
The little Doodle girl and I wandered out on this brisk, cloudy morning. The beauty of the fallen leaves reminds us to cherish the present moment. Life is always moving, always changing, and it is our calling to make the very most of the gifts we are given.
 
Advent invites us into stillness. A pause from the busy-ness, a chance to listen. In the daily noise of this chaotic season, we yearn for quiet contemplation, for that wee, small voice breaking through the gloom of late autumn.
 
Walking in the early morning darkness, I breathe deeply. A cold breeze brushes my face, and I remember the words: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.” (John 14:27).
 
Peace.
 
Candles flicker, leaves may fall, but love endures.

Love Breaks Through: An Advent Morning in the Garden
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
— John 1:5
 
The world outside is freezing, even with the sun shining brightly in the blue sky above. The chill has settled into the Garden. Temperatures have hovered below freezing for days, and remnants of last weekend’s snowstorm still cling to the edges of things. What always surprises me is that even in this frigid stillness, there is life in the Garden. The green remains in the darkest, coldest times. Life breaks through. Love breaks through.
 
“See, I am doing a new thing… now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”
— Isaiah 43:19
 
Love breaks through.
 
That was the thought that struck me this morning as I noticed a small touch of green poking through the leaves in the stump of the old tree. Even on the coldest day of December so far, life keeps going. Even when we feel so low we’re not sure we can rise again, love comes through. A little light breaks into the darkness and reminds us that this season, whatever it is, will not last forever. Love breaks through.
 
As I walk through the Garden on this frosty Advent morning, I’m struck by the stark beauty that remains. When I think of the Garden, I think of it in spiritual terms. This is my sanctuary. Working in the Garden is my prayer time. And yet, this time of year is more difficult. The cold sinks deep into my bones, and my arthritic hips and knees protest the season. Still, the Garden calls me, if only to gather fallen branches or check on the bird feeders.
 
“Hope does not disappoint us.”
— Romans 5:5
 
The Garden calls.
The cold will only last for a while.
The darkness will not linger forever.
The light is coming.
 
We wait in hope and in faith.
We believe, again and again, that love will break through.
 
Because Love always breaks through.
​

Bare Branches, Bright Hope
“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”
— Ecclesiastes 3:1
 
Winter’s Reminder
 
The cold and snow have lingered these past few days. If you were wondering whether winter had arrived, wonder no more. The trees stand bare; their leaves tucked into small crevices all around us.
​
Bare trees give us hope that change is possible. A tree without leaves reminds us of the art of letting go. In early December, a tree stripped of its foliage whispers that nothing is meant to last forever. Sometimes we must release certain things: relationships, jobs, even old habits, in order to grow and thrive. It’s a powerful metaphor for life, one that has resonated for centuries.

Life is nothing but a cycle of changes. Endings are not failures; they are necessary passages. Even a fallen leaf carries beauty, teaching us to honor the close of autumn. There is wisdom scattered across the ground, in the leaves beneath our feet and in the stark silhouettes of the trees above.

This season also reminds us of the importance of waiting. As Advent begins, we light a candle and ponder the beauty that can appear from winter’s stillness. The light will come. Until then, the fallen leaves remind us of endings with beauty, the bare trees remind us of change with promise, and the Advent candle reminds us of light yet to come. In the stillness of winter, may we wait with hope, pray with trust, and welcome the new growth that is on its way.
 
“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.”
— Lamentations 3:22–23
 
Leaves may fall, but love endures.

First Snow: Sacred Silence
“Be still and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10
 
We stepped outside this past weekend to find the garden wrapped in pillowy white. The city stood still, cloaked in silence. Streets lay empty, the noise of the world muffled. In that moment, it did not feel cold, it felt sacred, as though time itself paused.
 
The garden was already in its winter slumber, yet never more beautiful than when draped in a blanket of snow. Flakes continued to fall as we walked, the crunch beneath our feet the only sound breaking the stillness.
 
I love how a deep snow hushes the urban world. Living in the city, you grow accustomed to the constant hum of traffic and daily life. That presence is unrelenting until the snow gathers, softening the edges of sound. Suddenly, there is quiet. Almost no traffic. Most people are tucked inside, savoring a pause from the noise of routine, embracing a rare tranquility.
 
We have a ritual of walking the neighborhood during the first snowfall of the season. This year, we were the first to step into the newly fallen snow. The little Doodle girl’s footprints marked the sidewalk, distinct and tender. It was a moment of grace and calm, a simple reminder that the best gifts are often found in life’s quietest moments.
 
And as the snow continued to fall, I was reminded that stillness itself is a prayer, inviting us to rest in the presence of God.