I recently attended my first “Forest Church” service. The conservation area where it was hosted was one of the most beautiful sanctuaries I have ever gathered in. The snow was melting, and the creek was rushing with its runoff, creating a background rhythm, which was joined by a gentle breeze whistling through the trees and accompanied by a choir of birds singing their choruses…
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There is a four-letter word I am not particularly fond of at the moment. I suppose it makes sense in some situations. In other circumstances, I can hear it without getting annoyed. But where I am right now, in this season of life, with growing disillusionment, mounting frustration, transitions looming, and uncertainty around the corner, I am admittedly just not in a place to hear it…
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I am not sure when I first became aware of the way my subconscious converses with my conscious self through song. But in the same way you begin to see the same car you just purchased, around every corner, I notice it happening all the time now…
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I was a confident, if not brazen young adult. I had my opinions and was certain that they were well thought out, informed, learned, and intelligent conclusions. More than once I had someone more aged than I say to me “when you are older you will think differently.” I dismissed their notion as pretentious…
Three hundred hand-folded origami butterflies, tenderly wrapped in torn sheet cocoons, threaded onto fishing line and hung across our sanctuary. An art installation to kick off lent, a reminder that in the darkness, in our proverbial piles of goo, in the waiting, God cocoons us in his hands, transforming us with her grace. The big reveal was to come Easter Sunday morning. Our church family would enter the sanctuary and be met with the bright colourfulness of 300 butterflies soaring above them. The waiting over, the tattered cocoons lying at their feet, the transformation complete. But that day has yet to come.