We who have wintered have learned some things.
We sing it out like birds. We let our voices fill the air.
Katherine May

It is that time again where we pause, pull in a deep breath, and take stock of where we have been and what we have learned in one season, this time, winter, before we leap or limp ahead to spring. The longer I practice this spiritual discipline of seasonal Examen, the deeper I feel it’s gifts and growth.

I want to offer those gifts and growth to you, so come along with me and let’s see what we might learn together.

It has been a winter of dog years. So much has happened in our lives, our country, and the world that I feel as though I have lived 7 years in a single season. Which brings me to my lessons which have the common thread of mending during torn times.

Look out windows with someone you love over time.
Rowdy Cowboy was the beloved dog of our oldest daughter, Kate, and her husband, Zeke. He was some sort of magical Black Lab/Great Dane mix that joined their family when they were newlyweds. Rowdy was there to greet all three kids home from the hospital gently, kindly, and graciously. He looked out of every front window in every place they lived from Oregon to Texas and back again.
He grew up with three kids, patiently wearing whatever they put on him - hats, capes, monster trucks, angel wings. All the while, pausing to enjoy the world as it passed his window, making friends and good neighbors.

Rowdy left this world this year on his 11th birthday. It was much too soon. We all thought he would make it out to his family’s dream of a little rural plot of land. Still, he taught us to pause and delight in the world as one of God’s creatures - beloved, dependable, a little slobbery. He taught me to look out windows with the ones I love and consider it very good.

2. Do something you’re afraid to do.

Part of my Rule of Life is taking a yearly spiritual retreat with good teaching, plenty of quiet reflection, morning prayer, humble music, art opportunities, and getting outdoors, all without internet or phone service. I always anticipate the scenery, friendship, and epiphanies of peaceful disruption. Going on the retreat is not the part I was afraid of. It was jumping in the Frio River.

I knew it would be bracing. The water is 56 degrees and I had seen jumpers come out red-skinned and invigorated. We decided this was the year we would take the leap. We packed our swimsuits. The we was me and my dear friend, Leslie.

At the hill country retreat, we hiked to Blue Hole, the place the kids jump in. As we were surveying the spot - where to jump and clear the limestone ledges, how to climb out - we were also gathering our courage for the plunge. Suddenly, a man showed up asking, “Did we know it was 100’ deep and dangerous? And that no one jumped here?”

After entertaining his doubts, Leslie counted 1, 2, 3 and jumped anyway. I took a full three minutes more to take in the crystal water and passing fish, have a chat with Jesus and gather my grit, shaking the whole time. Leslie waited for me to be ready. I waited, too. The man and his temptations to fear had gotten into my head but not quite my heart (though it felt close). I had set my intention and accepted an invitation from beyond the limestone ledge. Scared still, I jumped anyway.

I came up shivering, shaky, invigorated, renewed, baptized again, happy of myself.

Whatever brave jump you’re considering, you will know when you are ready. I hope you have a good friend and a chat with Jesus before you leap. And while your fear may not subside, when you are ready, you will jump anyway. May it be so.

3. Attend to mending practices in community.

During the Covid19 pandemic, when I knew mending was what we needed, I attended a kintsugi workshop online and the instructor (Julia) became an online friend of mine. Ever since that time with Julia, I have held a desire to practice the art of kintsugi in-person, in community. That opportunity arrived on a Sunday afternoon this winter. I didn’t know a single person around the table.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Kintsugi is sometimes called the poetic mend and that seems apt. We each brought an item to mend - teacups, bowls, and small planters. I brought a thrifted creamer with a magnolia bloom painted on one side. We gathered in a downtown prayer room on a rainy day with Charlie, a professional photographer, who taught us the art of new beauty made through imperfection.

Charlie invited us to share as we mended pottery on the outside what we were mending on the inside. Our stories revealed a range of brokenness from personal relationships to parenting (both sides) to church communities to the divisions in our country and our planet.

“We need to seek out others in our community who are pursuing the renovation of the heart.”

— Dallas Willard

4. Notice what practices are mending you as you go about your day.

This morning, Mike asked me from another room if I wanted a little first aid kit. I immediately answered, “Yes, please!” I didn’t realize he was talking about a band. I just knew I needed mending.

In these fractured times of a flagrant king and no gospel mending on the immediate horizon, I need ways to remind me that God’s love has a merciful texture and a humble tone. Here are a short list of practices that are mending me.

getting quiet enough to hear owls hooting out my window • lighting candles • journaling before work or news • reading Fleming Rutledge • visiting the Georgia Peaches • watching beluga whales and Japaneses sea nettles • celebrating a 10-year-olds birthday • making self-portraits • visio divina in spiritual direction • essays by Brian Doyle • listening deeply • visiting an art museum with a child or three • experiencing Jon Guerra in-person • looking for beauty and places of reflection • being steeped in poetry • praying for my enemies • listening to Magnolia (18 mos) saying “meow” and “amen” • watching sheep graze • keeping a one-line-a-day diary