Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.
Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
May the beauty of the Lord our God rest on us; establish the work of our hands for us - yes, establish the work of our hands.
Psalm 90: 1, 12, 17
This week feels like a hinge, a catch between the last Sunday of one year and the first Sunday of the next, with a pause for reflection, celebration, and Thanksgiving in the middle. It is a busy week, with preparation and feasting and decorating, and yet it also holds the invitation to rest, to be present with one another, and to reflect on the year that was and the year that will be.
One of my traditions each year is to gather friends together to make liturgical calendar bracelets, a tangible reminder that our lives are hidden in Christ as we walk through the year, with Him and with one another. It is a practice of numbering our days, as we literally count out the days of the coming year, arranging them by season, marking special days of observance, and placing our own family celebrations within the cycle of the church year.
The idea is pretty simple: one bead for every day of the liturgical year, large beads for Sundays, small beads for weekdays. The color is dependent on the liturgical season or day observed. The beauty comes in the discussion as we sort through days and what we observe and why. We are a varied group, and we don't all observe the same things. Some of us lean into traditions different than our own with our liturgical observations. The group that has been gathering for the last five years or so includes Baptist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, and non-denominational members, some of whom have liturgical practices influenced significantly by Anglican or Catholic traditions. There are as many variations in following the liturgical year as there are people around the table, and we remember that, for all our differences, we are members of one another, gathered around the same table, being transformed into the image of the same Lord.
As we work through the year that has passed, unwinding the bracelet of days gone by, removing birthday and anniversary charms to be celebrated again in the coming year, the conversation is light, and punctuated by questions and observations. “What was the gold day in Epiphany, maybe early February?” “Is All Saints Day the one we observe with candles?” “We enjoyed watching your Guy Fawkes fireworks from our back yard this year!” We are knit together with shared celebrations and memories as we work our way through the year that is drawing to a close.
And then, the counting begins, and with it the discussion of what is to come. “What’s the difference between blue or purple for Advent?” “Is February 14 white or red? Was St. Valentine a martyr?” “Here’s why I think Rogation Day should be a thing for all of us this side of the pond!” (More on that is coming in April, I’m sure.) It's a beautiful reminder that we are all part of the same body, even as we observe the year and live our days in different ways.
As the bracelet making gets underway, we settle into moments of silence, concentrating on the work before us, just enjoying working alongside one another. Observations rise to the surface. “It’s really nice just to work alongside others, together, but silent.” “There’s something different about practicing silence communally, and that’s something we don’t often do.” “We should have a silent retreat.” Heads nod, and the conversation grows out of the silence, and I find myself wondering what new communal practices will form over this next year. I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to finding out.
I don't have this down, even after a good number of years leading this practice and observing these rhythms. But what I have is a community who is growing deeper in grace with one another and ourselves as we gather yearly to recall the last year and map out the rhythms of the next one. I'm so thankful for the goodness found in all of this.
As we move from Christ the King Sunday to the first week of Advent, the cycle begins again, and I find myself asking the Lord, again, to establish the works of my hands. May these hands that have counted the days and marked them in beads do the work of the one who is my dwelling place. May my feet walk with His through the cycle of the church year and in my own home, neighborhood, and town. May we gather with one another in thankfulness this week, and continue to gather around tables of many kinds throughout the year, all echoing the one true Table where we find our belonging in Him.
Following the Light: Gardening and the Liturgical Year
A good portion of my time at the beginning of this month was focused on launching Fieldmoot, an online conference for cultivating creativity in Christendom. The weekend was so much more lifegiving and beautiful than we could have anticipated, and I’m really thankful to have been part of midwifing something like this into the world. The conversation has been continuing on the website, and all recorded content is available for free. And if you wanted to hear my talk on gardening and the liturgical year, but don’t want to head over the website, I’ll just leave this here…
A Practice
I’d like to invite you to pause for a moment, to stop and breathe deeply, amidst all the preparation for Thanksgiving, the decorating for Christmas, and the busyness of life. Slow down, catch your breath, and pause. And then, perhaps with a cup of tea, hot enough to encourage you to linger in this moment, think back over the last year with two questions in mind:
What was lifegiving?
What was life-draining?
This month, what felt like it breathed life into your days, and what felt like it left you with no room to breathe?
This fall, what caused you to pause and delight in the days you were given, and what caused you to rush through them without stopping to notice?
Over the summer, what encouraged you to grow and flourish, and what made you wither and shrink?
In the bright light of Easter, the burgeoning warmth of Spring, what felt like new life peeking through the snow, and what felt lifeless and cold?
During the season of Lent, what were you invited to lay aside, and what did you find yourself unwilling to release?
Where did you find warmth in winter, and where did you long for comfort?
At Christmas, how did you experience the Incarnation, and how did it feel far off and a long time ago?
For Advent, where did you find your hope fulfilled, and where were you waiting for deliverance?
The season of Advent is almost upon us. May you step into it with joy, and lifegiving peace.