The Loneliest Night of the Year

As I was coming to work this morning, I was looking at the last full moon of the year; "Twas in the moon of wintertime" so the refrain goes from one of the oldest hymns written by a new comer priest inspired by his interaction with turtle island (what we call Canada), and probably his attempts to convert or the conversion of Indigenous people to the Christian faith. Or, maybe by his conversion to Indigenous faith. Or, was it the conversation to faith in God and the ability of the gospel to be received in this land of the mighty Gitchi Manitou.

The moon of Wintertime, the loneliest night of the year. I was thinking about my father, who is in a hospital room, not waiting to heal, but waiting because he is old now and his life is slowly leaving his body. And as I thought about him, I was sad; the loneliest night of the year.  I will push the feeling of sadness out of my mind soon, but I will linger on them just for a bit. Thinking about waiting and reading the gospel of the day, Luke 7:19-23. Two people ask Jesus, "Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?" A question from two people sent by John the baptizer, who was in prison, "are you the one..?" Waiting for the one who is to come - by those who had power, but unable to help a sick servant, by a widow whose son had died unexpectedly; by those who had diseases, battling personal demons and all forms of the malady of the human condition - the sadness and the loneliness -waiting- the loneliest night of the year - waiting for the one who is to come.

"Twas in the moon of winter-time

When all the birds had fled,

That mighty Gitchi Manitou

Sent angel choirs instead…

"Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, In excelsis gloria."

 (Original carol in Wyandot (Huron) circa 1642 by Jean de Brebeuf translated into English by Jesse Edgar Middleton 1926)

The Bear's House since the beginning

I was out running Wednesday morning. It was cool out and you could hear the crunching of snow that had frozen into ice. 

My back hurts but I try to get in at least 1 mile. The magical mile, far enough to say that I ran but not long enough to call me a marathon man. I ran to the Richmond Dike and then looked up at the stars. The stars that have been their since creator entered the story of our lives. I looked and saw the big bear (ursa major) and then let my eyes follow it to find the North Star. 

Scott Momaday, Indigenous author, penned a conversation between Urset and Yahweh, 

Urset: "The one story must be very old."

Yahweh: "It is older than I, for I am contained in it…” (In the Bear's House New Mexico Press, 1999)

That the great mystery is contained in our stories shows the miracle of the incarnation. That creator has come close to give us the words to write and speak, to remember the story. “The word became flesh” and dwells in our story. The words can be seen and heard, if we have ears to hear and eyes to see, what has been there since the beginning.

Sighing and Singing

Sunday morning I was walking and the wind was howling through the scaffolding in our apartment complex. It brought to mind that the wind makes different noises depending on what it moves through.

The wind through the man-made trees of scaffolding was howling like a banshee - it was eerie. The wind through the oak trees and cottonwood makes creaking sounds but the wind through the evergreens makes a sighing and peaceful sound.

Sighing and Singing

Sighing and singing through the needles in a whimsical song,
Sighing and slipping through the dancing needles ,
Sighing and slicing gently through limbs caressing the breeze
Sighing and shivering rolling on the currents of wind and time longing for warmth
Sighing and shaking, straining against the tendons of bark and sap holding the life - waiting

Sighing and waiting eyes close, I wait - sighing and slicing through the current of memory caressing the path like the tendons of life waiting for spring.

Getting Older

As we get older my melancholy gets ever closer - not depression but in the evening my reality overwhelms me. I think about the things that are past and the things that will not come back. “Let me live in a way that when I die, my memory will bear much fruit.”


These words, inspired by Henri Nouwen reflecting on Jesus saying, “It is good that I go away,” Jesus' going bore much fruit.

A Cold Stone
The cold stone church wall
A place of remembrance -
The voice of a thousand angelic memories locked inside -
Crying in the night and reflecting
Where and when did they go?

A cold stone church step
A thousand footfalls, beaten down
The passing of a thousand hosts, never coming back-
What and when did they think and love?


A cold stone marker
A place of resting -
A thousand words of longing - silenced for a time
When and how will they rise again?