Author: Rosemary Lovelace

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

Southernisms

Not sure why, but some of the most striking, hilarious expressions have come to me from a few wonderful southerners. They made Lewis Grizzard seem tired and bland.

Annie Lee Brown, Guest House Manager at Virginia Seminary, former house mother for the Delt Tau Delta’s at Auburn: “She was going down like the wreck of the Hesperus.” “He is like a lost ball in high weeds.” “He is one egg short of a dozen.” “He’s like a blind dog in a meat house.”

Rick from Americus GA during Emory days: “When they were giving out brains, you thought they said ‘rains’ and you ran for cover.” “When they were giving out noses, you thought they said ‘roses’ and you asked for a big red one.” “When they were giving out looks, you thought they said ‘books’ and you asked for a funny one.” And more.

I was a young deacon, 26 years old, assigned to Church of the Holy Communion in Memphis. Bowlyne Fisher (priest, Ph.D., hailed from Henning TN) associate to the rector, introduced me to the lore of Memphis. One afternoon, standing at the picture window of his 8th floor mid-town apartment, he pointed to the street below and exclaimed, “There’s Prince Mongo.” I said, “What? Who?” Bowlyne said, “Yeah, he’s a fixture here. Has a bar down near the river. Get’s raided pretty often. Claims to have been born on the planet Zambodia around 333 years ago.” This man in a big late model convertible, top-down in winter, parked, got out and started walking down the street. He was wearing fluffy white leggings like a Zulu warrior. Bowlyne said, “He always wears goggles and a long white wig in public and wild clothing. He lives about 3 blocks from here.” Prince Mongo had run continuously in every Memphis mayoral election since 1978, sometimes intermittently running for Mayor of Shelby County. In the 1991 mayoral election, Prince Mongo got 2,000 votes, which put him in third place. Bowlyne summed up Mongo, “He’s out of his green leafy tree.”

During Lent we were sent to Montesi’s Food Store to get some last-minute items for a Lenten Supper. Walking through the parking lot a woman in big new Cadillac whizzed by us and parked close to the store in a handicapped parking spot. She leapt out of her car and raced into the food store. Bowlyne turned to me and said, “Must be mentally handicapped.” Other of his sayings: “All his leaves aren’t raked into one pile.” “Always off-key in the band in his head.”

I miss these people – can’t imagine how they became such comedic sages. I guess it’s in the water we southerners drink and the company we keep. George Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

Earworms

I owe Bill Pattillo for giving me that word “earworm”. He used it with me about 10 years ago- it describes that tune you can’t get out of your head- it keeps burbling up from your inner self, taking residence in your ear AND IT WON’T QUIT. Knowing the syndrome has a name does not keep me safe from its assaults.

Don Henley’s song ‘This is the End of the Innocence’ is the worm that’s been plaguing me for weeks. Why? My subconscious has yet to tell me. I’ve been playing it in the car, resonating with the lyrics, trying to expunge it. But my hunch is that I am longing for the earlier times when covid hadn’t struck and we could be together in what now seems to be gauzy, blissful times in the sun. Oh no, not “We Had Joy We Had Fun We had Seasons in the Sun—” stop it!

Another earworm has taken up permanent residence in my subconscious- it’s the tune ‘Kingsfold’ from our hymnal. That tricksy part of my psyche defaults to it unbidden in quiet moments. That tune is used in two hymns- this is one I seem to prefer: Hymn 292

“Oh Jesus, crowned with all renown, since thou the earth hast trod, thou reignest and by thee come down henceforth the gifts of God.”

This second portion of the verse bounds and rebounds around in me: “Thine is the health and thine the wealth that in our halls abound, and thine the beauty and the joy with which the years are crowned.” To me it’s almost a reminiscence of pre-covid times. But that’s too simple an explanation, isn’t it?

It could be that I sang it in the boys’ choir on Sundays during the fall. It could be that it’s a most singable, lovely song. But that’s the thing- I CAN’T KNOW. It just starts up like a holy jukebox with only one disc.

The juke box in our house at Emory always contained Led Zeppelin’s song “Black Dog” even when other titles were switched out. “Hey, hey mama, said the way you move. Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove.” I could always tell upstairs when David came back from class. He’d cue up that song in the huge party room downstairs and start blasting out the lyrics with Robert Plant at top volume. Maybe I should seek him out and suggest it become an earworm for him. Would that be fair? Can one remove the worm in thine own ear by infusing it in the ear of another?

Googling ‘earworm cure’ yields this and many other results:

5 Ways to Get Rid of Earworms: According to Science LISTEN TO THE ENTIRE SONG. Earworms tend to be small fragments of music that repeat over and over (often a song’s refrain or chorus). LISTEN TO A “CURE TUNE.”. The same study also found that some subjects used competing songs, or “cure tunes,” to control their earworms. DISTRACT YOURSELF WITH SOMETHING ELSE. … CHEW GUM. … LEAVE IT ALONE. … Hmmh- don’t seem like cures to me. They’re just substituting other activities until the dreaded worm slinks back into my ear again. Oh well, here’s one for the road: “All the leaves are brown….” Come out, come out, wherever you are. G. Yandell

By Patricia Stimmel

After Ash Wednesday services last week, I went about running errands but first stopped by McDonald’s for an iced coffee. I placed the order and drove around, the little Mexican lady at the window started to speak but abruptly stopped, put her hands on her face in disbelief and cried out…’Oh my God, today is Ash Wednesday!’ She was upset, almost crying and repeated…’Isn’t that right lady, today is Ash Wednesday, oh my God!! I can’t go…oh no…I’m working!” I realized immediately that she was staring at my forehead with the cross of ashes. I said, ‘It’s okay, wait…I have something to help you…”, digging in my pocked for the little packet of ashes remaining from the service. The look on her face was tearful and so upset. I handed it to her and explained the ashes were blessed and it was perfectly acceptable for her to administer the sign of the cross. She kept saying tearfully, “Oh my God lady, thank you so much.” As I collected my iced coffee, I noticed her hanging her head out the window still shouting “Thank you lady…thank you!” Best iced coffee I’ve ever had! Patricia Stimmel

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

What passages/poems/speeches did you have to memorize in school? I mentioned in a past piece that my 6th grade confirmation class had to memorize parts of the Offices of Instruction (Catechism) about the nature of a sacrament. I can still recite the Gettysburg Address, mostly. And the Nicene Creed, and of course the Boy Scout Oath and Law.

Some people have much better capacity than I for keeping things they’ve memorized accurate and fresh in their memory. If I’ve sung and performed a piece of music in choirs or the Glee Club (Emory) or in Church, it sticks better in my brain. Why is that?

Ted Hackett and I have talked about Neuro Linguistic Programming- he poo-poos it mostly. But I find value in using some of its techniques. NLP is a “powerful model of human experience and communication” (from the forward of Frogs into Princes: Neuro Linguistic Programming, Bandler and Grinder, 1979). It posits that there are three modalities in humans- visual, audio and kinesthetic. NLP suggests that the modalities are layered in each of us- I am pretty sure I’m a visual/kinesthetic/audio kind of guy. My primary mode for intersecting with the world is by seeing, secondarily by feeling, and third by hearing. If I can see it, I can more readily recall it and better fix it in my memory. Seeing the sheet music in front of me, singing the lines with the texts, helps me to memorize it almost automatically. (Getting my cataracts removed and new lenses implanted last February really opened the world anew to me.) Other people are layered differently.

If I feel the beat of a song, hear the lyrics repeatedly, then often I can recall it, but usually not as precisely as seeing the score.

If someone tells me to remember a phone number, I’ll reach for a pen to write it down. If I don’t have a pen, I’ll likely not remember it. Hearing it doesn’t embed it in my brain. People who are layered audio/visual/kinesthetic can likely recall spoken phone numbers much better than I.

One application of NLP is for listening and responding more intently and caringly to another’s story. If I hear my friend using frequent ‘visual’ language (“I can see that happening” or “I remember vividly the image of our dog playing with our daughters”) I might respond with “I think I see what you mean.” That sort of response can bridge to a deeper level of mutual trust and self-revealing.

If I hear her saying, “When I hear ______ it drives me crazy” or “The sound of his voice still haunts me,” I could reply, “What is he saying when you hear his voice?” But these responses have to be authentic.

In Covid time, listening well to our friends, colleagues and family can be a relief and a gift to them. Each of us needs to be heard and understood especially when we’re stressed and discouraged. I appreciate it when folks seek me out just to catch up and chat. I suspect you do as well. We need to be heard and understood. You validate my feelings (and what I see and hear.) Thank you. G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

Articles in Backpacker magazine are often about extreme feats of outdoor endurance to test new gear or to offer descriptions to out of the way trails. The current issue carries an article by Bill Donahue entitled “A Hero’s Journey”. The byline: “Rue McKenrick would hike the perimeter of the country to demonstrate our nation’s unity—if only he and the country could hold together long enough for him to finish.” It caught my attention.

The story’s author catches up with McKenrick a few miles west of the North Dakota border. “He’s about 9,000 miles into his hike by now. I’m planning to spend three days and 75 miles following him west, asking how a hurt pilgrim might search for hope in a broken country.”

“It’s soon clear that the depression and anxiety that hit McKenrick in rain-soaked Appalachia seven months ago never left him. He’s not well physically either.” As the two walk/ride along together (the author brought a trail bike so he could keep up with the hiker) McK. tells that he’s walked more than 8,000 consecutive miles all by himself. They’re hiking along the North Country Trail which stretches 4,700 miles from Vermont to central North Dakota. Their route is ram-rod straight over a gravel road on the flat, dusty, nearly treeless landscape. McK. says, “There’s a sadness in the ground. It feels like there are sad stories here that have never been told. It feels like people went missing and never got found.” They both recognize McK. is talking about his own deep sadness as well as their locale. Mck. sums it up, “I was really put into deep isolation with the pandemic; I can only take so much solitude.”

McK. started his odyssey 13 years after his life was shaken by a betrayal. He moved from Pennsylvania to Bend, Oregon to start over in the midst of a horrible depression. He joined a meditation community and met his guru. McK. attained a happy and simple stability in OR. He got a bike and commuted to his job at a golf course, even in snow and rain. He started mountain biking in the Cascades. His depression waned, but when it returned in 2018, he knew how to tackle it. “You get your family and friends involved. You bring in the professionals. There’s no shame in saying, ‘I have an issue, I need help.’ In talking with the caring folks in his community, he saw his situation clearly: “The experience I wanted was to go backpacking.”

He also wanted to contribute to society. He felt it was his calling to establish a new American Trail. At first he didn’t realize how vast a project it would become.

He started growing a support network and social media campaign in the summer of 2019. He’d been training for a year, so he set out from Bend the day after having major dental surgery. He had trouble in almost every state he hiked through. In Nevada the highway patrol stopped him and said, “Hitchhiking is not allowed in Nevada.” Hours later the same officer was on foot and yelled at McK. again, “Get your hands out of your pockets!” worried McK. might have a gun. The trooper searched through his belongings for weapons that weren’t there.

He started his hike with dreams of discovering America and its people as he established a trail that carried a spiritual dimension. He described it as “a circular and infinite loop without a beginning or an end.” His explanation for persisting is “Each step I take is a prayer to the universe for ever increasing unity.”

On October 23 last year McK. had to pause his mission when he cracked from stress, depression and exhaustion. He went back to Bend and got a doctor to work with him on physical and emotional issues. He began to heal with the help of his friends.

The author of the story learned recently that McK. intends to restart his hike. On May 1 this year, he will begin hiking west from Bismarck, ND where he stopped in October last year. He hopes to climb through the snows in Glacier National Park and then cut west toward the Olympic Peninsula. Along the way he’ll take in some of the route taken long ago by Lewis and Clark.

He said, “It concerns me that my depression may return.” The author states, “It concerns me as well, and I carry the same worry for our country… in the dark morass of Covid and riven by incivility. We are hurting and, and Rue McKenrick, our hero, is all of us.” I am on the fence about McKenrick’s sanity and capacity to accomplish his mission. But I sure identify with his drive to increase the country’s unity. Looking at the map of the USA with his route in red encircling the country, it looks like a red ribbon on an immense gift of hope. God bless him. G. Yandell

The Rev George Yandell, Rector

TOP OF THE WORLD

It was a weekend in early February of 1964. My scout troop was undertaking its annual ‘freeze out,’ as the scouts called it. I was just before turning 12 years old as a second-class scout.

I had joined Boy Scout Troop 52 in West Knoxville a little less than a year before. The troop and my patrol had taken some day hikes during that time. This was a hike of entirely different magnitude. We were hiking up Mt. Le Conte in the Smokies. (Trip Advisor calls it one of the most dangerous hiking trails in the USA. It’s the 3rd highest peak in the Great Smoky Mountains.)

In the troop meetings in the weeks prior to the hike, we boys had to bring our packs and hiking gear to be inspected. I was told by the scoutmaster I needed warmer outerwear and a water-repellant poncho since the weather “on top” he called it, could be pretty unpredictable and severe. The day of the hike we met at West Hills Elementary School way before dawn, loaded our gear in some parents’ cars and motored to Gatlinburg, then up through Cherokee Orchard to the Rainbow Falls trailhead. I put on my pack as the first pale light came into the sky. I recall there were about 50 boys and 6 adult leaders on the hike. The trail to the falls wasn’t too hard, but just above the falls the trail got steeper and sleet started coming down. Within an hour the trail was covered in snow and footing became slippery.

By the time the guys with me and an assistant scoutmaster had paused for a snack and some water, the snow was a foot deep and coming down heavy. I don’t know how long it took to reach the lodges on the top of the mountain – all the older boys had claimed the small cabins and had fires going in the pot-bellied stoves. (The small cabins had two double-bed bunks- 4 -6 boys had jammed themselves in each.) Alan, Joe and I had to sleep in one of the much larger lodges. I recall they had two-three bunkrooms and a large center area with a fireplace. Four of us piled into one of the bunkrooms and took off our wet gear. More younger scouts took the other rooms. One of the older boys started a fire, but it did little to warm the drafty lodge. We huddled near it, ate some gorp, waiting for dinner.

The dining lodge was warm, dry and the food delicious. Mr. Brown and his young men helped him serve beef stew, warm bread, cobbler, as much as we could eat. We had a brief evening program around the tables, got the plan for Sunday morning and hiking out. That night was one of the coldest I’ve spent. I slept in all my clothes and outerwear, pulled the blanket tight over me, and woke frequently to burrow down deeper under the covers.

When day dawned and we went to breakfast, the snow lay heavy over everything and the sun reflected so brightly I had to squint. After breakfast we went to a large flat spot overlooking the rest of the world. Peaks I would come to recognize later were white islands above dense white clouds- Thunderhead, Charlie’s Bunion, Clingman’s Dome, Gregory Bald.

I couldn’t know it then, but that hike changed me. Standing deep in fresh snow on the top of the world for the Sunday service whetted my appetite for more. I went on every hike the troop and my patrol took. I came to love the challenges of winter hiking and camping. (The next year’s freeze-out was on Spence Field in tents. Lots warmer than Mt. Le Conte.)

I remain deeply grateful to Mr. Rowland, Mr. Cheverton, Mr. Haubenrich and all the other men who volunteered to lead and train us. Life-changing is too tame a description for those experiences. Soul-deepening is more apt.

I thought about those early hikes when I stood at 9,000 feet on the Continental Divide Trail in Montana beside my cousin Nancy Womack in August 1990. (Nancy had taken her first backpacking trip with me in January 1982. We hiked from Clingman’s Dome to Spence Field on the AT, then down to Cades Cove in 3 days. She was hooked.)

We were overwhelmed by the vastness of all those mountains marching north toward Canada. That 11-day Sierra Club hike linked directly to my Boy Scout experience 37 years earlier. The top of the world still calls to me. G. Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

People of the Lie

I read The Exorcist when it came out in 1971. A chilling, nightmare inducing read. The movie was horrifying as well. It provoked a strong interest and fear in me about human evil and demonic possession. In 1983 Scott Peck published a book called People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil. It followed his remarkably successful book The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth published in 1978. (My well-worn copy of The Road Less Traveled was a gift from my parents in the fall of 1981, inscribed by them.) In the introduction to People of the Lie, Peck writes: “Evil people are easy to hate. But remember St. Augustine’s advice to hate the sin but love the sinner. Remember that when you recognize an evil person that truly, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ We cannot begin to hope to heal human evil until we are able to look at it directly.”

Peck was baptized by 2 colleagues of mine in 1980 during a conference at Kanuga in North Carolina- he called it a “non-denominational baptism” altho’ it was held in the chapel of an Episcopal Conference Center by two Episcopal priests. He says that he has a Christian bias that causes him to be guided by the teachings of Jesus. He distills Jesus’ teachings about sin this way: “We should judge others with great care, and that carefulness begins with self-judgement.”

Lying is addictive. One becomes enmeshed in the alternate reality lying creates. In the past weeks I’ve found myself recalling Pontius Pilate’s dialogue with Jesus in John’s gospel (18: 28-38). Near the end of the dialogue/inquisition, Pilate asked Jesus, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Pilate then asked him, “What is truth?” That question resonates across 1990 years.

The December 30 issue of “The Christian Century” carries an article by Bishop Steven Charleston, retired Episcopal bishop of Alaska. The article’s title is “The Cost of Lies.” Bishop Charleston is a Choctaw elder. The article is adapted from Charleston’s soon to be published book, Ladder to the Light: An Indigenous Elder’s Meditations on Hope and Courage. He writes:

“Traditional Native American Culture was not much concerned with religious truth claims. It was concerned with telling the truth on a personal level. The social contract formed by centuries of Native American civilization made telling the truth a core expectation for all human interactions. Speaking the truth was the highest virtue. Failure to do so was so egregious that it demanded the ultimate penalty in the political and judicial systems of our people- no, not death, but exile.”

“This degree of insistence upon truth telling arises in our Native American cultures because we understand that without it, none of the community systems on which we depend will work. Truth telling is the one essential ingredient in all of them. It is the prerequisite for any stable society.”

When I stop and reflect on what our part of North Georgia was like 400 years ago, I realize that underneath the beautiful Chestnut trees, along the ridges and in the valleys, life was ordered amongst the Cherokee, Creek and other indigenous tribes on the bedrock of knowing and telling the truth. The ground they walked and were buried in may be speaking to us today.

The library at Virginia Seminary had these words inscribed in marble at the entrance: “Seek the truth, cost what it may, come whence it will.” Written by William Sparrow, who moved to the Virginia Theological Seminary in 1841, where he taught for the rest of his life.

Words to live by. George Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

Images, Signs, Symbols

Raised in the Church, I’ve been surrounded by symbols and icons, although I didn’t realize that’s what they were early on. I do remember the language of the ‘Offices of Instruction’ my comrades and I had to memorize in 6th grade Confirmation classes. When the question was put before us by Mr. Garner, our rector, “What is the outward part or sign of the Lord’s Supper,” we had to reply, “The outward part or sign of the Lord’s Supper is, Bread and Wine, which the Lord hath commanded to be received.”

Then he asked us, “What is the inward part, or thing signified?” We answered by rote, “The inward part, or thing signified, is the Body and Blood of Christ, which are spiritually taken and received by the faithful in the Lord’s Supper.”

There were about 35 of us in that Confirmation class. How Mr. Garner survived us I do not know. I do recall loads of questions about ‘things signified.’ I know now that the capacity to ‘grok’ symbols usually doesn’t arise in young people until age 10 or older. (‘Grok’ was coined by Robert Heinlein in his landmark book Stranger in a Strange Land. It meant something like getting inside a thing, knowing it mystically, completely.)

Flash forward. In the fall of 1985, I was persuaded to start a Centerpoint class in the parish I was serving in Memphis. Six people signed up. I ordered the curriculum and accompanying cassette tapes and started the sessions. Soon we realized that we needed to do background reading. One of the books suggested in the curriculum was Complex/Archetype/Symbol in the Psychology of C. G. Jung by Jolande Jacobi. It sounded good, so I bought it. I was way out of my depth reading most of it. But I did get hooked by this passage: “Whenever a suitable situation of consciousness is present, its “dynamic nucleus” is ready to actualize itself and manifest itself as a symbol.” … “The symbols it creates are always grounded in the unconscious archetype, but their manifest forms are molded by the ideas acquired by the conscious mind.”

It meant to me that symbols can bridge between the unconscious self and the conscious workaday life one lives. Starting at around age two, children can begin developing symbolic thought, allowing them to improve language, imagination, and memory skills. Children later begin to use symbolic play (“playing pretend”), draw pictures, and talk about things that happened in the past. Around the age of 12 when they begin thinking in abstract ways, they can attach more meaning to symbols. Symbols can gain power in us and with others in groups. Symbols activate us to strive for deeper connections with the world around us, and the people with whom we live. They ‘signify’ (like the Body and Blood of Christ) something deeper.

The Cross became a symbol of depth meaning for many of us. I was taught most Episcopal Churches use ‘naked crosses’ to emphasize both death and resurrection. Jesus crucified and Christ victorious all at once. Other symbols that embedded in me were American flags, the raised right hand three-finger Boy Scout salute while saying the scout law. And the VW logo on the hood of my first car (1962 red, heavily used bug- it made me feel part of a large sort of cult). The symbols that gain meaning in us can bond us to codes of conduct, manners of living, and can raise us to new levels of consciousness when they gain deeper meanings in us.

A striking piece of knowing came from the Centerpoint classes- some symbols emanate from the Collective Unconscious- they are pan-cultural, and often rise in the dreams of people who know nothing of the content the dreams express.

The figure of Mercury/Hermes in Roman/Greek mythologies has a striking parallel in the Navajo emergence myth. Coyote is the trickster that is always nipping around the fringes, agitating people. Coyote causes people to rise, to strive, to move up and out into higher levels of consciousness.

Jesus is that figure for many of us. He agitates, inspires, and drives us to seek higher levels of being with the other entities around us. I’ve taken to sitting with an icon of Jesus striding forward with a stylized cross over his shoulder. A priest friend gave it to me years ago. In saying a breath prayer while gazing into the icon, I’ve felt tugs at my heart. They seem to be responding to the forward movement of the resurrected Jesus. I’m glad for that. G. Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

In the Chattanooga Times Free Press November 8 issue, there appeared a long article about Advent calendars. I scanned it and discovered the following: Advent calendars have gotten more elaborate. “These days you can them filled with candy or toys for kids, and wine and whiskey for adults.” What?!

Godiva’s Advent calendar is filled with the company’s luxury chocolates. Aldi has more than 20 Advent calendars for foodies. “If you give them as gifts, the recipient will be reminded of your friendship for 24 days and they’re practically guaranteed to lift your mood at the beginning or end of each day.”

This one really caught my attention:

“Cheese lovers will love a daily dose of cheese with Ilchester’s Advent cheese calendar. Its assortment includes Red Leicester cheese, Wensleydale cheese with cranberries and the company’s delicious sharp cheddar. The cheese is from Ilchester, a village in southwestern England, an area known for making quality cheeses. And what you’ll find in each window is just the bite you need to pair with your favorite afternoon wine. $24.95”

I am not making this up. Pretty cheesy, eh?

When I was growing up, it was only the Episcopalians, Roman Catholics and a few protestants who employed Advent calendars. They were teaching tools for us kids to learn about the impending birth of the savior of the world. None were at all savory. Just small panels we’d open to see images of donkeys, mangers, angels and the like.

I can say for certain I never want a foodie Advent calendar. I’ve become a curmudgeon without realizing it. Merry Christmas. George Yandell

The Rev. George Yandell, Rector

Early this morning I woke to the soft sound of the rain starting to fall on our roof. It was like a caress from the heavens. As I grow older, the subtle things of life take on more meaning. In the Nicene Creed, when we recite, “We believe in one God…maker of all that is, seen and unseen,” I find myself more paying attention to the word “unseen”.

I Kings describes Elijah’s subtle encounter with God. Elijah is instructed by the word of the Lord to stand on the mountain to witness God passing by. First came hurricane-force winds, but God was not in the wind. Then came earthquake and fire, but God was not in either. After the fire came “a sound of sheer silence. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, ‘What are you doing here Elijah?’ (NRSV, I Kings 19: 11-13) And Elijah knew God’s presence through the sheer silence.

Thomas A. Kempis wrote his remarkable book, The Imitation of Christ, in 1410. It has be-come the second most frequently published book after the Bible. Thomas wrote, “Blessed are the ears which receive the echoes of the soft whisper of God, and turn not aside to the whisperings of this world.” I hear in both Elijah’s encounter and Kempis’ statement that humans need to hear discreetly in order to detect God’s presence. We have to listen for subtlety within the clamor of everything else if we are to detect God’s presence.

Countless tracts have been written about ways to encounter God. Maybe the trick is to stop reading, stop talking, stop listening to constant news feeds, stand and gaze at the soft and stark winter colors, and give thanks for living. Maybe when our external distractions and our internal whirlwinds subside, we’ll know God to be present. Present in majestic silence and marvelous subtlety. G. Yandell