Dear Mayfield,

This has been the most unusual season of Lent for me across decades of ministry. Now, when we aren’t crossing one another’s paths in person, we are trying as a household of faith to be deliberate in maintaining our connections and staying present with one another. Many years ago in his book Learning to Pray:  How We Find Heaven on Earth, UCC pastor and therapist Wayne Muller composed these words:

            As I write this, looking out my window, I know that the mountains and
            trees, the grasses and the sky, remain hidden in the fog, but I cannot see
            them with my eyes. Instead, I feel their presence in my body, I know the
            shapes that lie behind the fog for having seen them, watched them emerge
            again and again. It is a primitive kind of faith, based on repetition and
            proof, but a kind of faith that the fog will, indeed, lift. Slowly, as the sun
            warms the earth, the fog begins to clear. And as it does, outlines appear,
            colors, textures, and, finally, the sky and sun are quietly revealed and I
            can see them all.
            This is prayer. This is deep, faithful listening, waiting for what is hidden
            to be revealed. Prayer is not words; prayer is what happens when you
            listen and wait, beneath the words, for the outline of heaven to emerge.

The fog of Covid-19 will lift. But between today and those days in the future, we are engaged in daily doses of listening and waiting. Shortly after I arrived at Mayfield, I designed a retreat day on prayer for several locations called At the Window. The naming of that day was indebted to Muller’s quote. At the Window is also a good description for where we find ourselves at this point in the pandemic’s arc. If we are able to shelter in place, much of our seeing of the world is from the inside looking out. My first winter at Mayfield (2014) was the winter of the polar vortex. With cell phone in hand and bundled up inside at one window or another, I recorded dozens and dozens of pictures of sunrises and sunsets, ice crystals and even blankets of ice on windows and doors, swirling snow, resting fields, and the evidence of hopping rabbits in abundance.  Muller’s quote and that winter have inspired a prayer invitation I offer to you today.

With you cell phone or camera, preserve in a photo the view outside one of your windows. Attach your photo in a “reply all” to this email. Feel free to add a caption or short description if you like.  A picture from your front steps or back deck is an okay alternative too.  From your sheltering in place, what is in your line of sight?

This is the view to the west from one of my living room windows in Chicago
The large red brick building with the smokestack is Nettelhorst School. The
street running along the north side of the school is Aldine, a favorite walking
route of mine. Yesterday when walking at an appropriate six foot distance
from anyone, I paused to snap a picture of a cluster of brave crocuses showing
their spring purple. A man passed by me, also at an appropriate distance, and
spoke as he walked. “Oh, you’re recording hope.” I was amazed since, yes, that
was what I was up to. My response: “Yup, I’m spending a whole year on hope.”

Viewing a picture of what can be seen at your window these days, will weave another strand in the web that holds us together. In advance, thanks for the pictures you will send.  Peace, Martha