Sacred Fragments from nature . . .
Beloved
A Gentle Invitation to Encounter:
Allow your sanctified imagination to envision yourself in a sacred moment of God’s creative act. Engage in a heartfelt dialogue with the Heavenly Father who mothers us all, reflecting on His unwavering intention to bring you into existence. Pause to behold Him, and observe how He gazes upon you with tenderness and love. Speak to Him, and listen attentively to His gentle response. Enter into the wonder of His infinite goodness — so overflowing that He chose to create you, a unique expression of His divine delight in shaping someone never before seen. Reflect on His divine plan to form you in His sacred image, making you eternally one-of-a-kind, precious, and unrepeatable. Consider these invitations to ponder: Where in your life is there a stirring, a longing to more fully embrace or reclaim God’s gift of love in a deeply personal, transformative way? Which parts of your story are yearning to be restored from exile as God gathers you into His presence, encouraging you to rest in the goodness and truth that reflect who you are in Him?
As you savour your belovedness held in the Trinity, may this song gently carry you: “Always with Me” by Porter’s Gate - Worship Project
Nourished
What has fallen in your life that is, divinely, nourishing you? Where might new life be reaching, roots exposed, toward the light?
On a recent walk into the forest near our home, my eyes were arrested by something small: this young alder growing from an ancient fallen log. Its roots are partly exposed, holding on to what remains of an old-growth tree that once stood tall here. And still, it grows.
I read that foresters call such a log a nurse log. As it decays, fungi, beetles, and unseen critters break it down, returning nutrients to the forest floor. The log holds moisture through dry summers, cradling seedlings that might not survive elsewhere. Decay here is not waste but a kind of offering ... a gift. I also read that alders are pioneers. Their roots partner with bacteria that draw nitrogen from the air and enrich the soil for whatever grows next. Nothing in this forest lives for itself alone. As someone trained to companion the grieving, I see something similar. When someone we love dies, a great tree falls in our lives. The loss is real. Yet over time, what they gave us can become ground: their words, their faith, their way of being and seeing in the world. New growth after loss is unsheltered, vulnerable, and uncertain. I think grief has its own seasons. Even here, we are held by a love deeper than the soil.
