Through Stained Glass: Lent Word a Day -- With

With.

With the sun shining I write this post on my patio. The temperature is 71 with a gentle breeze -- the Spirit. Across the way, two middle school-aged children are playing. One is drawing on the sidewalk with chalk; the other is playing with a remote-controlled car. Their laughter is music to my ears.

With me in my yard is Tecumseh, who is at rest for now. A squirrel rests atop the mulberry bush, I suspect planning for his subsequent descent to the bird feeders. Tecumseh rests behind me, peeking out from behind me, waiting to see if his 'absence' will fool his furry foe. These two have been playing with each other for an hour now. Both anticipate the other's next move. 

With the absence of their commotion, the birds are back to their spots on the feeders. So many birds, so many colors, and so many songs. The Rose of Sharon can't hide my feathery friends, though that day is coming. I see a Redwing Blackbird, but only because I heard him first. Male Redwing Blackbirds, like most birds, are, well, the ones with the oranges and yellows and whites on their wings. To my right, Grackles and Cowbirds offer their high pitch shrills as they dance below the feeder. Both birds are black and blue -- both recently returning to their post in my backyard. Just now, my faithful companions, the Mourning Doves, take their spot on the fence, waiting for the Finches and Sparrows to knock more seed from the dangling buffet bar. Of course, the Junco's are here, too. With all of us who call this place home, they endure winter here. I give thanks for their steadfastness. Know what I love about this little piece of Earth I call home? On days like today, when the birds fly away to safety, their upward movement sounds like 'the mighty rushing wind.' So much Spirit in this place.

With their presence in my life, I experience a reawakening. I am one with them -- not above them, or somehow, superior to them. It amazes me how much more rich my life becomes when I pay attention to those I share life with. [Whoops, I'm *not supposed* to end a sentence with a preposition.] With my eye on the Sparrow, I remember our interconnectedness. They are my neighbor as much as the person [whose name I don't even know] lives next to me. In the bodies of the birds, in my body, in the sleeping body of Tecumseh, I sense a deep awareness of the Sacred here. 

With the clouds moving in and the voice reverberating through the neighborhood from the softball field at the high school, I'm aware of the Holy. I'm awakening to what the Celtic tradition teaches: we need to keep listening to what our souls already know, either in the particular circumstances of our lives or in matters more universal. 

With us is God, not opposed as Western doctrine dictates. We are with God -- in life and death. With that good news, I return to the conversation -- listening to their voices -- the wind moving through their lungs, not unlike it does through mine. With the Spirit binding us all together.