Rev. David Horst: My weed pulling, pruning, and snipping haven’t really improved the garden nor made that much of a difference as far as I know. It’s like prayer: The words I speak don’t really change anything, but I know they change me. Read More...

EARTH, clay from which we are made and to which we will return. Soil, rich and aromatic, crumbling in my fingers, dark under my nails. This, cleansing dirt, the natural filter for aquifers, holds life....

Spirit of spring and new life, spirit of decay and death, We turn to your wisdom and strength as we seek to live lives of meaning and love. The cycle of life is powerful. Everything that lives, dies. Everything that dies has lived. There is no escaping this cycle. What then, can we learn from its...

If we lived in another climate Our souls might speak other languages We might speak oasis or permafrost, dry season or monsoon But our souls speak spring Our souls speak green shoots pushing through last year’s leaves Our souls speak flower buds stretching to sun Our souls speak mud puddle and...

New life will appear, but not without strife, not without some losses to the coldness which returns as inevitably as spring. - Rev. Robert Walsh Read More...

The light green shoots of blossoms-to-have-been are out of sight under the drifting snow. Gale force winds are rattling the old house. The temperature is far below freezing. Nature is not cooperating with preparations for Easter. The storm evokes the spiritual quality of Good Friday more than...

As the first hint of green begins to peek through the barren ground As that little sprig grows into a healthy stem As that stem grows into a stalk and forms a bud As that bud slowly opens with each new day To form a yellow daffodil Let us be, like that first hint of green, renewed by the warm of ...

For the sound of bow on string, Of breath over reed, Of touch on keyboard; For slants of sunlight through windows, For shimmering shadows on snow, For the whisper of wind on my face; For the smooth skin of an apple, For the caress of a collar on my neck; For the prickling of my skin when I am dee...

What a gathering—the purple tongues of iris licking out at spikes of lupine, the orange crepe skirts of poppies lifting over buttercup and daisy. Who can be grim in the face of such abundance? There is nothing to compare, no need for beauty to compete. The voluptuous rhododendron and the plain...