Offering 8 I Autumn
a vision in the hollow + crossing the threshold of a new decade
Tree of Life, Gustav Klimt, 1905
Into the Hollow of God’s Hands
We drove through a tunnel of magnificent trees, their robes of autumnal beauty welcoming us into a passage of time that would mark us forever. The winding gravel road led us up a hill and then down again as we passed fields of deep purple ironweed that were swaying back and forth—as if they were waving to us from beneath the hope of a golden October sky. A palpable presence hung thick in the air as astonishment took each of us by the hand and led us into a sanctuary that was tucked away in the bottomlands of Eastern Kentucky.
We had arrived in Snug Hollow.
But really, we had arrived in the hollow of God’s hands.
The three of us were not prepared for the grace that would be poured into that place over the next couple of days, but we drank of it deeply as each of us were found by God in the hollow.
We worshipped, we wept, and each of us in our own unique ways, were invited to welcome this truth into our hearts:
“Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven”. Matthew 18:3
A Vision from the Porch Swing
As we prepared to leave the hollow, we took time in solitude to write letters to one another, celebrating and blessing the hard and holy work that happened in each of our hearts on the trip—in our stories of breaking and (re)building.
On the last day, we gifted these letters to one another, our words spoken aloud as we closed our time in the hollow with what we called a sister blessing, a benediction of sorts as we prepared to part ways (and states). We aren’t sisters by birth, but we are sisters by (re)birth—soul sisters knit together by the mysterious bond of Christ in us. They are two of the most precious gifts in my life.
As my dear friend Amber spoke her words over me, she gifted me a vision that the Holy Spirit had shared with her while she was writing my letter. She was sitting on a porch swing on the back porch of the farmhouse that we were staying in, a walnut tree standing right beyond the railing, many of its round yellow husks already fallen to the ground below and cracked open.
Tears began to fill up in the hollow of my own heart as she shared this image with me:
Little Lahni, child Lahni, was standing at the base of the giant walnut tree, picking up the broken walnut husks, gathering them in her hands, and holding them up toward the sky—an offering to the Lord.
Words cannot convey the significance of this imagery in my story of healing or the impact that it had on me during what was an excruciating season of facing the reality of some hard and confusing parts of my story. I knew this vision given to my sweet friend was a sacred invitation from the Lord, an invitation to take a journey with this image and unravel it with the companionship of the Holy Spirit.
This poem, written during the week that followed, is the unraveling.
May it bless you, dear reader, wherever you are on the journey.
A New Language Way up high in the walnut tree where the songbirds of her imagination perched, she lived all alone on a branch near the sky, a shadow cast down to the Earth. Up on that branch in the great walnut tree, their deceptive birdsong had trained her to see that the ground down below was hard and too cold, fear was their language, up here was her home. They chattered relentlessly up on that branch, “Nobody to catch you, you don’t have a chance”. They told her that God lived way up in the stars so up she did climb behind their closed bars. She tried to catch glimpses and take hold of the light, but never did learn just how to take flight. She crept down to lower branches in the shadows of darkness, but fear always came on the wings of their voices. “Don’t go any further, God does not live down below”, “An orphan, no family”, their guile aglow. They lived in her head when the silence was deafening, climbing back up meant that she wasn’t crumbling. Then came the day when she slipped from the heights, she didn’t have wings and lost track of the light. She fell hard to the ground and shattered in pieces, God does not live way down here in the wreckage of weakness. Fractured she stood at the base of the tree, looking way up and trying to see. Could she catch glimpses of God way down here? The God of the stars now lost in her tears? When she lived up on high the fruit looked so whole, the tree was producing—they said that was the goal. But down from below the walnuts are broken, cracked open and bare—peculiar tokens. She gathered them closely, these remnants of pain, confused and bewildered by their dark eerie stain. She examined her palms now covered in black, there were so many things she would never get back. Wandering aimlessly for years down below, she searched for the girl that she used to know Who lived up on high with the God of the stars, before she was broken, before she had scars. Until one day she stumbled into a girl who moved about much lighter and nimble than her. The girl told her a story from years gone before and said she had always been waiting for her. When you fell to the ground, the stars fell down too, this is always where God has been waiting for you. The birdsong convinced you your home was up there, but you were formed from the dust—a heavenly prayer. You’ve been searching for the ghost of the girl in the tree who was safe for a while but never set free. The fruit you see fallen has secrets to share, unless you break open, you cannot repair. A seed lives inside of you—it has your whole life. I’ve protected it for you while you’ve wrestled and cried. You could not have found it way up in that tree, it’s been down below and kept safe with me. I am your inner child, the one hidden in God, I’ve grown wings down here while you’ve lived abroad. Let’s go find your birds and silence their song, we’ll learn a new language, one lost for so long. The God of the walnuts once lived in the stars, but he came down below to tend to our scars. So pick up the fruit that fell to the ground and look for the seed, once hidden now found. Safety will come with the passage of time, you’re not a minute too late, your timing is prime. The fall was so quick and healing takes time, your mistrust may haunt you while you learn to fly. So weep when you must as you learn to trust the God of the stars who cried out from the dust.
Crossing a Threshold
It is my 30th birthday today. Some people dread arriving at the doorstep of their 30’s, hesitant to knock on the door, but I have never been more ready to cross the threshold of a new decade. While there have been so many joys along the way and while I have been handed some of the most precious gifts in my life, there have also been many heavy sorrows.
I’m leaping over the threshold today, a different woman in so many ways, carrying beautiful treasures in tow.
There’s a lot I could share in this space as I reflect on the past decade, but I’m feeling the need to pull back and leave you with this simple truth:
God speaks in the language of children—
“Turn and become like little children” isn’t a suggestion. It is a command that came forth from the lips of Jesus in the midst of a crowd of blind and deaf adults.
There is sacred wisdom whispered in places that only our inner child can hear.
We each must turn and become like little children in order to find those places—in order to find a language that has been lost in many of our stories for a long time.
I’ve only just started learning this new language, but it is radically changing my life. I’m crossing the threshold of my thirtieth year more aware of my littleness than ever before, learning to be mothered and fathered by a God who delights in my littleness—and always has.
Returning to the Hollow
In just a few days, a year to the date of our last trip, I, along with those same dear friends and the addition of another, will return to this sacred Hollow.
My hope for this next decade and all of the decades that I may pass through in this life is that I will never again forget the little girl and her great big God who were always waiting at the bottom of the great walnut tree.
I’ll return to the same farmhouse and the same porch swing, but it is I who will be different. And as I gaze beyond the back porch, I’ll see the broken fruit on the ground with new eyes this time and laugh with wonder as little Lahni dances at the bottom of the tree with treasures in her hands—
a new language, indeed.
“Do not forget: anyone who does not realize that he is a child of God is unaware of the deepest truth about himself.” — St. Josemaria
God bless you and keep you, dear reader. May His gaze be upon you and the precious child within you.
May you have the courage to turn your own gaze toward that child within—
and learn from him or her the language of the Kingdom of Heaven.
Thank you for reading Cadence & Canticle—I’m so glad you stopped by! May you leave this space blessed and heartened as you return to the soil and stewardship of your life. I’d love for you to join this community of fellow pilgrim-souls!
For further engagement with this season’s offering, head to the Trysting Place right below!
WELCOME TO THE TRYSTING PLACE—
a contemplative space at the end of each offering for you to quiet your soul and slow down in the presence of your Creator. Settle in with all three sections or choose just one, moving through them at a pace that is right for you. This is designed to be a spacious place for your soul—a sacred rhythm for your life.
CADENCE & CURIOSITY—
an invitation to quietly contemplate and become curious about what is stirring in the depths of your heart.
Re-read the poem that I shared above. What parts do you resonate with in your own story? Spend some time there and explore it with the companionship of the Holy Spirit.
CADENCE & CONVERSATION—
an invitation to reflect on and share what the Lord is revealing to you in this season. Use this as a personal and private extension of reflection or use it to share your heart with other readers in this community of fellow pilgrim-souls. I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
Spend some time exploring Matthew 18:3. What does it mean to turn and become like little children? What comes up for you as you connect with this verse? Spend some time here, really ponder and meditate what it would mean in your own life to turn and become. What does your own inner child have to teach about the secrets of the kingdom of Heaven?
CADENCE & CUE—
The final stop in each offering—a cue to still your soul before the things that are good, true, and beautiful as you ponder how you might carry them with you into your season!
The life and story of St. Therese has met me in my own story in powerful ways. St. Therese is known as The Little Flower and known for her Little Way as a path to living in the love of God. I’ve spent this year slowly reading through her autobiography, Story of a Soul, a recounting of her beautiful (and short) life story. Therese knew what it meant to be little in the kingdom of heaven—and because of that, she saw the world with different eyes, challenging us to do the same.
“Jesus points out to me the only way which leads to Love’s furnace—that way is self-surrender—it is the confidence of the little child who sleeps without fear in its father’s arms.” —St. Therese