Don’t Waste The Waiting

So, we are commanded to shelter in place. Hmm…how fitting.  I am writing a 21 day devotional entitled: Don’t Waste The Waiting. Join me in this journey as we discover the hindrances to silence, the wrenching of waiting, the joy of patience.

See you in the Cyber.1

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The Wound Is The Place

“The wound is the place where the light enters you” –Rumi

(A Lenten Meditation)


Open to the lashing


receive the light.

Be pierced

Be scarred

Be struck

Be mocked

Be beard-plucked

Be thorn-crowned

Be acquainted then,

With the great longing sorrow

that is life in a separated world.

Be, that you may know the Light

the Light that comes to the wound-ness

The hatred-filled gaping

The envious otherness of twisted humanness-

Be, that you may shine brightly in the darkness.

Be, that you would fill with overflowing healing presence-

From your own wells dug deep in valleys of bitter weeping.

Be the salt.

Be the light.

Be the wounded healing light that wraps and wraps and covers nakedness.

Be the soft sound of cool hand to fevered brow.

Be the reason in the madness.

Be light of new world.

Be Kingdom.

Be Freedom.

Be Home, beacon porch light for the wandering masses.

Be in the Image

Be in the Likeness

Be in the presence of Light

The One Pierced for our birthing.


(c)Christina Dammerman 2019








“That” Call

A shout out to everyone who has had to make, “that” call.  You know the one…

“Her brain isn’t registering activity”

“Her kidneys are shut down”

“Time to remove the tube, cord, monitor….plug”

“Doc, she isn’t getting any better, can you come to us and help her cross over the rainbow bridge, she won’t make it up those stairs…”

Yeah, those calls.  I made those difficult calls when my mother and father’s lives were laid trustingly into my hands at the end of their days. I did what they had wished, what they had asked, what was best…but, you never stop wondering if you had done enough….

Her I am again, only it is a first for me.   Katie Girl, our  beautiful Chesapeake Bay Retriever is in agony, fighting to breathe, fighting to smile, and sit, and eat… Most of our four footed furries met their end tragically at the hands of someone else, or something else…I’ve never had to look into loving, loyal, tired eyes and make a decision to end a life.

She saved my husband from a fiery death, I couldn’t save her from disease.

Death comes at 4pm. It is 2:30pm and here we all are, walking the floors in a waiting room of sorts, waiting to love a life over instead of inviting one in.

There has to be a place for a love like this. There has to be “something ever after” for this kind of loyalty and devotion.

So, to my loved furries who left too soon:  Jojo, Beelerbug, Shasta,Babe, Ice, Maggie, Keano,Challis,  I send you our Beloved Katie. Share a bone, and a romp in the fields of grace.

Here is to that last car ride, may the wind forever be in your face.

In loving memory













I can feel you.

Let Me LIVE!

I hear the sound of your voice,

walking on my insides

around the words I see your face-

Paint me into place!

I can feel you press against my conscious.

The enormity of you, and I am afraid.

Can I give you the life you are begging for?

Will my weak attempts at breath leave you asthmatic?

Congested? Fatigued?

Will I see the sadness in your countenance

as you gaze into the pools

dismayed at your reflection?

I am only made in the image and likeness.

I am no god

I am no creator

You place a single grain of sand into my hand




Morning Has Broken

I awoke to an old Cat Stevens song released in 1971. I was one year old. I too was new to the world, to the light, to the beauty of first things, and the power of resurrection.

 As I grew dawn would fascinate me. I would often rise to my bedroom window and gaze to the east watching the deep darkness give way time and time again to the ancient decree:  “Let there be light!” This declaration would hold me anchored to hope, when my own darkness would refuse to yield.  How kind of God to set before us a promise and a hope before we ever took our first breath.

As the sun continues to rise, darkness will continue to yield-the pain is not forever, the whispers are not forever, death  is not forever. We don’t have to be afraid of the shades and the shadows that cling to the walls of our imaginations. There is light promised.

I wonder if that great conversation between God and Ezekiel happened while darkness still clung to the earth in the predawn primordial dark….”Can these bones live?”

Did he survey the vision and speak his response as the golden elixir of life burst upon the horizon touching the bleached bones of the plain. “You alone know…”

I feel myself standing there in that space. I feel that question asked of me in the early hours of morning.  I hear the rattling of the things that long for life to be spoken to them, waiting for me to prophecy the truth. Spirit stands with me in the darkness of my unknowing and asks. “Can you live?” I whisper back to him….”You alone know”

What are your bones? Marriage? Finance? Children? Health?

Morning has broken….speak to the bones.


Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rain’s new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass

Mine is the sunlight
Mine is the morning
Born of the one light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise ev’ry morning
God’s recreation of the new day

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Speak To The Waves

There are words, ancient-wise.

Words that speak of seasons, and times for all that is under the sun.

Words that give us breath-pause, eyesight in the darkness of pain.

Words that can create in us space for the life we have been given.

Words that can take back the lie that we are only randomness and replace it with truth-

We are purpose.

We are rhythm as old as the first spin of the blue planet.

Do you hear them?

Are you quiet enough to understand the sound of your heart that manifests wet upon your cheeks. The blood of your eyes, for the rending of your heart. Do you know the season of deep listening?

Our lives belong to seasons: Birth, death, planting, reaping, killing, healing, destruction and building.

Seasons of weeping and laughter, wailing and cheering.

Seasons where we are lovers, and seasons of abstinence.

Times when we embrace, and time when we let go.

There are moments when we must rip apart and times when we must carefully mend the threads of our lives. 

There are seasons of voice, and seasons of silence, seasons of war and seasons of peace. 

Do you hear the resonance of The Why?

The vocation of our lives is to live! Fully aware and present, dressed according to the places of our sojourn.  Dancing shoes, widow’s veil, poor mans cape, rich mans cloak.  We carry within us the grace of transition. We hold eternity in our hearts.

Move then fellow sojourner. Allow your body to feel the churning, turning, aching depth of your soul. For there remains a promise in the crashing darkness -A Spirit filled hovering, that awaits to create from the chaos a beautiful meaningful life.

Speak to the waves.


A Sojourner Of Grief

I will place this here.

Like, seed for the weary feathered ones travelling home.

Like, water in a dish for the long walk around.

Like a moment of beauty captured in the break between storms.

A word for those making their own tear soup, from a companion gone ahead of us, who has made his.

John O’Donohue’s poem on grief

By: John O’Donohue

Posted: June 13, 2016

When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you becomes fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;
Again inside the fullness of life,
Until the moment breaks
And you are thrown back
Onto the black tide of loss.
Days when you have your heart back,
You are able to function well
Until in the middle of work or encounter,
Suddenly with no warning,
You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance
With the invisible form of your departed;
And when the work of grief is done,
The wound of loss will heal
And you will have learned
To wean your eyes
From that gap in the air
And be able to enter the hearth
In your soul where your loved one
Has awaited your return
All the time.

John O’Donohue


Father: Unknown

If you had been there,

In the shadowland of childbirth

between life and death,

Holding her hand through the blood and the tears

As she brought forth your seed-

Would you have stayed?

If you had gazed a little longer

Into the innocent slate of my soul

When you finally did come ‘round

To count fingers and toes-

Would it have moved you?

Would you have given me your name?

If I had wrapped my fingers around your thumb

And smiled…

Your smile, slightly crooked, and crooning

Would you have taught me your songs?

Would you have made room for me on your knee?

With the others?

I found you too late.

Too late to ask you face to face.

To gaze into your eyes to see my own,

To hear your voice

To understand my place in your life.

Would you have told me the truth?

If I had found you,

Just a little sooner-

Would I know the smell of your cologne-?

The weight of your walk,

The sound of your voice?

Was your favorite color green?

Did you dream of Ireland?

Did you dream?

I think you would have liked me

Loved me even.

If only we’d been given the chance to try.

If only.

Father Unknown is what it says on my Birth Certificate,

Next to two tiny inked foot prints

And the name of the man who wielded forceps

ripping me from the womb.

She was too proud to be unwanted,

She thought she could be enough

For the both of us.

She tried.

But the siren song of belonging

Pulled me to the cliffs

Desperate for the sight of you.

Always on the horizon of my questions,

My penny fountain wish-

If only I could reach you.

You were lost to me.

Lost until spit in a jar and  DNA code

Became the lighthouse.

When I least expected it,

When life was barely breathable and all was lost

When the foundation was smoldering

And the roots exposed,

She found me.

This sister of blood and pain

Led me to the cliff walls

Tracing for me the hieroglyphics of your presence,

Teaching me you.

In her smile, in his voice, in their laughter.

The family you left behind is my inheritance-

Maybe it is better this way.

You left me the best of you.

A treasury of discovery

As I look for you, in them,

You, in me,

As I look, I find I am a little less lost

A little less undone.

As I look at them,

I am finding you.

©Christina Dammerman 2017



The Slipping of the Ring

I watched a covenant rip. I heard the slow tearing of the promise of two hearts and I felt the desperate reaching of my fingers to mend the frayed edges of two lives- fall short against the ragged edge.

We were all bleeding in the end.

All that remains now is the violence that comes from ownership.  “Mine, mine….this IS MINE.”  Like seagulls tearing apart a washed up meal upon the shore…all that is left is bones.

I do, became I -don’t -know, became I can’t, became I wont, became…goodbye.

She ran to her faith, he ran to himself and the work of his hands.

They both ran. I watched the dust ascend as the taillights signaled their separate ways.

I longed to call them to the table one more time, to set before them the feast that forgiveness brings, the joy in the cup of reconciliation, to sing to them the hymn of unity, but their eyes had already gone dim, and their ears could no longer hear.  ” NO ” had taken hold of their heart as “Yes “left with the slipping of the ring.


Those Moments

Those moments when you can feel the spirit like the breath of a lion pushing you to the edge of real and tangible, panting and gasping for the supernatural more real than breath.

Those moments when you know what you know by the Divine in you, the essence of truth, the light that hasn’t faded, the rich vastness of eternity telling you what you see with your naked eye….is not all there is to know.

Those moments when prayer ascends like a baby descends. Gripping writhing agony of purpose and destiny. On behalf of another. For another. For life. For hope. For the promise that awaits in the holding.

Those moments when you find your voice is not alone. You are surrounded by a chorus of keening tears lifting  you by the strength of individual sorrow shared in community. Those moments.

Those moments when your faith is something more than a declaration of creeds, it is a life moving in tandem with eternity.  It is real, in those moments when you feel prayer leave your lips and kiss the face God.