I recently saw a post including the wonderful blessing by the poet, artist,

 and Methodist minister, Jan Richardson called, “Beloved Is Where We Begin.,” from her beautiful and inspiring book, Circle of Grace.

I shall post it further in this blog piece. But it got me thinking about how often we think we are not the beloved, not loved by God, mostly tolerated as long as we: observe the rules, don’t fuck up too royally, give money to the Survival Center, try to guard our eyes (this is a whole THING in the Catholic Church of old) so we do not lust after handsome men with fit bodies and silver hair, treat our honeys well, do not shout at the dog when she is barking, and on and on and on.

And it is only through many years of church going, praying, hearing God’s messages within, being in nature, that I have come to know that I am, indeed, beloved. What happens when you actually believe that God loves you, thinks you are her baby cakes, and that she walks with you no matter the circumstances of your life?

Your heart unfolds like a flower.

 I felt this last week when in the Rev. Ayvazian’s book group studying and reading together the Rev. Howard Thurman’s remarkable book, “Jesus and the Disinherited.” If you have not read it–as I had not–run out right now, buy it from an Indie Bookstore, and sit down to read it. It will open your horizons. It will show you in a heartfelt way what it is like to be marginalized, to live your life in fear from the oppressor, to have joy sucked out of your childhood because of the racism in this country.

 But–this is the huge but–Thurman still knew he was beloved, a child of God, and this enabled him to actually live with dignity and confidence, unafraid, and loving his enemies, knowing they were–despite all appearances to the contrary–also beloved by God.

Knowing I am beloved helps me to shed my guilt about past failures, past mistakes, times when I failed my kids, friends, and husband; times when a thoughtless remark hurt someone I loved. Happened a lot. But having a deep well of love in my heart gives me the freedom to let this go. Kind of like Confession in the Catholic Church except you don’t have to dress up, wear a bra, put on waterproof mascara, drive somewhere, cry a lot, and let out all your awful secrets. This is between you and God.

Imagine your heart as a chambered room. 

Invite God in, drawing out a chair for her, saying “Sit down, honey.” She does, gratefully, because sometimes God gets tired roaming thither and yon over the earth. You go make tea for God in the neighboring room, putting in lots of honey, ’cause she has a sweet tooth. Maybe you made some keto brownies. Bring those out on a blue flowered plate, ’cause God has a special fondness for blue, flowers, and chocolate. I know this. Then just listen to God and what she tells you. You will have to be silent first, always hard for gabby me. Take deep breaths. Listen. And after a time–like the sound of a whale calling deep down in the ocean–words will form in your mind.

 Not your words, but her words, meant just for you. Trust me. It works.

And here is Jan’s poem from “Circle of Grace,” (Wanton Gospeller Press, 2015, Orlando, Florida):

                         Beloved Is Where We Begin

If you would enter /into the wilderness/ do not begin/ without a blessing.

Do not leave/ without hearing/ who you are:/ Beloved/ named by the One/ who has traveled this path/ before you.

Do not let it go/ without letting it echo/ in your ears,/ and if you find/ it is hard/ to let it into your heart,/ do not despair./ That is what this journey is for.

I cannot promise/ this blessing will free you/ from danger,/ from fear,/ from hunger or thirst,/ from the scorching of sun/ or the fall/ of the night.

But I can tell you/ that on this path/ there will be help.

I can tell you/ that on this way/ there will be rest.

I can tell you/ that you will know/the strange graces/ that come to our aid/ only on a road/ such as this,/ that fly to meet us/ bearing comfort/ and strength,/ that come alongside us/ for no other cause/ than to lean themselves/ toward our ear/ and with their/ curious insistence/ whisper our name:

Beloved.

Beloved.

Beloved.

This post is from Williamsburg author Ann Turner’s faith, cancer and survival blog Faith is My Operating System.