Hearth Psalms

About a month or so ago, this blog was created. I recognize that I underutilize this space, but its existence does give me a sense of having a central place for some of my writings.  While I was trying to think of a name for this space, the word hearth, as in center, came to mind, as did the word psalms.  I love the image of singing at the hearth while tending to the fire.    

 

Recently I was perusing the Celtic Daily Prayer , and I came across this curious entry (p. 380).  This story of the psalmist singing while sitting on a narrow ledge "speaks to my condition," as a lovely Quaker friend of mine might say.   I do find writing as a way of keeping my balance.  I think I journey further than just outside the mouth of my cave, but that may be an illusion.  Perhaps none of us travel nearly as far as we believe.   

 

My prayer today is that the calm voice of a messenger bring us comfort and inspiration as we both tend to the hearth and journey just a bit further along the ledge.    

         

 

A story about David, one of the authors of the Psalms.  The angel Messenger takes Christian to meet David where he is squatting as a fugitive on a narrow ledge in the mountains. 

'Wait here,' ordered Messenger.   

Christian paused and looked down. They were on a narrow ledge high on a mountainside. 

'Who goes there?' came a frightened cry. 

'A friend,' replied the calm voice of Messenger. 

'How did you find me? Do others know of this place?'

Your secret is ours alone, and it will remain so.'

'What do you want of me?' came a slightly more confident voice. 

'A moment ago, as we approached, were you singing?' enquired Messenger of the man squatting in front of a small care on the the side of the mountain ledge. 

'Yes, I often do. There is little else I can do.  Things I feel here, deep inside me - I often write them down.'

'That goatskin bag beside you - are your writings in there? I would like to show them to my young friend.'

Christian balanced himself carefully as he squatted precariously before the open bag of scrolls. One by one he opened them and read. 

'It's the entire book of Psalms!' he declared, as he watched Messenger for some hint of explanation.  

'No - not all of them. Perhaps one third.' 

'Why have you shown them to me?' 

' No great reason,' came the reply, as Messenger lifted the sack and turned away. 'Although,' he added almost as an afterthought, 'I thought you might be interested in seeing the music room in which they were penned.