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I’ve been a bit “under the weather” with a bad cold and used the time to re-immerse myself in my novel-in-progress, The Magdalene Mystery.

The characters are coming to life on the page.  I’m sending them to Rome and Provence, in pursuit of a legacy as they try to avoid danger.  In this draft I’m complicating the journey, increasing the stakes, fanning the fires of conflict and romance.  At the same time I’m searching into their past and getting to know them better.  I’m hoping that in this way you will too.

Today is the Second Sunday after Epiphany, and as I croaked my way through the hymns during Mass and tried to focus on the great Eucharistic prayers, I thought how I loved this season in the Church Year.  It is a time of epiphanies, and the Gospel lessons all reflect manifestations of Christ, who he is: last week, the story of the boy Jesus in the Temple; today, the story of Christ’s baptism by John; next week, the story of the Wedding in Cana.  In each account Christ is revealed.

Today, the sermon touched on another aspect of this manifestation, the work of the Holy Spirit in us.  Just as the Holy Spirit descended on Christ at his baptism, he descends upon each of us in our baptisms as well. We are indeed temples of the Holy Spirit from that moment on, a hopeful and strengthening thought, a thought I sometimes forget.

So we are all inspired, in this sense, in-spired, breathed upon by the creative spirit of God.  He is within us, prodding us, guiding us.  We, in our more holy moments, make God manifest by our lives, our loves, our sacrifices.

I came home thinking about this amazing gift, God in us.  Christmas was God with us, Emmanuel.  Epiphany is God in us, God himself baptizing our souls.

And waiting for me at home were the first reviews of my recently released novel, Hana-lani, something to encourage me as I dive back into The Magdalene Mystery, as I pray for epiphanies and manifestations, hoping God will work through me in some little way, will manifest himself in me, through me.  It seems so presumptuous to even think such a thing, and yet that is what Christianity is all about, God coming to us to be one of us, to be with us, to be in us.  Deo Gratias.

Reviews will soon be posted on my site, and now are posted on:

http://readerviews.com/ReviewSunderlandHana-lani.html

http://www.bestsellersworld.com/2011/01/16/hana-lani-by-christine-sunderland/

Epiphany means manifestation, a sudden seeing, a revealing, an understanding of truth.  The three Wise Men from the East followed the star to the Bethlehem stable where they saw and worshiped the Son of God.  They recognized him. Our Lord Jesus was made manifest to the greater world in this moment we celebrate as the Feast of the Epiphany.  God revealed himself on this day, and continues to reveal himself.

He reveals himself to each of us, and I, in gratitude and joy, seek to make manifest what I see.  I want to share the epiphanies granted me, those golden glimpses into real reality.

So I create characters, and in my godlike fashion, breathe upon them life as best I can, praying for help from the great Creator.  Once created, these men and women reside in my brain, waiting to be born onto a page so that others will know them too.

I was blessed to have my fourth novel published last month.  Hana-lani is about a young woman’s epiphany, her seeing into her own life and her seeing those around her.  It is about our culture seeing as well – understanding itself, where it is going.  It is about seeing the signposts along the way, making the right, correct, turns.

So the characters of Hana-lani, like my Trilogy (Pilgrimage, Offerings, Inheritance) have been born, made real upon a white page, and now are seen by readers around the world.  My epiphanies have become my readers’ epiphanies, or so I would hope.  I have had the chance to share my golden glimpses, a great privilege.

And now in the beginning of this year, 2011, I return to writing my fifth novel, The Magdalene Mystery, whose characters are growing and developing, interacting with one another, seeking and being sought, trying to see.  They are anxious to be on the page, to breathe.

I shall move through my days with open eyes and ears, watching and listening, looking for signs that will map my story truthfully.  I shall say my prayers with the great community of believers, the Body of Christ, the Church.  I shall share my epiphanies, hoping they reflect the great Epiphany, the revealing of God in Bethlehem two thousand years ago.

Today, the day after New Year’s Day, I considered the curious tradition of resolutions.  I had not made any New Year’s resolutions this year, 2011.

This morning Saint Peter’s altar was aflame with red poinsettias.  The crèche holding the promised Christ Child nestled in a bed of greenery on the Gospel side to the right of the altar.  The Advent wreath and four candles had been removed Christmas Eve.  We no longer wait for the coming of the Christ, but celebrate his birth during the twelve days of Christmastide.

We celebrate the Word made flesh, the coming of God into our world, becoming one of us.  And with his coming comes his judgment.  As Christians we examine our lives to see what we have left undone, and what we have done that we should not have done.  We look at the Ten Commandments, the Sins and the Virtues.  Have we measured up?  Have we loved enough?  We confess those failings, are forgiven, and, having seen ourselves a little more clearly, we strive to change.  We call this repentance, penitence.

Once a year many folks in our culture take stock as well on New Year’s Eve or Day, a hopeful vestige of this Judeo-Christian heritage of self-examination, of confession before God.  But the Christian does this daily, or at least weekly before the altar, or tries to.  The Christian is continually resolving, repenting, turning away from sin and toward God.

So my resolutions are many and ongoing and not confined to New Year’s, for each morning is new, each evening a time for reflection, resolving.  I know a man who prays without ceasing, and for him his resolving must be minute to minute, living in the presence of God, as God continually remakes him.

This morning I gazed at the faces of the acolytes and clergy moving about the altar.  I know their names, and each person moved with his own characteristic style and grace.  Each face was etched differently, each unique with its own joys and sorrows, its own history of love and unlove.  I looked over the faithful kneeling in the pews and recognized their profiles, the way they held themselves.  I knew them and they knew me.  At least most of them.

In the reading for today, Jesus reads publicly from the Scriptures in the Nazareth synagogue.  In this passage he announces who he is, the long-awaited Messiah, the Savior.  Jesus of Nazareth, about thirty years old at this time, must have gazed at each of them, knowing them, loving them, seeing them.  But they did not know him.

I saw a movie a few months ago, a children’s fantasy, in which the inhabitants of an other-worldly world greeted each other with the phrase, “I see you.”  Those words have settled into my memory, for this is what we all desire.  We want others to see us.  We want to be known.  We want to be loved.

I have learned in my life of sixty-three years that God does this with each of us, through Christ, through prayer, through the Mass.  He sees us.  I looked at the faces around the altar this morning, and I saw them.  They were so very beautiful, each one.

And I added a prayer to my mountain of requests for change, for repentance and forgiveness.  Lord, teach me to see.  Teach me to honor and respect each person, each individual you have made, to overlook no-one.  Lord, open my eyes to your creation.

I had a New Year’s resolution after all.

We gathered around the sliced turkey, cranberries, gravy, sausage stuffing, spinach salad, green peas, brown-sugared yams, mashed potatoes, cornbread and yeast rolls.  We held hands, forming a circle around the kitchen island, we seventeen individuals from five families, forming one this Christmas Day, age nine to eighty.  We said Grace, thanking God for this bounty and for the great gift of his son in Bethlehem.

The rain had lifted slightly as dusk turned to dark, but most of our guests had arrived cold and wet from the storm.  Our cat Lady Jane, a black and white longhair we brought home from a shelter several years ago, waited in the entry as each person arrived, then rolled onto her back so that her tummy would be available to be scratched.  She loves parties.

Being in the warm indoors, surrounded by family and sharing our Christmas meal, the carols playing, my mind returned occasionally to the crèche in St. Peter’s, where now, I knew, the baby Jesus had been placed in his green manger bed, and beyond the altar would be adorned with red poinsettias.  We had waited through Advent for the empty crib to be filled, waited with Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, and the star that rose over the Bethlehem shelter.  We waited with the animals, the other created beings on this good earth.  We all waited for our Creator to come to us.  God with us, Emmanuel.

Soon, around the dining table and sheltered from the rain, we exchanged stories of our lives, and toasted family and Christmas.  We noticed that a granddaughter was looking more and more like a certain ancestor, that a niece had grown up overnight, that a son had put on a few pounds.  We could see a little strain here, perhaps from overwork or over-worry, a little aging there, but renewed hope, for these few hours at least, everywhere.

Christmas, the waiting and the coming, has always carried a certain expectancy, a promise fulfilled.  The gentle Advent disciplines, the tiny twinkly lights strung on rooftops and trees, the harmonies of carolers, the gift-giving, even the frenzied shoppers, all add to this rising crescendo of expectation.  As children we waited for Santa, counting the days with great impatience.  We waited and we wondered if Santa received the list, and if so, what would he bring…?  As adults we continue to wait and wonder, caught up in the swirling activity of the approach of glory.

Some of us attend Christmas Eve services in the dark of night and, in candlelight and hushed quiet we sing carols, praying through the last hours of waiting.  When my son was young and I was a single parent, I sat with him in the first pew of Saint Peter’s before the crèche, hoping he could see the robed priests and the sacred movements about the altar and possibly stay awake, but by 10:30 he usually had slipped down onto the smooth wooden pew, his head in my lap, his five-year-old body stretched out, sound asleep.  As the liturgy ended, I hoisted him over my shoulder and into the car and we drove home through the starry night.  He would usually be awake now, and as one o’clock neared, we wondered if we could see Santa riding his sleigh through the deep blue night above.

Santa of course is a wonderful reflection of God the Father, demanding, loving, giver of great gifts.  In reality he was Saint Nicolas, fourth-century bishop, who not only gave gifts but took part in the Council of Nicaea, which helped to refine the Nicene Creed, the definitive statement of Christian belief. Santa Claus became a derivative of Sant’ Niklaus over the years, and his legend, while seized by retailers and pop singers, reflects in many ways the true meaning of Christmas.

For Christmas is indeed about giving, about giving to one another in love and sacrifice.  It is about God giving us his son, and about our response to that great gift.  Do we give ourselves back?  Christmas is Christ-Mass, the gift given to us in every Eucharist, every Mass, every Sunday.

As we gathered around the table for our Christmas feast, I thought of my Advent memory work, the first fourteen verses of John’s Gospel, In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  Yes, I did indeed sort of memorize it, and the phrasing will stay with me forever, a delightful gift.  It is one of the Gospels appointed for Christmas Day and, as we toasted family and Christmas, the last phrase rang in my ears, And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, that of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

Yes, I thought, as I looked at the faces around my table, full of grace and truth, full of giving, full of Christmas.

The rain descended in torrents as we drove to church this dark morning, the Sunday before Christmas, a wonderful Sunday for it was the day of the annual Christmas Pageant.  Saint Peter’s welcomed us like an ark in stormy seas, and we headed toward the front door held open by Father Hauge, standing like a white-robed angel, greeting us.  We collapsed our umbrellas, grateful for the dry refuge of the narthex.

I headed to the Sunday School, following the sounds of the children’s high excited voices as they fitted into their costumes, and joined the joyful confusion of pins and ties and wings and head veils, adjusting here, shortening there.  Soon, soon, these young actors would process up the red carpet and take their places in the chancel.  Soon, they would tell the story of the birth of Jesus, the Son of God.

And they did.  Each child, solemnly in turn, stepped up the long aisle, small figures in a large high-pitched nave, moving steadily with folded hands (pointing toward heaven, our director explained), toward the steps leading to the chancel and the purple-tented tabernacle.  There, before the altar, the children told the story of Mary and Joseph, the journey to Bethlehem, the birth of the Savior of mankind.  One of the young adults sang solo, her haunting soprano dancing into the sacred space, coloring it.  The choir sang from the loft at the western end of the nave, beneath the fiery glass of the Pentecost window, festooning the organ’s rich notes with their voices, weaving a tapestry of story and song.

We told the story Jesus’ birth.  We told of Adam’s disobedience, of Isaiah’s prophecies, of Archangel Gabriel’s announcement to Mary, the maid of Nazareth.  We told how Mary said yes, let it be unto me according to thy word, of her journey with Joseph to Bethlehem.  We told about the stable, and the shepherds keeping watch and the heavenly host appearing in the night sky, and how they came to Bethlehem to see this great thing which had come to pass.  We told the story, a miraculous, stupendous story that still, after two thousand years, is sung throughout the world, in every continent, nation, town.  It is a story that is danced and prayed and celebrated.  We tell the story in hushed voices at bedtime to our children with pictures in large books with shiny pages.  The story is told in a jumble of ringing steeple bells, in concert halls with trumpets and choirs and orchestras.  We tell the story as we gather around a twinkling tree and give one another gifts, parts of ourselves, recalling God’s gift to us, his own Son, born in a manger.

We are a people who journey through the rainy world in our warm and dry ark of the Church.  We gather and tell our story of God’s great love.  Soon, soon, we will tell the second half of that story, why he came in such great humility, why Jesus came among us, his great sacrifice.  We will leave this warm place in front of the burning hearth and the starry tree to learn love’s truth, true love, as we journey through Lent to Easter.

Today at St. Peter’s we moved easily from the glory of Bethlehem into the liturgy of the Eucharist, and, as the Body of Christ, we prayed this great prayer of the Church.  We offered the story to God, and ourselves in that story, and he offered himself back to us. We left a richer, fuller, more glorious people, ready to return to the rainy world.

But before heading outside, we gathered together in the parish hall for champagne and cider, sandwiches and an amazing cupcake cake, thankful for this time of celebration, this time of glorious telling, this time of Christmas.

Today is Gaudete Sunday.  Today, at home and at church, we light the rose candle in addition to our two purple candles as we wait for Christmas, and the coming of Christ into our world.  Gaudete comes from the Latin “rejoice” and it is taken from the Introit for this Sunday, Gaudete in Domino semper, in turn taken from Philippians 4:4-5, “Rejoice in the Lord always.”  It is a Sunday carrying a lighter tone in this season of quiet penitence and preparation.  Of the four themes of Advent – Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell – today we consider Heaven.

And for those of us who were present at the ordination yesterday, we were still floating in Heaven.

Yesterday we gathered to witness one of our members take his vows before our Archbishop Provence to become a deacon.  It was a day of great rejoicing, for Peter has been serving the parish faithfully for many years, and his sacrificial sanctity has grown visible in time.  These occasions are also ones of heartwarming unity, as clergy and out-of-town guests join us in the warm red nave and chancel before the tabernacle.  In some ways it is like a great re-union of fellow faithful from other parts of the diocese and I was thankful to see them once again.

We sang the bracing and embracing hymn, St. Patrick’s Breastplate, “I bind unto myself this day the strong name of the Trinity…” as the clergy, acolytes and our ordinand, robed in white, processed up the wide red carpet, parting the sea of pews, and took places in the chancel to the left and right of the altar.  Attributed to fifth-century St. Patrick, this song to the Trinity was a true warrior’s battle hymn, binding us to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit and to one another as Christ’s Body.

As Anglo-Catholics, we act out our belief through liturgical drama.  As we moved through the service, the acolytes and deacons and priests assisting the archbishop in the sanctuary, we arrived at the moment for the singing of the Litany, a time of deep commitment.  Peter prostrated himself before the altar, his arms outstretched, his body forming its own cross on the red sanctuary carpet.  He lay before his Lord as the litanist chanted and we responded, “Lord have mercy…”  We prayed for Peter, who would soon receive the apostolic laying on of hands, and we prayed for ourselves, all connected to Peter in this moment of time, in this ark, the Church.

Soon a chair was placed at the head of the central aisle and Archbishop Provence took his seat, wearing his miter and holding his shepherd’s staff.  Peter would soon be one of his flock in a special way, for deacons belong to their bishops historically and so it is today.

Peter knelt before the archbishop and answered with a clear voice.  The archbishop instructed him in his duties as deacon: to assist in the Divine Liturgy, to distribute the Eucharist, to read Holy Scripture and homilies, to instruct the youth, to baptize in the absence of the priest, to preach with the bishop’s permission, to care for the sick, poor, and helpless of the community.  The archbishop then laid his hands on Peter’s head and gave him authority to do these things, through the power of the Holy Spirit.

Our new Deacon Towle donned his deacon’s red sash, worn angled from left shoulder to right side, then took his place in the chancel.  The liturgy of the Mass continued, our greatest prayer of thanksgiving, in which we offer ourselves to God and God offers himself to us, and we received this eucharistic incarnation given to us by Christ.

As the clergy recessed, the torches burning, the crucifix raised high, Archbishop Provence made the Sign of the Cross over our heads in blessing.  We sang “The Church’s one foundation /Is Jesus Christ her Lord; she is the new creation by water and the word: from heaven he came and sought her to be his holy bride; With his own blood he bought her, And for her life he died.”  Fighting words, I thought, words of strength to conclude the service which bound this soldier, this new Deacon Towle, to the Trinity, gave him the power to teach and to serve the Body of Christ the Church.

We gathered in the parish hall downstairs to share a meal, to congratulate our new deacon, and to give thanks for God’s many blessings to us, especially the gift of Deacon Peter Brown Towle.

Today was a true Gaudete Sunday, for we continued to rejoice in yesterday’s celebration, this moment of Heaven, as we witnessed the Sacrament of Holy Orders, a kind of incarnation in the Body of Christ.  And we continue to ponder Christ’s coming at Christmas, the historic incarnation of God among us.

The fog had drenched the garden, leaving puddles on the patio, cocooning the house.  We bundled into the car to go to church this morning, watching the skies part to reveal patches of blue.

It has been a week of excitement and of waiting and of prophecies, apocalypse, and Christ’s early ministry in Mark’s Gospel, reading the lessons of Morning and Evening Prayer.

The excitement in our house has been the release of my fourth novel, Hana-lani, a story which, as OakTara’s press release says, is compelling literary fiction, “A poignant journey that unravels T.S. Eliot’s permanent questions, what is goodness, truth and love?”  This short novel set in Hana, Maui, about the definition of love, was a joy to write, and to see it in print, holding it in my palm, was nearly like seeing a child born, certainly a child born of my heart.  On December 3 it appeared online on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and will be available in other venues soon.

Surrounding this birthing-joy is the waiting of Advent, this time of prayer and penitence, this time of reflection as the great festival of the Incarnation nears.  I have found that reading the Morning and Evening Offices in our Book of Common Prayer, while difficult at first (there is always something else to do), has renewed me as though I have gone on a restful retreat.  Setting the time aside (a mere 15-20 minutes) to move in the worlds of Isaiah’s fierce warnings and John’s apocalyptic answers has pulled me, in some way, outside of time, for this short time.  It is as though I have paused in my temporal life journey to inhabit another world, a world softly enshrouding and nourishing me.  I emerge from the cocoon of words and prayers, to see the blue sky.

It is like the Collect for Advent: give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness and put upon us the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life…, a prayer I am trying to memorize.

And it is like the first chapter of John’s Gospel, which I am attempting as well, after my meager success last Lent: In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  The same was in the beginning with God.  All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made.  In him was life; and the life was the light of men.  And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.

Darkness and light.  Advent is a dim time of partial darkness, the fog swirling about us, obscuring our vision, but we grope, we pray, we see Christ face-to-face in the Mass.  St. Peter’s today was like an ark, carrying us through this fog and dark, safe on the seas of this strange temporal world we live in.  The nave was warm with its oak pews and red carpet, the sanctuary welcoming with its purple altar hangings, the Advent wreath with two of the four candles burning brightly to the left, the Gospel side.  We sing together in this great ship of the Church, as the Body of Christ, O come o come Emmanuel… ransom captive Israel.  And as we journey through these few weeks before Christmas, we re-enact the great story of mankind, man’s own captivity, his own need for saving.  His own need for light, life, love.  We journey together, bound together by the love of God in his Church.

After Mass I watched the children rehearse the Christmas Pageant, their clear voices ringing through the nave, their small hands holding black binders with great intent.  The organ played and I knew this quiet gathering was only a rehearsal for the glory to come.

That first chapter of John’s Gospel, I had forgotten, is the assigned Gospel for Christmas Day.  An appropriate passage for Advent, I thought, as the fog cleared and a blue patch of sky showed me a bit of the heavens, as the light shone in the darkness…

Deo Gratias.

Our Thanksgiving was quiet but thankful, thankful for another year, another month, another day, another meal together celebrating the life given to us on this good earth, the passage of mortal time as we move toward eternity.

We were thankful to be home again too, safely, after airport scanners and pat-downs, which, while disconcerting, I do not mind.  I believe major threats to our freedoms warrant these minor infringements to our freedoms.  For the most part, I prefer less government intrusion simply because it is not efficient and often unworkable, but this is an exception, falling into the realm of public safety, national defense, and educating the electorate through excellent schools.

So this morning we left for church on this First Sunday in Advent with full hearts, driving through crisp cold under blue skies here in the San Francisco Bay Area.  After checking on the Nursery and the Sunday School, I entered Saint Peter’s nave and stepped quietly up the red-carpeted aisle to our pew, falling on my knees in thanksgiving for the simple freedom to worship God.

The altar and tabernacle were vested in deep purple satin, and the richness caught the light from the windows in the pitched roof above, the light that shone on the large medieval crucifix on the brick apsidal wall.  The sanctuary, in the light like that, glowed with royalty, and I smiled as the Gospel was read, the account of Christ entering Jerusalem on a donkey, entering as a King, the people praising him, waving their palms in laud and honor.  Purple is both penitential and kingly, I thought, two aspects not always paired.

Our preacher mentioned that this scene, the riding into Jerusalem, was the only one in which Christ allows himself kingly accolades.  He went on to answer the question we all ask on this Sunday: What does this Easter passage have to do with Christmas?  Why do we read a Palm Sunday scripture for our Gospel on this first Sunday of the Church Year, this First Sunday in Advent as we prepare for Christmas?  Indeed, it is his kingship, our preacher explained, that we are to recall as we greet him as a newborn in Bethlehem.  During Advent, we consider who he is, how he comes to us, this King of Glory, riding in humility.

Advent is a time of penitential preparation in our Church Year.  We prepare for the great festival of Christmas, the Incarnation, the coming in flesh of the Son of God.  Such humility to become a helpless baby, a humility we are called to as well.  It is a time to reflect on the meaning of this incredibly credible event, this intersection of time with the eternal, this love song sung and sent to us from God.

We call him the Savior, for before Christ, we had many rules and warnings and prophecies but could not see God’s face, could not speak his name.  After Christ, we see his face, we speak his name, we know him, and are intimately known by him.   The great chasm has been breached, that caused by Adam and Eve’s disobedience so long ago in the Garden.  No longer are we in the dark, but now walk in the light.  We are saved.  Our wrong turns, our sins, are forgiven and we can look upon the face of God.

During the penitential seasons of Advent and Lent I try and take on a memory verse, adding words to my mind and heart that will lighten my darkness and prepare me for the days to come.  This Advent I shall work again on the Collect, the special opening prayer that collects together the faithful, for this Sunday:

Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life, in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal…

And I shall try to read the Morning and Evening Offices, including the Psalms and Lessons. A half-hour each day to prepare for the Incarnation seems only fitting, following the admonitions of Isaiah and the coming of Christ in Mark’s Gospel.  I shall examine my conscience against God’s law, asking continually, is his will being done?  I shall consider the four great themes of Advent: death, judgment, heaven, hell.  Our preacher explained that we have no choice about death and judgment, but we do have a choice about heaven and hell.  I am glad I have such a choice, a choice given to me by a loving God who never turns away from us.  But have I chosen to turn away from him?

We returned home and I wedged my three purple candles and one rose candle into my Advent wreath holder, snipped some greens from my garden to weave around the plate, and lit the first candle, a purple one, to begin our season of Advent.

I shall prepare for Christmas, for the Incarnation, the coming of God as a babe in Bethlehem, for his coming at the end of time in judgment.  In this way my heart shall be ready to receive him too.

Soon it will be a national day of Thanksgiving, but for Christians every day is such a day.

It’s lovely to say Morning Prayer watching the waves of the Pacific Ocean wash against the rocky shores of this coast.  And I always include the Te Deum, that powerful prayer of praise and thanksgiving attributed to fourth-century Saint Ambrose when he baptized Saint Augustine of Hippo in the Milan cathedral.

It’s been a productive week, in spite of the tendency to gaze out to sea and be mesmerized by the undulating waters off the coast of Maui.  My husband and I are in our gentle years, as they say, and our activities are somewhat circumscribed by age, fatigue, and illness, but we’ve taken slow walks along the coast in our thick-soled trainers and felt the heat of the sun burning through our shirts and hats.  It’s been warm here, surprisingly warm for November in this region of Hawaii, and there has been little rain.  We look for shady places and read and write and ponder this brief passage of time in our lives.

My fourth novel, Hana-lani, is in its final editing stages with my publisher, OakTara, and I have hopes to see a copy by Christmas, and further hopes to have the book available to the public in January.  Hana-lani is set on Maui, in the village of Hana.  It is a love story and deals with themes of American culture, particularly the definition of love, the role of tradition, the importance of family in society.

Also in very early progress is my fifth novel, The Magdalene Mystery, set in Rome and Provence.  Just finished the first draft, and now for the fleshing out, the deleting, the next fifteen-plus drafts reworking these sixty-four thousand words.  It is a carving process in many ways, a whittling down but also a building up.  And, as in my trilogy of Western Europe, there are Chapter Notes and facts to be hunted down and verified.  Sometimes I think writing a novel is like a great puzzle, and since I love words, it is also a great deal of plain old fun, figuring out where to put them.  I also love ideas, and the perplexing nature of faith, and novel writing gives me the chance to swim in these seas as well, these pools of theology and history and art, considering the nature and purpose of man.  In short, the meaning of life.  No small task I suppose, but nevertheless riveting.

So we walk and we read and we write, watching a few puffy clouds move over the vast expanse of ocean, hearing the distant roar of the waves as they crash on the beach and onto the black rocks of porous lava, spewing foam into the moist air.

And I say my prayers of petition, intercession, confession, thanksgiving, and praise, listening to the sound of the surf.

God is full of surprises.

He’s surprised us by the weather the last few days, for there has been little rain and a good deal of sun.  We settled in to a room overlooking Hanalei Bay, the home of Puff the Magic Dragon (remember Peter, Paul, and Mary?) and before that, Lumahai Beach, the setting for the filming of South Pacific.

I am always stunned as well by Kauai itself, for it is the most dramatic of islands, and the Princeville-Hanalei area one of the most dramatic of Kauai.  With the heavy rainfall, the terrain is a lush rain forest, and the coasts are rugged with high cliffs that plunge into the sea.  Hanalei Bay on the north shore is a quiet finger of a bay that slides into a white sand beach, bordered by mountains and cliffs ringing to the east and west.  We are in a hotel that has been built into the eastern side of the bay, and we look out to what I believe are pali, the vertical ridge-like canyons that rise into the mountains.  In good weather, the green crags with their peaks and bluffs stand silhouetted against the blue dome of a sky, the sea below spread out to the horizon.  The sun sets this time of year behind these cliffs, and turns the white puffy clouds orange and crimson.

We drove into Hanalei one day and to the end of its narrow road where a State Park welcomes visitors.  Along the way is the Post Office and general store, and a historic church, green shingled, with stained glass and belfry, pitched roof and red doors called Wai’oli Hui’ia Church, once Congregational (founded 1834) and today United Church of Christ.  A plain interior, but solid, and remains I am sure a witness in the neighborhood.  I picked up a bulletin from last Sunday and saw some familiar pieces of the service – the Gloria, the Lord’s Prayer, the Doxology in Hawaiian (wish I could have heard that!), Psalm 139, the wonderful hymn, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty.”  They once ran a mission school for the neighborhood although I’m not sure they need to now with the public school in operation.

The road to Hanalei is lovely, with green and lush foliage, and single-lane bridges that discourage too much traffic and encourage a sharp eye.  Flooding often closes the road, but it has not rained much lately so it wasn’t a problem, but then again we have not seen the myriad waterfalls we recalled from earlier times when it poured and the water streamed down the cliffs, white ribbons falling through the lush green, plunging to the sea.

There was a time when Hanalei was a hippie center, and the drug culture rampant, the bearded folks picking up their checks at the post office.  The area has moved on it seems, and folks have upgraded their properties and become staunchly middle class, possibly proletariat.  We learned lessons from those years – the immense risks, often deadly, of “free love” which meant of course “free sex,” and of addiction itself in all its forms, the deadening of the mind, soul, and body, an early death for many.  Some folks experimented and moved on and others stayed, lured by the good vibes of the slow colorful drug infused life, a life full of self and no responsibilities to others.  Friends of mine were participants and victims in that culture of death which was so camouflaged at the time to seem so full of life.  Those that survived, now in their sixties, continue to drift, unable to connect the dots of daily living, of planning, of setting goals, of becoming a creative human being.  Some sort of synapse in the brain simply burned out.  They have lost their families and in some cases their minds.  They have grown obese and continue the minor addictions of alcohol and tobacco.  One friend is severely diabetic and schizophrenic.

I dropped off a set of my Trilogy at the local library and spent many hours this week reworking my first draft of The Magdalene Mystery, my novel-in-progress.  I also heard from my publisher that my fourth novel, Hana-lani, set in Maui, will be available by the new year, a sudden surprise.

I say my prayers each day, read and write, and wonder how God will surprise me next.