BARREN LAND

I am feeling very much like barren land these days.

Desert.

I have spent my entire professional life working in creative fields. Even as a youth I was involved in music and the arts. I began professional gospel music when I was eleven years of age.

Though my current title is Reverend I consider myself an artist.

And I am in a barren period artistically. My creativity feels stifled at best. Flat. Not vital. Which is interesting because I do not feel the same about my spiritual alignment. I am attuned as much as ever.

I am not used to feeling spiritually and artistically dystonic.

I really don’t feel as if my spiritual and creative living are different. They are, however, varied expressions of the One life force. Spirit within me is the Creative Impulse. It is in all of us. We are all creative by creation. And those expressions are unique and they ebb and flow in and from all of us. There are times when I feel more inspired and creative than at other times.

Barren, though, is rare.

As most of you readers know, my husband passed away in November of 2025. His passing was the culmination of nine years of illness for him and caregiving for me. It was progressive, and the last five or so years were very difficult. I am bereft at the loss. I took almost two months bereavement leave from my position as a senior minister. I simply could not function. As most of what I do is creative by nature the hollowness in me stopped me in my tracks. I could not imagine tuning in and tracking with the inspiring movement inside of me. Not in front of a congregation.

When I returned to officiating Sunday services I did so with no small amount of trepidation. With over thirty years in ministry, I do impeccably trust my intuitive impulses. In most circumstances. After losing a spouse was a different context to work from. The lamp from which I usually shine felt shattered.

The grief and the mourning have been intense. The sorrow deep and immense. While it seems difficult for those around me, I have allowed fully for it. I lean right in. I sob when I need to sob. Which is a lot. I have physical and psychological symptoms. I tire easily. I have cognitive space-outs. I irritate more easily than usual.

I frequently and consistently feel barren. Flat. Dry. Arid.

I continue to do my best at presenting effective and even entertaining Sunday sermons. I am writing infrequently. I amp myself up to occasionally record a social media video. And I pray and maintain my connection regardless of what I may be feeling.

I am a life-long creative and not feeling very creative.

Yet here I am.

While I am not sure this will ever be distributed, I am engaging in the art of creativity for the sake of engaging in creativity. I am writing because of my love of writing. I am demonstrating that regardless of pain and sorrow, grief and mourning art can be born from them. Not despite them. From them.

This is my desert rose.

Someone gave Donald and I a desert rose plant when we married sixteen years ago. Donald is now gone yet the desert rose is in full bloom.

Donald isa now gone yet our love is still in full bloom.

I must believe that beauty can still be born from barren land. If the desert can yield blossoms, then so can I.

There are periods when our desert rose has nary a blossom. I have never once heard a critical voice coming from it. It simply knows that it will bloom again when it is time.

The same wisdom is in me. I have not been blooming very much recently. Yet I trust that I will blossom again prolifically when it is time. Maybe I just need some time to be barren now. To not produce too much. To embrace my desert nature. Perhaps the volume of tears is flooding my garden. And perhaps after this venture I will drop the term barren and know that I will soon be fertile once again. My consistent attuning to the Great Creator can only result in my own great creations.

I began this creative experiment with the words “I am feeling very much like barren land these days.”

And now, not so much.

Barrenness has borne creativity. It’s a small step. A gift of love.

And just like that I am creating again.

LOVE RISES AFTER LOSS

I am fifteen years old. My father has been living in a facility due to early-onset dementia. He does not know who I am.

Yet it is his birthday, and so I bake him a cake and take it to him. With his condition, I must feed him the cake.

As he does not know me, he is fixated on each bite of cake. He does not look at me. He looks at the spoon and at the cake.

Only at the spoon and at the next bite of cake. He does not see this fifteen-year-old he doesn’t know. The one who so longs to be seen.

Fast forward fifty years. It is my husband's birthday. Due to Lewy Body dementia, he lives in a facility. I obtain a cake, and I take it to him. As he cannot use his hands or utensils, I feed him the cake. I do not miss out on the memories or the patterns or the pain.

This is different.

He knows me. Even with the advancing dementia, he knows me. He sees me. He relishes each bite of cake and gazes at the one feeding him. He sees me. And I see him loving me.

My dad. My husband. The dementia. The loss. The honor. The connection. The cake. The love. The feeding.

The love. The love. The love.

I remember every detail of not being known and of being profoundly known. Baked into those cakes was a love beyond words. Greater than dementia or memories. Greater than feeding or being fed.

Both of them are gone now, and yet they are both here. They are both great loves of my lifetime. I was blessed to have loved and fed and served them both.

In my own experience, that is my Easter story.

Crucifixion. Resurrection.

Loss. Love.

In my memories and in my heart and in this moment I am risen.