St. Tim of the Shire

 I live in a wee, small house, on a giant lot, flanked by towering trees. The tall trees are Sentry, enduring far more than the winds of this century. They are giants of beauty. Rooted in the fertile, ancient soils of wisdom's ways.

My house is 100 years old. She is small but mighty. Compact and sturdy. Still wearing original parts. Though tiny, she offers a coziness of space. She is more like the Dwelling place of a Hobbit, nestled deep in the green of the Shire. Set far back from the busy city street, she is respite and sanctuary. And as any proper habitat for Hobbits would do, she has come complete with a Wizard next door.

My Wizard's name is Tim. Though he is Saint Tim, to me. He's rather a fine combination of Gandalf the Grey, meets John the Baptist, meets Francis the beloved of Assisi. He is a full spectrum, deep prism Prophet.

St. Tim of the Shire would protest such labels. He does not seek out any fanfare or accolades. He just simply and quietly shovels my driveway. While no one is looking. In sub zero weather. Or cuts my grass in sweltering heat. Without making a peep. 

He recently sold his old pickup. To reduce his carbon footprint. He rides his bike to all necessary destinations. In sub zero landscapes. Without making a sound or complaint over frozen terrains.

In the summer he plants a lush garden. He's in tune with the seeds and the seasons. He tells me his worries for Earth when the rains do not come. He composts and gathers rain waters. He brings forth a bounty and banquet of summertime crops. Well tended and nurtured and lovingly grown. When the Harvest is ready he fashions a table before him. On the sidewalk in front of his house.  "FREE FOOD", the sign reads. "TAKE WHATEVER YOU NEED."

He often shouts to me from his rooftop as he installs the next of his solar panels. We have rooftop liturgies. St Timothy and me.  He testifies to his latest upset over weather patterns, caused by the patterns of the human heart, and that which we we refuse to release. He grows weary of the meaningless mantras of politicians,  who chant for change but never move in its direction.

I have spent most of the years of my life seeking spiritual truth. And I have seen God appear before me, over and over, in remarkable ways.

I have seen God in the Saint of my  Shire. As He cuts my grass and shovels my snow and feeds the hungry with the harvest of his own hands.  The Saint disguised as the atheist next door. It is not so much that he lacks a faith in a higher power. It is more that his heart's been broken open by the lesser angels of the human conditions of choice. And consequence.

I Pray to be more like Him.

Quietly Serving.

Selflessly Giving.

Authentically Offering. 

In tune with The Earth as it is. 

And letting that be all the Heaven that we'll ever need.

Thank you, God, for St. Tim of the Shire.

For the ways He shines forth Holy Fire.

I Pray that He 

May one day See

The view of You

He is to Me.

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