I want to oh-so-gently remind
that God is not a vending machine,
his deeds to be purchased by currency inserted
buttons carefully chosen, firmly pressed,
or rote words spoken and voice activated
to gain a desired outcome.
Nor is he an object grasped in two hands,
controlled by expectations, directed by the
the limited viewpoints of a finite human mind,
thinking we know best, when we cannot possibly
consider all the options, predict a certain outcome.
And sometimes the best answer is to wait
while we long for swift and cozy resolutions.
But his plans are always kind (even if in the middle
you cannot always see). He’s wise beyond conception.
And the Maker of the sea, the sky, the stars at night,
the fern and daffodil—knows what he is doing.
Yet we forget, like the ones who witnessed
the parting of the sea and manna from the skies,
since we are human too.
You’ve seen his mighty works before
and you’ll see them once again.
So, if today is dark, feed your thoughts with all the ways
he’s walked you in the light.
Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash
I rushed my brother in, since there were mere minutes
before the convent closed.
and although I’d been there a number of times before,
I’d never felt this hush, this calm, as only a few were there
in this frequently visited place.
We glanced at photos of how this city,
with multitudes impoverished, used to be much worse.
and of a legacy of humble, hard working women
feeding, clothing, caring for the dying, one person at a time
has affected change.
We reflected on how, in this city where I lived,
while less than one percent were Christian,
that ‘Christian’ was a word synonymous with love
(as scripture says it should be, but too often it is not)
because of women like these.
And how their leader would say things like
‘this person there before you, dirty, dying,
covered with open sores—
treat them like they’re Christ.’
Embodying his words ‘do this as unto me.’
and how, although our theology in other ways differed,
we most heartedly agreed.
And that when this lady passed,
the line outside the church
was a mile long at least.
As we stood beside her tomb quietly reflecting, her sisters,
gathered for prayer in the chapel above,
without notice began to sing,
an angelic, ethereal sound f-l-o-a-t-i-n-g.
Image found on Wikipedia, photographer unknown
i hope you experience peace
when the sun ascends soft,
or sets with dazzling hues
at the end of pleasant days
and that you pause often to notice
miracles like these.
but i hope you access it, too
when bridges fail and roads are closed,
when footing’s unsure and circumstances
escalate
that somehow
you find calm
in the center
of the storm.
this, my friend, is concrete proof
you’ve learned a thing or two
about accepting the uncertain
in the things you can’t predict,
let alone control.
because peace when it’s peaceful
—is easy
but finding the calm
in the middle of the mess
is the hard-fought, down in the bones
deep in the soul, radical form of trust
that remarkably
endures.
heather pound 2026
photo Filip Kvasnak on Unsplash
When I moved into my home over a decade ago,
I’d peer out my back door often
to stare at the soft and shifting colours
of an iridescent bay
and marvel that the sun and wind
colluded to make diamonds shimmer
across the surface of the sea.
My soul would soak in beauty,
mind would move towards calm
like a stone skip, skip, skipping across the surface
until it comes to rest beneath,
and I’d quietly, sincerely marvel
that any place on earth
could be as stunning as this.
But now, I often simply glance,
since minds naturally wire to gloss over
‘normal’ routine things, making space to notice
the unusual, dangerous, or threat.
This serves us well to keep us safe,
but we might not register beauty
that used to take our breath,
and requires us to stop……..
and remind ourselves to pause
and let the beauty grown accustomed to,
register again.
—Dose yourself in beauty
Photo: Trương Tuyết Ly on Unsplash
today i choose
not to dwell in fear
but to recognise hunger,
a longing persistent
to be drawn into the presence of Other.
to One who i know is there
each time i stare at endless sea
or vast and starry sky.
and to remember
that all that i lack,
and all that i need
is furnished already, too.
like hagar in the wilderness
at her very end,
whose eyes were then opened
to the well, to the water,
the provision vital
lavishly placed around,
that she simply could not see.
and God, in his loving, gentle essence
his heart for all creation,
does not berate, yell out or scream,
“how could you still not trust?”
no, when i come at last, he smiles
and opens my eyes to see.
this is the way it often is
with holy, tender things.
the posture of coming,
of longing desperate,
when a weary, soulful heart
surrendered,
is welcomed into peace.
heather pound 2026
you no longer want to live
waiting for the other shoe to drop,
humpty dumpty to finally fall,
the endless holding of breath.
in fact, you’ve emphatically often said,
“never, ever again.”
but you walked on eggshells for far, far too long,
and on some days, dear one, you still forget
your current life, your situation,
no longer requires this.
so, remember to pause and listen,
for that very first hint of ‘crack.’
and instead of involuntarily tensing muscles,
quickly holding breath,
slow and calm, inhale deep
and listen—
to what your body speaks,
to what your own heart needs,
to who you really are,
and wrap yourself in softness
and safety
as your mind recalls that that was then,
but that is past
and now begins again.
heather pound 2026
Photo by Pablo Merchán Montes For Unsplash+
Cacti have the ability to endure and grow in harsh climes. They open their breathing spores at night instead of day to prevent moisture evaporating in the sun. And if you’ve ever sat in my chair and enthusiastically swung your arm as you spoke, you’ve experienced the sharpness of this cactus’ spines (a few people come to mind!). But these spikes also collect water droplets to support the roots and have helped my pet plant on the weeks I’ve forgotten to water.
As masters of survival they grow slow—but sure. These photos were taken five years apart (thanks FB for the reminder of the older one) and a cactus that seemed mostly the same from day to day, has significantly and impressively grown.
Are you feeling a bit like a cactus right now? Enduring a season of drought? Feeling like your prickles need to be ‘out’ for protection but feeling bad when someone gets too close to your spines?
That doesn’t mean you’re not growing. In the past five years, some of my fast growing or more showy plants have either not made it, or have had to be drastically pruned (once again probably due to their environment of my inconsistent watering!). Yet this survivor has held steady and faithful and I find myself admiring it not only for its uniqueness, but for its otherworldly beauty.
And maybe you’re doing better than you think you are too. 
Lessons from a cactus
Five years ago
Now
i read the other day
if you focus on something
for even four minutes
letting your gaze soften,
your cortisol, the hormone of distress,
needed in small doses
but havoc producing in excess,
lowers in measurable ways.
(isn’t that amazing?)
it’s gratifying to witness proof
of the importance of instinctual things
and that taking the space to stare
is exactly what you need.
so now i advise (with evidence!)
remember to pause and stare:
at a candle, a fireplace, the gentle wave of trees.
the sparkle of the surface or waves upon the sea.
the ever-shifting, billowing shapes of clouds fluid
or anything such as these.
(but not the scrolling of a screen)
let your busy mind relax,
your breath to slow,
your muscles to unclench,
and allow your body
to literally, chemically
recover peace.
heather pound 2026
Video by my daughter Hannah
