Heron morning

I had a strange dream last night. As I tried to shake the atmosphere from my mind in my room this morning, I turned to look out the window. Past the branches of the maple, through the gap in the spruces, I saw the heron. I keep thinking I’ve seen the last of him, that the snows and winds will have pushed him southward. 

There must be something about this river that he likes. 

The peek through the trees was enough to pull me downstairs and out of the stuffy air to the damp morning outside. As much as one can tiptoe in Bogs, I did, till I found the heron stalking fish downstream of the island. 

I must always still and slow myself to be in his company. He is one curved shape and then another, patient and self-possessed in his hunt. He is not like the flitting shore birds. His is a deeper presence, as if growing out of the red silt riverbed itself. 

My eyes reach and my mind follows, till the lingering mists of the strange night recede, and clear water flows once more in the valley. 


Lindsey Gallant


From Red Letters to Rise Heart

Hello friends, old and new! Welcome to my writing world, newly christened Rise Heart. It’s where I’ll continue to share my prose and poetry. (Thank you for reading! And a special thanks to those who are long time Red Letters subscribers.)

I write to remind myself to pay attention, to capture the small glories that surround me, and to add my own humble praise for all the love I’ve been given.

This a place I hope to share wonder, beauty, and the sweet summons to life in Christ. And I hope it will be a place where your own heart is lifted.

Why the change from Red Letters

I began blogging back in 2007 from our tiny first apartment in Ontario. I was newly married, studying graduate theology full time, working part time at a children’s bookstore a few doors down (best job of all time!), and volunteering at our local church. I remember typing out my thoughts, often late at night, looking out the window to Main Street below. I chose the name Red Letters because I wanted to notice and highlight the scarlet thread of Christ woven into busy, everyday life. 

I have not given up on that worthy pursuit, but over thirteen years later, I’ve felt the need to freshen things up! Now I write from a century home overlooking a beloved little river in Prince Edward Island, with a family buzzing in the background. There have been seasons of pain and joy, darkness and clarity, intense wrestling and brave rest. From my vantage point now, I am even more convinced of the ridiculously beautiful grace of God. 

The phrase Rise Heart comes from one of my very favourite poems by George Herbert called “Easter.” It expresses the call to every soul to rise up and embrace resurrection life. This poem dropped into my life during a dark season, and it was one of the things God used to reach in and pull me up toward light, toward Himself, and toward a renewed identity.

(The little flower you see? It too, hearkens to the poem, and my own experience with Jesus on a red dirt road one morning. But perhaps more about that another day.)

Rise Heart is my own answer to the sweet summons of Jesus. These scribblings are the thoughts gathered along the way, like Queen Anne’s Lace on the roadside. They are given here as an offering.

You can also find me on my Facebook page. You can keep up with all new posts there, as well as a few little extras that don’t always make their way to the blog.

{ Technical details: My domain name is now lindseygallant.com. If you subscribed to the blog under theredlettersblog.com, no need to change anything – you’ll still be in the loop. And of course, new subscribers are always welcome! Sign up in the sidebar to the right. And feel free to share with friends. 🙂 }

Thank you for reading. You keep me writing!

p.s. Watch for an Advent surprise, coming your way soon!




No Glory Too Small

There is no glory too small to go unsung,
No glint of light that has not originated in changeless love.

Vein of leaf, ripple of stream, dance of hawkweed, curve of smile,
All illuminated by the countenance of grace.

And if we had a thousand eyes we would not lack for wonders shown,
Nor notes to fill our score of praise.


Lindsey Gallant


Sub Picea

I step into a golden morning and something of the old self dies in the light. I am breathing in freshness ancient and new. My feet are damp with melting frost, and the sun is kissing every scarlet leaf. There is a presence with me in these woods, near and sweet, revealed suddenly through the tall river grasses – a blue heron, where the spring feeds the river. He is startled, and rises into the air downstream.

I slip under the drooping cover of a Norway spruce, where a hundred silky webs have caught the morning light between the branches. It is not long before I am surrounded by many small and flitting friends. Yellow warbler, blue jay, starling, robin, red-winged blackbird, and on the water, noiseless mallards and a lone Canada goose. I am in their domain, but as long as I am quiet and slow, they regard me with curiosity and accept me in their midst. What is it about their company that is so comforting? They seem to look at me with eyes from another world. As I rest into the life of the tree, their song reappears and soon crescendos into unreserved joy. 

It is then that the heron returns, descending to the little island as a king takes up his throne. Does he see me, hidden here under the spruce boughs? Can he sense my eagerness? Has he come from parted heavens to voice that I am beloved? The water is still as glass, waiting for his next move. 

~ Lindsey


Shades of September

The leaves are just beginning to turn and descend. I pick up a particular shade of golden and hold it up to the September light. The road between the cemetery and my grandparents’ house is a passageway to autumn. I notice another leaf, a veined maple, and add it to the first in my hand. Suddenly, I am noticing yellows all around. Wildflowers I don’t know the names of. A cluster of winged seed pods. Even a dandelion. I gather them to my notice, where they are turned from wayside weeds into jewels of wonder. My palm is cupped with gold, a fleeting treasure but for the store it feeds in my mind’s eye.

This is the second bouquet I’ve picked this morning. The first was harvested from the edges of the cemetery to lay at my Grandad’s resting place. Purple asters, fern, soft pine, spicy cedar, and one brilliant scarlet maple leaf. It is not only the end of summer, but of a season of summers, 45 years of his life built along the edge of the Trent Canal. A little harvest of beauty. This is what I lay on the hallowed ground in thanks and praise. 

Now on the walk home I am graced with these shades of a summer well lived. Seasons shift. Flowers fade. And yet there is always glory to gather, even in the ditches. We give what love we have, and find it reflected in the leaves at our feet. Beauty yet shines through tears and change, and grace perfumes the air of our journey. And I catch the glint of it all, like a twinkle in my Grandad’s eye.

~ Lindsey