January 3, 2016
I voice this prayer of thanksgiving and lament. I lift my eyes to it all: bright mornings, cloudy afternoons, disorienting twilights, darkened nights, and dawns of exquisite splendor: for what was I made?
In this world where twelve year olds die from impulsive bullets shot from the barrel of a police gun and the person and the system that pulled the trigger is not held accountable;
In this world where three rivers – Mississippi, Missouri, Meramec – converge with such power to grant us passage and nourish our crops; and the force to flood communities, reminding us of our human arrogance and humility, two sides of the same coin, of where we belong and how and for how long;
In this world, where holes in the soul become so raw, where pain becomes so persuasive, where isolation becomes so unshakeable that we are left with deep grief for the loss much too soon of ones we love so deeply;
For what was I made? For what are we made?
To let the hurt, grief, and bitterness break us, not apart, but open.
To gather each other into our arms for the salve of healing touch, connection, and safety.
To weave the true and tender moments of thanksgiving and delight amid the fibers of loss and anguish.
For what are we made? For each other.