This morning, church was about despair and hope.
The altar table was covered with the shards of a broken pottery vase.
There was space for grief and rage and confusion,
and also for healing and hope, and good singing, as always.
This poem happened:
On the table
the bowl is shattered,
the shards are scattered
across the torn cloth.
A city inside me is burning
and the sky is torn by fury
or by the hand of God
and who is to say
which of those names
we shall give it today?
Where shall we go now?
Where shall we find
the threads of the tale
when the wind has blown,
wild,
through the window?
Will the mystery matter
within the wreckage?
Still–
into the silence
a bird on the windowsill
sings a brief note
that sounds for the moment
like hope.
Mockingbird Chronicles 
I affirm your “tending” of what IS. You stay with and bear witness to whatever the weather, inner and outer, is. That is enough. That is more than enough, it is holy.
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I like that idea of bearing witness to what IS. Thanks for those words.
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Let’s start with that and then listen for the stories. They are out there, some just whispers really. But change is afoot in the world, as always, and much more toward the energy for good than for ill. Stories of hope today from Mexico, Afghanistan, South Sudan, and even Chicago.
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Yes. I have to believe that the winds are shifting. . . Thanks for the reminder.
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