“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”
~Frederick Buechner

Somedays I am overwhelmed that I get to do the work I do. Yesterday was one of those days. Much of the morning was filled with the various preparations needed for the upcoming first Sunday in Advent. I have been a part of a group of people who have been hanging brilliantly colored stars throughout our worship spaces in anticipation of our theme of ‘Holy Darkness, Holy Light’. In addition to the stars, fabrics of blue hues, the liturgical color of Advent, needed to be collected and placed on tables, pulpits and other areas around the church. Advent wreaths needed to be cleaned up and taken to the worship spaces so they are ready to begin our walk toward Christmas. This kind of preparation is a joy for me. It helps to set the rhythm for my own spiritual noticing of the gifts of this season.

In the afternoon I had the blessing of visiting one of our members who is living in her 96th year. To say that this woman is an inspiration is such an understatement. A former teacher, she continues to learn and study every day. Her body has known some health problems but her mind is sharp as a tack and she exercise like an Olympic athlete. Every time I visit her I know fully that the visit is more for me than for her. She shared with me what she had been up to over the last several months. In her lovely apartment she has two computers, an IPad and a Kindle in addition to countless books. She uses them all to continue to research her many interests. This time she had been inspired to learn more about the Dust Bowl after having watched the recent episodes on PBS about this time in our country’s history. I marveled at her insatiable lust for learning and felt humble in its presence.

In the evening I joined with a group of people so dedicated to our church that I am always filled with gratitude in their presence. We dreamed and schemed the names of people who might be invited to serve in various capacities in the work of the church. There was laughter and serious conversation as we sought, as best we could, to create a balanced and thoughtful approach to inviting people even further into the life of the church. As names were offered someone might share something that was going on in that particular life, joys, tragedies, sorrows,celebrations, that would impact the invitation and the possible acceptance. It was holy work. Work that will have more far flung implications than even we might imagine.

Like most work, there are days that are less fulfilling than others. There are days when I long for the kind of work that sees instant gratification. The kind of gratification that I imagine construction workers have as they watch a building or highway appear through the work of their hands. Or any of the jobs where people assemble something visible. To be able to see, feel, or touch the fruits of your labor must bring a certain satisfaction, one I rarely experience.

Instead the work to which I have been called measures its time and and production in relationships and commitments and the blessing of traveling the life span with people. The paycheck comes in listening and heartache and the thrill of seeing someone light up with passion for finding a heart connection with another person or seeing someone live into a gift they never knew they possessed. It comes in walking with others through life stories that are unfolding in all their mundane and triumphant nuances. It comes in knowing that these stories and my own are held in the weave of the great faith story.

What is your work? How is it filling you these days? How is it inviting you to weave your story with a greater story? How is it inviting you to an even deeper sense of living? May you be blessed in your work this day, whatever it may be. And if the work for which you long does not come your way, may you be held in the hope of its arrival.

Blessed be.

“An unreflected life is like an unopened letter.”
~The Talmud

Yesterday I found myself in a warm and lovely room reflecting on my life. Or at least some parts of it. Meeting with a spiritual director as I do once a month, I had set aside time to find language for the emerging patterns I see in my thoughts, my days, my work, my relationships, my heart. All this is done with the understanding that someplace in all of this the Holy dances. Just coming off Thanksgiving and heading into the season of Advent, there was much to muddle through.

As I walked out the door, I noticed a small picture frame with the quote above printed in autumn colors to match the other fall accents scattered about the room. I repeated the words to myself all the way to the car until I could write them down. The framed version did not have any hint as to where it came from but an Internet search provided the answer. The Talmud, the book my Hebrew brothers and sisters refer to when searching out the wisdom of thousands of rabbis on a wide variety of subjects. It is a central text held alongside the Torah that guides a faithful life.

“An unreflected life is like an unopened letter.” Its wisdom felt like a challenge to me. I think of the number of days I move from task to task, from meeting to meeting, without really reflecting much on what I am doing. It is easy to fill my calendar with appointments and lists of to-do’s and come to the end of the day holding a piece of paper with many marks and little substance. This kind of mindless living held in tandem with the chores of the every day…..cooking, laundry, errands, cleaning….can be numbing and exhaustion producing enough to feel like living. But is it really? Is it what we were born to do?

When I look about me and ponder the world, I truly believe we are a people longing for reflected lives. Now I am also sure that this longing is one that is a privilege of those who know where their next meal is coming from, those who know that for the most part they are safe, that they have a roof over their heads. And it is also out of this privilege that the next important idea might spring that will bring comfort to those who live on the opposite side of such blessing. This is often the work of reflection.

This Sunday we begin the season of Advent, those four weeks which lead us into the celebration of Christmas. If lived in the way in which the season itself was fashioned, it is a time of reflection, a time of ruminating on the gifts of both darkness and light. Particularly for those of us in the northern hemisphere, these are our darkest days, days which invite us to stop the forward pull of life and to be still. To wait. To ponder what might be born.

More than any other time of year envelopes will soon begin arriving in our mailboxes. Cards and family newsletters will appear from people we have not heard from since last year. I know I will certainly open them with great anticipation of what news I might read. To leave them sitting, unread, would seem such a shame. Even those that may go on with too much enthusiasm about their successes will be savored for the gift they offer: someone’s time, inspiration and creativity given without thought of anything in return.

With the same care that I will open these letters, I hope to carve out moments to reflect on this blessed life. Though the days may be shrouded in darkness they are invitations to breathe deeply, to open to wonder, to find meaning in the everyday, to wait with expectation.

May it be so.

“I never met a color I didn’t like.”
~Dale Chihuly

Our recent Thanksgiving get-a-way to Seattle has me thinking about art and artists. In the scope of two days we visited both the Seattle Art Museum and the Chilhuly Garden and Glass exhibit. At the first, I spent the majority of time in the room filled with the works of the First Peoples of the Pacific Northwest. Baskets, carvings in stone and wood, and fabric art filled the space with image and color. And then there were the masks. Faces of human and creature carved to tell the story of a people rich with connection to the land and sea that surrounded them. I walked away thinking that my life is a little less rich for having not come from a culture which tells its story with masks.

At the Chihuly museum I was astounded over and over again with the immensity of glass sculptures. Towering trees. Floating chandeliers. Enormous bowls that could hold a small child. Boats filled with brilliant glass balls. Outside in the actual garden the live plants mirrored the glass pods, stalks and flowering trees. And everywhere an explosion of color!

Leaving these two very different expressions of creativity, I have been reflecting on the human need to create. It is someplace deep in our DNA. It is the place from which we and all Creation erupted. It is one of the ways in which we embody the movement of our Creator in our living, in our world. Creativity in this sense is our birthright. Picking up a knife and bringing a face out of a piece of wood. The interplay of fire and breath to blow a piece of glass into being. Paint on a canvas. Music coaxed from an instrument. Words on a page. All bring an expression of life into the world.

Many times I have heard an artist speak of their work as something they “must do”. Many times I have also been in the presence of folks who continue to turn their backs, knowingly or unknowingly, on this inner urge to create. Most of the time this leads to frustration, sadness, depression, even a kind of death. It is, after all, a denial of what it means to be this embodied expression of all we were meant to be. This Life.

This pull toward creating need not just be in what we often think of as ‘the arts’. Each and everyone of us has some inner nudge toward creativity. I watch in wonder at the parents I know who create safe and powerful nests for their children. Which one of us has not been impacted by the creative pulse of a teacher? Even those things we take for granted….highways, houses, bridges, boats, cars, airplanes, grocery bags, thermometers…..all sprang from a creative idea of someone.

Earlier in our time in Washington we had come upon a glass blower in his studio. He was helping a woman, a novice, create a small vase. His quiet yet forceful words guided her in safety and form. Watching the long rod which held the molten glass go into the fire and out again, I wondered at who was the first person to ever discover this magical act that led to the creation of glass. Later seeing the works of Dale Chihuly I was completely astounded that anything so amazing could come from this seemingly simple, fiery yet fragile process.

What is the fiery process that is calling your name? What is waiting for you to breath life into its emerging form? How are you listening to the Creator’s whisper that begs you to tell your story!
The winter days are approaching. Days that beckon us to go inward and inside. Days that were made for creating. How will you respond?

We have spent the last many Thanksgivings in the presence of some of our closest friends. Friends who have become family. Friends who have shared the best and the worst days of our lives. This assortment of friend-family has over the years, I suppose, taken on the nature of any family with all its eccentricities and celebrations. Mostly we can laugh about it which isn’t so easy sometimes with blood relatives. Every now and then one of them will bring a new person along which changes the shape and energy around the table. Sometimes these people return and get folded into this created family system. Other times they move on and they become simply a memory that visited us.

This year we have traveled to be with our Seattle Son for this holiday that carries so many ‘must haves.’ This year our traditions will be altered. No friend-family around. No extended biological family to be seen. We are nestled in a sweet little cottage on Whidbey Island. Outside our window I can see both the majesty of the Olympic Mountains and the icy waters of Puget Sound. There will be no welcoming at the door of those carrying dishes to be warmed up in our oven once the turkey has been cooked. There is only one pie not the array of desserts that is our norm. No dressing. None of us like it. The meal and the gathering will be simpler. Frankly, it is difficult to know how to feel about this. The messier, wilder, more voluminous is what I know.

But as I have imagined, and now am living, this Thanksgiving of a different sort, what remains is the gratitude. There always comes a time at our feast, around a large table I had lobbied for for some time, when I look around and recognize the privilege with which I live every day. I see the beauty shining forth from faces I love and know love me back even when I don’t deserve it. Making an arc with my eyes around the table I see children grown into amazing young adults at the cusp of their unfolding lives. I see wrinkles and graying hair, faces that have taken on the character of their glowing spirits. For me it is always a glimpse of the kin-dom of God.

Today I will not see those faces but I will be present to the three others for whom my heart swells with love. I will look out at the mountains that shine forth their steadfastness and the water that reminds me of the Holy One’s gifts of earth and stone and sea. Once again I will wish to be a psalmist declaring ‘how lovely are your dwelling places’. The act of giving thanks does not depend on where you are or even with whom you are blessed to sit at table. The act of giving thanks is the privilege of knowing the movement of goodness and kindness and abundance in the every day living of our lives.

For this place, for these people, for this living, I offer my deep, deep heart-thanks. This is a day for thanks giving.

” Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.”
~Mother Teresa

Early in the week I heard a program on the radio about preparations for Thanksgiving meals. This iconic meal and its celebration is always a fascinating one for me. The ways in which people have such passion about what dishes ‘must’ be present for it to be Thanksgiving always makes me chuckle. For most it is the turkey, of course, except for my vegetarian friends who avert their eyes from the finely browned bird as it makes it entrance as the star of the show. For others it is the sweet potatoes, marshmallowed or otherwise, the mashed whites, or green bean casserole. I learned long ago not to even try to understand the various forms of corn puddings. Oysters? Bread crumbs? Round pan or square?

And this doesn’t even touch the wide range of dessert options. Of course in most homes pumpkin pie reigns supreme. But I have been with one for whom Thanksgiving is not complete without banana pudding ringed with vanilla wafers. Usually apple pie or mince meat or pecan also figures into that great Thanksgiving culinary portrait as well.

However the radio program was focusing on the humble cranberry. Being a lover of this little, tart fruit, I was all ears. The person being interviewed had been described as a ‘cranberry expert’. I let that rest within me for awhile. How does one become a cranberry expert? I understood his unique gift when he spoke the phrase that has been rolling around in my brain over the last few days. “Simply put, the cranberry is platonically beautiful.”

Well. Now there is a statement! Even this lover of cranberries will never see the fall fruit of the bog in the same way ever again. Platonically beautiful. I imagined the bright redness, the tart flavor upon my tongue. I remembered the way the berries make a popping sound in a pan filled with just enough water to cook them down to a sauce waiting for sugar. I thought of the few times I have seen them in their natural habitat in parts of Wisconsin as they formed a reddish floating film in the their watery home. Yes, platonically beautiful.

All week I have imagined what it might be like if we spoke with such respect and love and poetics about other parts of our amazing Creation. “Look at that squirrel. Isn’t it brilliantly furry?” “I just saw an earthworm, so shimmeringly slim.” ” Here comes the snow again. I love its delicate,lacey splendor.”

How we describe things to ourselves and others makes a difference. The words we use to paint a picture of how something or someone moves in the world has a power and energy that goes beyond us in ways we have no control over. It seems important to choose our words wisely, to not fling them into the world without forethought. Every day I meet people who have been inadequately or unfairly named or described and it has changed them, often harmed them. Many work diligently to overcome descriptions that have stuck, that have narrowed their lives. Perhaps you know someone like this. Perhaps it is true of you.

But somewhere, someone whose name I can’t remember, described a small, red, fruit as platonically beautiful and tomorrow I will enjoy this Thanksgiving staple in a new way. I will bask in its beauty and appreciate it with new eyes, a softer heart. Someone gave it new value, raised it to its original blessing as the art of the world it is.

As I give thanks, I will try to remember all those who are not as privileged as I am and pray God’s love and care upon them. I will remember that this One who breathed us all into being would use phrases much as the cranberry expert did and just as lofty to describe each and every part of this blessed earth. Human. Creature. Plant. All of it.

And I will be filled with gratitude and humility.

“Light reveals us to ourselves, which is not always great if you find yourself in a big disgusting mess, possibly of your own creation.”
~ Anne Lamott, Help,Thanks, Wow

It had been a long time since I had stood in line for a new book to be out in stores. Not since I waited in long lines with our Seattle Son in his much younger self, as we waited for whichever new Harry Potter tome to be released at midnight, had I been one of the first to have an anticipated copy of a book thrust into my hands. But on Tuesday morning at nine sharp, I waltzed into a local book store and picked up my reserved copy of Anne Lamott’s new book. I have been a fan of hers for years and had awaited this new volume of her unique look of the world and living a life of faith.

What I love about her writing is its humor, its raw and often brash way of being a person who, despite all odds, is in the church. I always hope I could at least learn something from her if not, every now and then, channel her. In those times when we church people take ourselves too seriously, when we act as if this meeting or that decision might actually change the world, I long to say something oddly funny that would bring us back to our senses the way Lamott’s writing does for me.

As I sat down to savor some her writing yesterday I was fresh off an experience of he
Ping to put together our Advent devotional for this year. Once again the people of our community have astounded me with their willingness to offer words of beauty, vulnerably, and hope on this year’s theme of Holy Darkness, Holy Light. As people steeped in a culture that wants so desperately to turn from any experience of darkness even to the point of demonizing it, these fellow faith-travelers have dared to see the sacred nature of these shadow siblings. As always, I was bathed in the grace of being
pilgrim with this amazing community.

Darkness. Light. As we moved into Daylight Saving time recently, the darkness has seemed to envelop us. Many of us head out into the world in a pseudo darkness and return in much the same way. I have been keenly aware of this over the last week. How to befriend the darkness? How to befriend the light?

If stopped on the street and asked which they prefer, darkness or light, I believe most people would choose light. And yet when looked at it as Lamott points out as ‘light revealing us to ourselves’, maybe not so much. Sometimes the dark allows us to hide which at times can be a very good thing. In the dark, the ugly little thoughts I have about someone or the pointy judgements I jab in the air around them can stay hidden. In the dark the fears I harbor, real or imagined, can sometimes feel safe and less frightening, even controlled. Shine the spotlight on either and the picture is not so pretty.

This reality and metaphor of darkness and light has compelled our attention since humans first walked upright. The gift of the approaching Advent season is that we are once again invited to look at this spectrum squarely and find ourselves in both. This is one lesson I learned as I read the deep, rich reflections of those in my faith community who chose to allow the light of their writing to reveal something true about them. It is brave work. And important. And blessed.

“Light reveals us to ourselves, which is not always great if you find yourself in a big disgusting mess, possibly of your own creation.”
~ Anne Lamott, Help,Thanks, Wow

It had been a long time since I had stood in line for a new book to be out in stores. Not since I waited in long lines with our Seattle Son in his much younger self, as we waited for whichever new Harry Potter tome to be released at midnight, had I been one of the first to have an anticipated copy of a book thrust into my hands. But on Tuesday morning at nine sharp, I waltzed into a local book store and picked up my reserved copy of Anne Lamott’s new book. I have been a fan of hers for years and had awaited this new volume of her unique look of the world and living a life of faith.

What I love about her writing is its humor, its raw and often brash way of being a person who, despite all odds, is in the church. I always hope I could at least learn something from her if not, every now and then, channel her. In those times when we church people take ourselves too seriously, when we act as if this meeting or that decision might actually change the world, I long to say something oddly funny that would bring us back to our senses the way Lamott’s writing does for me.

As I sat down to savor some her writing yesterday I was fresh off an experience of he
Ping to put together our Advent devotional for this year. Once again the people of our community have astounded me with their willingness to offer words of beauty, vulnerably, and hope on this year’s theme of Holy Darkness, Holy Light. As people steeped in a culture that wants so desperately to turn from any experience of darkness even to the point of demonizing it, these fellow faith-travelers have dared to see the sacred nature of these shadow siblings. As always, I was bathed in the grace of being
pilgrim with this amazing community.

Darkness. Light. As we moved into Daylight Saving time recently, the darkness has seemed to envelop us. Many of us head out into the world in a pseudo darkness and return in much the same way. I have been keenly aware of this over the last week. How to befriend the darkness? How to befriend the light?

If stopped on the street and asked which they prefer, darkness or light, I believe most people would choose light. And yet when looked at it as Lamott points out as ‘light revealing us to ourselves’, maybe not so much. Sometimes the dark allows us to hide which at times can be a very good thing. In the dark, the ugly little thoughts I have about someone or the pointy judgements I jab in the air around them can stay hidden. In the dark the fears I harbor, real or imagined, can sometimes feel safe and less frightening, even controlled. Shine the spotlight on either and the picture is not so pretty.

This reality and metaphor of darkness and light has compelled our attention since humans first walked upright. The gift of the approaching Advent season is that we are once again invited to look at this spectrum squarely and find ourselves in both. This is one lesson I learned as I read the deep, rich reflections of those in my faith community who chose to allow the light of their writing to reveal something true about them. It is brave work. And important. And blessed.

I have been thinking about turkeys a lot lately. It is not because of their impending sacrifice that will occur a week from Thursday. Instead it is because I am seeing them everywhere. In their fullest glory. You see, in the area where I live along the bluffs of the Mississippi and Minnesota Rivers, they are running rampant. With regularity I will need to at least slow down if not come to a full stop for the parade of these enormous birds as they cross the road in front of my car. In some areas you need to watch out for deer crossing the road. We are always on the lookout for turkeys.

Over the last several weeks, every time this happens, I chuckle to myself at their dignity and forceful presence. I always think about the idea that our Founders had, if ever so briefly, considered this fine-feathered specimen as our nation’s bird. Now I really only have this fact running through my head because of numerous viewings of the musical ‘1776’ in which Benjamin Franklin and John Adams sing an argumentative song about the turkey versus the eagle. Whether this is fact or dramatic invention, we know how that argument turned out.

And yet this somewhat more humble bird that stands tall and regal in a long-necked way is a beautiful creature of flight. Its feathers are iridescent, made up of blacks, greens, blues, all sweeping together to create a jewel-like affect.Team all that color with the brilliant red wattle and you have yourself a striking vision of strength.

Now one might argue, as Benjamin and John did, that we do not want to be thought of as a nation of turkeys or as the source of one of the finest feasts. We would much rather be seen as a soaring, white-headed symbol of strength and wisdom. But I can’t help but think that the majestic turkey has gotten a bad rap over the years and that it may have started with that original argument.

One reason I have taken such joy in encountering these birds is that each time I did I thought about how our blessed nation was founded in many streams of controversy including ones as seemingly silly as choosing a national bird. One might ask, why do we need one? But the idea that those who dreamed this nation and what it might become didn’t see eye to eye any more than we do in our time. Those early leaders, brilliant people filled with passion and vision, are mirrored in our time. Sometimes we forget this or allow a cynicism that has crept into our lives to color our ability to see this. That and the ability to constantly have information about ‘who said what’ coming at us from a variety of sources.

The people of that time, the regular people like you and me, probably were not aware that two of the most brilliant men they might ever meet were arguing about turkeys versus eagles as a symbol of a nation yet to be realized. They were too busy eeking out a life on land that was still new to them. As for me, I like thinking of this odd little argument that is might be a part of our history. It makes all the really big and important differences we need to address seem doable.

Turkey? Eagle? I think we would have been just as fine with either. The good news for the turkey is, had the argument gone the other way, we might be eating something completely different as our national feast.

There are certain words or phrases that seem to be reserved for church or sacred settings. Words like liturgy or sacrament for instance. Another is ‘bearing witness’. So when I heard someone on the radio today use it twice, my ears perked up. The voice I was hearing was Minnesota author Tim O’Brien and he was speaking of his collection of stories about Viet Nam, The Things They Carried. Frankly, after he used this phrase I stopped listening to the show’s content and began to think about what we mean when we say these words. Just the sound of them carries weight, resounds with a poignant presence that sends the imagination to deep, echoing places.

Bearing witness. In my work, I have the privilege of bearing witness to people’s lives in significant ways. Over the past several weeks I have borne witness to a young family bringing their beautiful daughter to be baptized and celebrated by our community. To this this gathered, extended family marvel at this girl child, was true gift. If I am lucky, or blessed, I will be able to bear witness to her life as I have to her mother’s and her brothers’.

Over these same days, I have also borne witness to the passing of two dear ones. In their deaths I have been able to listen to others bear witness to these lives that were entwined with theirs. It is holy work and its importance is not lost on me though I must admit there was a time when walking this way with families was difficult and something I did not feel I had the gifts for. As the years have progressed, I have found myself more and more comfortable in this wilderness of death and grief, of memory and celebration.

What I have learned over this time is the importance of telling someone’s story, of speaking their name into the Universe so it reverberates with their truth. Of bearing witness. This learning has caused me to be, I hope, a better listener and a non-anxious presence in what can be a time of confusion and a sense of being lost in a land for which no one is prepared.

Today as I listened to O’Brien talk about his reason for writing his book, I began to think about how we have the opportunity every day of bearing witness if only we would take advantage of it. All this before someone actually dies. Each and every day people hold their lives out to us. Those with whom we share our homes, both human or creature. Those with whom we work or go to school. The barista who pours our morning coffee or the one who hands us the pages filled with the world’s news. The child that lives next door who is growing up before our very eyes and who is, even in this breath, on their way to adulthood. The clerk who takes our money for gas or a soda. The restaurant worker who places a bowl of soup before us. The stranger who stands on the street with a sign and hands outstretched. All these and more are opportunities for bearing witness while life still throbs in the bodies of these our fellow pilgrims. Who knows? You or I may be the only ones who will pay attention to their living this day. Wouldn’t it be a shame if we missed this holy chance?

Bearing witness. How will you bear witness this day to this precious life which is fleeting and fragile and filled to overflowing? Someone is waiting for us to notice. To witness. To tell the story.

It is a rainy, somewhat dreary morning. And yet, though it is still quite early, I have already felt an energy that is electrifying. I have just returned from the place where I have cast my ballot full of well thought out votes. Votes that speak of my way of viewing the world. Votes that hope for the greater good for all people. Not just those whose lives are like mine but for those whose journey has been, and will forever be, vastly different than anything I can imagine. Votes that, for me, speak of my understanding of faith.

As I pulled out of my driveway the neighborhood children were waiting for the bus. I rolled down the window to say good morning. One of the young ones yelled out: “Happy voting!”. I smiled and offered my thanks. Driving away I thought of the joy with which his message was delivered. Walking into my polling place the faces that passed by me on their way out were not those who could be defined as ‘happy’. The seriousness of their countenance spoke of the long journey we have traveled to get to this day. It has been a journey filled with conflicting messages, half-truths and out right lies. It has been a journey that has pulled communities and families apart. It has been a journey that has spent a sinful amount of money on advertising and inciting fear. In so many ways, we all should be ashamed of ourselves. For the abuse of financial power and the twisting of truth to manipulate.

At the end of this day, decisions will be made and our lives will continue. We will get up and go to work. Children will go to school. Meals will be made, books will be read. Conversations will shift from politics to whatever it was we spoke of six months ago when these races, these amendments were not driving our energies. Depending on the outcomes of today’s votes, there may be changes, changes that impact our lives and the lives of others. Whatever the decisions, I have confidence that as a people we have the courage and creativity to continue to be a force for goodness in the world. Perhaps it is naive on my part but I truly believe the world tilts in this direction. Though we may veer off in other directions at times, I still believe as Anne Frank said in her diaries that humans are “good at heart”.

On Sunday as we ended our time of worship we sang a song together in voices that were filled with a hope for goodness that I cling to. It is a song written by Utah Phillips, justice and labor worker. You can hear the tune by searching his name and the title of the song ‘ Singing Through the Hard Times’. Faces lifted in smiles and courage and a stubborn love:

We are singing through the hard times,
Singing through the hard times;
Working for the good times to come.
We are singing through the hard times,
Singing through the hard times;
Working for the good times to come.

As people of faith we have always sung through the hard times while working for the good that is yet to be. We have sung psalms and spirituals. We have sung hymns and songs of protest. We have lifted our voices creating a cloud of music that hovers above even the darkest of times. Today we will, as we always have, take seriously the work that is before us while at the same time knowing some deep happiness in our hearts that we have the privilege to stand shoulder to shoulder with those who agree and disagree with us. In this standing we continue to give birth to this nation which was merely a dream less that three centuries ago.

As a country we are young and we are still learning what it means to be ‘ of the people, by the people and for the people.’ My prayer is that this day ends showing that, perhaps, we have learned some lessons.