” When confronted with a dropped plate, what is your proclivity? Keep it? Repair it? Relegate it to the dump? Sometimes a single I’m sorry is all it takes; sometimes a person can say I’m sorry a thousand times and that glue will never dry……This metaphor culminates,obviously, in relationship, which is,after all, a marvel of construction, built over time and out of fragments of shared experience.”~Stephanie Kallos, Broken for You

I have just finished reading a wonderful book entitled  Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos. It is one of those books whose story haunts you, travels with you throughout your day, living in some closet of your mind, a door which opens and closes at will drawing you back  into the story even when you have important things to do….like pay attention in meetings or answer email. I recommend it to those who like to be gripped and challenged by a powerful tale.

What probably held me captive is that the story centers around a concept, a way of seeing the world, that so resonates with my own. It is actually a Jewish concept found, I believe, in the Talmud called Tikun Olam. I believe I wrote about this understanding of the world in this space a couple of years ago. Tikun Olam has its home in the story that when God created the world, the container to hold all the beauty that was created was too large and so the container broke apart sending the beauty and all that was created into splintered pieces that continue to fly around, pieces that contain and elude our lives. The story goes that God then assigned humans the work of repairing the world…….bringing the broken pieces into some form that will re-establish that beauty, that will, in truth, heal all the world.

This concept is, for me, one of the most compelling ideas. I believe it is also what draws me to collage art, mosaics and anything that brings together smaller pieces to create a greater whole. In fact, I am blessed to see this happen every week in so many ways….as the gifts of people are offered in worship, as ideas are shared and the original spark is fanned into a roaring fire by other’s additions, as ingredients combine to make a meal. Tiny pieces offered to be held together by some invisible force.

Every morning I awake to read the newspaper filled with the broken pieces of beauty and terror that fly around in the air we all breathe. Some of those broken pieces have been swirling for years. Painful childhood wounds. Rivers streaming with polluting debris. Systems of institutions aimed, not at the good of all, but rife with the greed and power of a few. Life stories that continue to swim in negative, hopeless narratives. Cells that split and create, not greater life, but stronger disease. So many broken pieces.

And so on this day which has never been before and will not come again, we are invited to pick up the pieces, take a giant glue stick and begin to make a stab at mending the world. How to do it? Kindness? Activism? Words of hope? Being fully present to another? A cup of water extended to a thirsting soul? A song sung? A joke told? Prayer?

Yes, this and so much more. Each of us an artist who takes the small and broken pieces and mends, gently mends, trying to heal the world.

“An artist is merely someone with good listening skills who accesses the creative energy of the Universe to bring forth something on the material plane that wasn’t there before. It was a part of Spirit before we could see it as a book. a painting, a ballet, a film.” ~Sarah Ban Breathnach

Over the weekend, we received the first snow fall of the season. And I have to go on record and say it was just in time! I had mentioned to a friend earlier in the week that the continuing good weather had begun to wear on me and mess with my internal, creative rhythms. You see, I need a certain amount of incubation time that only winter seems to provide. For me, there is nothing like the ruminating that can happen when snow has rendered travel a less than viable option. There is nothing like staring out the window as the flakes fall slowly to the ground, transforming the landscape before your very eyes, knowing that the only wise track to take is to stay put. Oh, rain will do in a creative pinch, and provides its own inspiration, but a snowfall holds within it danger, romance, frivolity and sheer magic. What better way to feed your inner muse than by being gripped by a snowstorm? No matter your creative outlet……cooking, knitting, painting, writing, napping….a good snowstorm will never disappoint.

This year,the way in which the summer/autumn seemed to want to be the guest that wouldn’t leave was stalling my winter mulling. Internally, you see,  I sense Advent ‘s imminent arrival and have desire to ruminate on the gifts of this mysterious, life-bearing season. But how to do that with the roses still blooming on the stems outside the church? It seemed impossible to me to think of planning for all December offers while some people were still walking around in shorts!

Now I know the seasons are not imperative for many people to get in touch with their creative side. After all, much creative work happens in warm months and creativity flourishes in warm and wonderful places. But for those of us who need the incubation that going into the cave of darkness and cold provides, much like returning to the womb, there is nothing better than the experience of the first snow fall. “Now,” we say, ” the real work begins. Now the reflective life calls. Now is the time to stare into the middle distance while the poem takes form, while the problem is solved, while the seeds take root.”

For those of you who find your muse for whatever your creative outlet in the warm, summer like months, God bless you. Those of us who need the gifts that only ice, snow, and dark days can offer beg your indulgence. The fact is the world needs us all.  The world needs the creativity of summer sun dancers and winter blues artists. The world needs the heat of a good steamy novel and the longing of a sparse poem. So let’s celebrate the dance of the seasons and the different and unique blessings they bring. Whether sun or snow, brilliant light or brooding darkness, whether ice or flowering beauty, there is enough inspiration for everyone if we are awake to its presence.

And isn’t that the most amazing thing of all? So, get cracking. Pull out those paint brushes and sharpen the pencils. Clear off the table and dig out the 2000 piece puzzle of Monet’s Waterlilies. Buy some yeast and bake a loaf of hearty bread. Write a letter to a dear friend that lives across the country. Sit down at the piano and play show tunes. Sing at the top of your lungs until the neighbors look out their windows.

Snow is on the ground. Let the creativity begin!

A recent issue of the Star Tribune reported on a Bible memorization competition that was to take place in the the Twin Cities over the weekend. I read the article with interest and a growing knot in my stomach. It reminded me so much of a time in my adolescence. At my grandmother’s church, not my home church, there was often a game played called “Bible Baseball.” This was one of those youth group events in which various ages of youth came together, led by dedicated, caring adults, in which massive amounts of food were served. It was a time to come together with friends and have fun as much as anything else. I am sure other games were played but my main memory is of Bible baseball.

Allow me to describe it. Home plate was the pulpit. Around the edges of the sanctuary, there were designated spaces dedicated to first, second and third bases. The pitcher, usually one of the adults, stood in the middle of the sanctuary and called out a Bible citation, like John 1:1. The pitcher ‘threw’ this to the batter who then might boldly say:”In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Having answered correctly, the batter would proceed to first base. The game could also go the other way with the verse being thrown from the ‘pitcher’s mound’: ” So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone.” A well-studied Bible student would yell out:”Ezekiel 37:7″ and make their run to the base.

Let me say right up front, this game scared the living daylights out of me. I was not, and still am not, filled with memorized Bible verses. It is not how I think or how I learn. And so this game usually did little to further my Biblical literacy but, perhaps, did much to improve my prayer life. I prayed for verses I might have a chance with like, for instance, Genesis 1:1 or Psalm 23:1. And if all that failed, I prayed for massive quantities of grace and healing from humiliation.

A story was often told in our family about my Aunt Mary. She was engaged in one of these games of Biblical memorization. The game had gone on for some time and she was on a roll, spitting out all the memorized verses she had crammed into her, now throbbing, brain. It must have been a single elimination of Biblical wizardry. The person in front of her stood at the ready with, as every one knows, the shortest verse in the Bible, John 11:35: “Jesus wept.” She had nothing left in her scriptural artillery, but determined not to go down in humiliating defeat, she answered: “He sure did.”

I don’t know who the winners were in the Bible Bee that happened over the weekend. From the article, they all seemed well prepared, having spent countless hours memorizing and discussing the verses with their families. There was both a written and spoken part to the competition. I imagined family dinners: “I am the Bread of Life.” “John 6:35!” ” For when I was hungry you gave me food.” “Matthew 25:35!” “It is the bread the Lord has given you to eat.” “Exodus 16:15!” And on it would go as chicken and mashed potatoes, bread and butter, and jugs of milk were passed to hungry, thankful people.

I pray it was a good and grace-filled experience for them all. I am thankful that there are those who have the ability, and the desire, to do this work. Though I am not one of them, I still long to stand at the pulpit with nothing but the scripture of memory in my hand and hear someone yell “Home Run!”

“The Spirit of God made me what I am, the breath of God gave me life!” Job 33:4

This past Sunday our church community was blessed to have storyteller Kevin Kling with us to further Illuminate our theme of ‘A Story to Stand On’. What a gifted human being he is! The ways in which he can weave a story that makes you laugh down to the tips of your toes, and then in the next minute turn to a subject of such depth and poignancy that you want to weep, is a testament to his talent. And permeating it all is a humility and a full-bodied grace that is, quite simply, like being in the presence of a shaman.

The stories he told chronicled his experiences of being struck by lightning, the wisdom and diversity of the love for his two grandmothers, the difference in telling a story in Minnesota and in New York, and his motorcycle accident that left him with a permanent disability. All were very full and inspiring stories.

But the one statement that had me running for a scrap piece of paper and a pencil was his description of the Bible. He made it while talking about the gift of the oral storytelling tradition. He pointed out the power of stories that had their first lives, not on a printed page, but as tales passed down from person to person around fires and food laden tables, over tankards of mead and as tales that lured children(and adults) to sleep.

“The Bible’s first cover was flesh and its first words were breath.” he said. How often we forget that this is true! There were no reporters poised with pens or cameras to ‘get the perfect quote’ or ‘record the statement ‘word for word’ as spoken by Moses or Abraham or Esther or Jesus. The truth of the stories were told over time, again and again, reflecting the meaning the teller found in the content. These storytellers carried these messages in their bodies with hope and promise of passing them on and shaping their children and their children’s children. The words they chose were carried on the breath given to them by the One who breathed them into being and delighted in the unfolding lives of the story keepers. It was only over time that the stories were written down, again with an interpretive telling by those who had the training and resources to do so.

It was a great reminder for those of us in the church who continue to haul these stories out each week. It was an important message to remember that the words we hold as sacred have always been so but perhaps in different ways at different times in the life of the faithful. And these same stories, if we do our work well, will continue to be heard and embodied in still different ways for the church of the future-whatever that looks like.

So many times we want to argue over the ink on the page, assign it perhaps more power than it deserves rather than holding the story’s message lightly. Or better yet, allowing the story to get inside our flesh and be carried around while the words begin to fade into the distance and become a part of our very breathing.

Flesh and breath…..the embodied story of God.

Our family has always been collectors of stones. While on vacations we come home with our pockets filled with stones from beaches, mountains,hiking paths,cabin yards. We carry them back wrapped in dirty socks, tucked into toiletry bags, inside shoes and in leftover sandwich bags. We then often add them to our garden and the little fish pond in the backyard. But most of the many faceted stones we have collected as souvenirs of our travels, end up in our home. They rest in bowls, often with water covering them, so they continue to give off the sheen that attracted our eyes to them in the first place.

I have just such a small bowl of stones sitting in our kitchen right now. I have moved it from the counter to the center of the stove and back again. It began its journey in our home on the kitchen table. Any place where I can be sure my eyes will fall on the unusual green stones several times a day. These are stones I picked up in St. Columba’s Bay on the island of Iona. They range in shades from a deep, dark forest green to a nearly gaudy lime green. There are several that are speckled white and green, orangish-brown and green, like little birds’ eggs. I chose them from the beach after a three hour pilgrimage across farmland, a golf course, past a heather ringed mountain loch and on rocky trails. Our guide told us that, if we were lucky, we might find a completely iridescent green stone known as ‘St. Columba’s Tears.’

St. Columba reached the bay in 563 A.D. after fleeing from Ireland where he had been a priest, an artist, a poet, a prophet. He had copied and illuminated some of the scriptures and kept them which caused, so the story goes, a battle to break out and many people were killed. He and his monks fled Ireland and landed on this tiny Scottish island only to turn back toward the sea and realize they could not see, nor return to, their beloved homeland. They say as he wept on the beach, for the lives lost and the land he loved, his tears fell to the ground and the stones turned this brilliant green. It is a lovely, sad story and a wonderful explanation for these beautiful stones.

I am not a geologist. I do not know what causes certain stones to be the way they are, the color they are, the shape or texture they are. But I love to think about the tears that have been shed in the world…..for lost loves, homes, lives, dreams……and the idea that those tears might turn into something beautiful. Like a green stone. As I look on these stones resting in their white bowl, I know they are covered with good old St. Paul tap water and not the salt-infused ocean. But they carry, at some level I also do not understand, a story of a place and a people that now has seeped into my story. The tears shed on that beach, and I have no doubt there have been many, cannot be washed off or dried up and so they must become a part of the stone itself.

As I move around my kitchen, making a meal or a cup of tea, I find my eyes gazing on the green stones that have become a part of my daily walk. I think of all the tears that will be shed this day. At hospital bedsides. On battlefields. In classrooms. At desks. In shelters. On sidewalks. Under bridges. On playgrounds. So many tears.

May the One who watches over all broken places and people, take these tears and create something beautiful.

Have a blessed weekend………………………

“In days to come the mountain of God’s house will be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills and all the nations shall stream to it.”
~Isaiah 2:2

Most people are still putting away any Halloween stuff they still have lying around and are, at most, thinking about the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. As someone who walks in the church world, I am knee deep in thinking about Advent and Christmas. It is not only the department stores that are in this game! In order to be fully prepared for the coming season, much planning,thinking,scheming began weeks ago. That may be surprising for some people but it is the truth.

Our church theme for Advent is ‘In Days to Come……Great Joy’, a theme that arose out of a group of people gathered in a room, reading the Hebrew and Christian texts for the four Sundays of November 28-December 19. After the scripture was read, lively conversation followed. It was a joy for me to watch and listen to the interplay. These are not what I would call unfamiliar texts to anyone sitting around the table. But, in many ways, people listened as if they were hearing them for the first time. We all came from different parts of church work….those responsible for communications, youth and children’s ministries, music, worship……all engaged in listening for the few words or one phrase that we could live with and, hopefully, live into for the beginning days of winter, for this upcoming reflective season. People will be invited to write meditations on this theme. We will weave it into all our liturgy. We will try to wear it like a Christmas dress or a warm, winter coat.

And so now I find myself walking around thinking about what this string of six words really means. ‘In days to come’. Is this day, the one I am walking around in right now, included? Or is it a phrase that simply points people to some time yet-to-be, in some distant future? The phrase seems to imply that there is not sufficient joy right now. Or does it?

‘In Days to Come……Great Joy’. Not a little bit of happiness. Not a gentle smile or a warm, fuzzy feeling. But Great Joy. What does Great Joy look like? What does it feel like? Will I know it when I see it, when I experience it? What does Great Joy look like to you? When have you had it last?

The beauty and sunshine of the lingering autumn is still glowing brilliantly.When will it end? I watched a squirrel yesterday in the oak tree outside my office window. It carried an apple as big as its head in its tiny hands. I watched as it stopped,nibbling wildly at the ruby red fruit protruding from its miniature brown hands. Around and around the apple turned. Something must have moved below on the ground and the squirrel clamped its jaws down tightly on the apple while managing to run higher and higher into the now naked limbs of the stately tree. Before winter finally gets its grip on us, this squirrel was storing up calories for the frigid days ahead. Perhaps it was also storing up joy, great joy, in the sweetness of the apple and its brilliant red shine against the dying of color.

Thanksgiving will soon be upon us and just days after that, Advent. The season of waiting, of anticipation, of expecting God to be born in our midst will creep in and move us with a swift whoosh toward the celebration of Christmas. But in those days……in these days…..we still can watch for the great joy that is ours. If we are awake. If we are open to the juicy, red apples that fall our way everyday.

The ending of the month of October and the start of November provides us with an interesting time. In church circles, this is the time of the celebration of All Souls’ and All Saints’ days, those days when we honor those who have passed on into eternity, the time when we speak of the veil between this world and the next as being very thin. On these days we remember that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses…..those who have informed and shaped out lives, those who have given birth to us, accompanied us on life’s path, mentored us.

But these celebrations are not what I refer to today. I am thinking about how, nearly every other year, we have a convergence of Halloween, the World Series and a political election. This year the intersection of these events has been quite interesting to me.   As Halloween has taken on nearly the magnitude of Christmas in the amount of dollars spent for decorations and costumes, it is difficult to ignore its cultural presence. Make no mistake, I would never want to ignore it.  People,children and adults alike, dress up to be someone or something other than who they truly are. I don’t know about others but I found this distraction welcome in the barrage of negative and vitriolic political ads tossed my way with mind-bending speed. Carving pumpkins, decorating our house for the two and half hours of trick-or-treating, amassing large amounts of chocolate seemed a gift in the midst of it all.

Given the fact that the Twins did not make it to the World Series, I was not glued to the television as I might have been. But I found myself switching channels to check in every now and then, watching what seemed like a motley crew that made up the San Francisco Giants. I found myself rooting for them and their opportunity to win a prize that had not been theirs in decades. Those underdogs get my heart, and my allegiance, every time. Between baseball,miniature chocolate bars and the promise of being enchanted by small goblins, I found myself soothed. No matter what the political meanness might dish up, in the end, we would survive.

I did, however, entertain a fantasy. What if, instead of hurling truths and untruths toward one another, the candidates were made to play a game, like baseball, for instance? What if, to win the election, they actually had to decide who might be the best pitcher, cool and calm under pressure? Who might be most likely to knock the ball over the wall? Slide on their stomach to catch a wildly flying pop up? In other words, what if they, without partisanship, all decided to act as if they were all on the same team working for the good of everyone? What if they finished their big win by giving credit to all the players who made their job look easy, who supported them with loud cheers as they rounded the bases for a home run? What if they remembered that not one individual could make the game happen but that it took everyone, everyone, everyone to do what needs to be done? What if, at the end of it all, they could all run together into an enormous heap and do one of those big group hugs of jubilation, their faces full of all the childhood dreams come true in a single moment?

It is a fantasy, I know. But every now and then I just have to don my Pollyanna costume and dream big. Dream big and reach into the left over candy for another tiny Snickers.

Yesterday at church, I was asking all the children what they planned to be for Halloween. I love watching their faces as they admit to what may be a deep desire for hidden powers……Batman….Wonder Woman…..Power Ranger. Some also choose a costume that, on someone else, might actually frighten them as, perhaps a way to gain courage. Halloween is day when kids rule. I have to confess an unusual love for this day. To see the children come to our door dressed in all manner of ways, holding out their bag saying “Trick or Treat” brings me such joy.

Last night one little princess, when given the opportunity to choose candy from the bowl rather than having me put it her bag, spent an unusually long time perusing the bowl. She looked at all the candy….large chocolate bars, bags of M&M’s, colorful lollipops,  bright red jawbreakers, bubble gum…..only to reach her little fingers in and choose one tiny Tootsie Roll. Her disposition fit her lovely costume and I got a glimpse into the sweetness of her gracious personality. It simultaneously brought laughter and tears to my eyes.

However, yesterday at church I greeted a mom and dad and their twin two year old boys with the question: “What are you going to be for Halloween?”. The parents answered: “monkeys.” The two boys,moved about the space in constant motion, gave me a grin. “Of course, they are.” I thought. At that moment I was sure that there are times of nearly every day when these two loving parents feel as if they are surrounded by a barrel of monkeys!

But the moment provided a perfect time for me to tell how, while at the Iona Abbey, I became aware of a very interesting architectural sight. In the chancel area, just opposite the communion altar, there is a beautiful cathedral window. Carved into the stone on one side of the window is the image of a cat. On the other side is the image of a monkey. The story goes that the images of these animals were carved there as a reminder. The monkey represents the active and busy side of life while the cat reminds us of the stillness of prayer and contemplation. As people of faith, we need both. The balance of active service and silence and contemplation can be an ever moving target for which many people long.

This reminder of the balance between monkey and cat is not only for our spiritual health but also for our physical and mental health. We hold the monkey and the cat in each hand. One feeds the depth of wisdom of the other.

It is an important reminder for our faith walk…….and for weary, busy parents.

Grant us, Lord, that balance
of action and stillness,
of work and play
that fits the wholeness you intend for us.
Help us to see that all is prayer;
all things part of life with You.
~Chris Polhill

“For the first showings of the morning light
and the emerging outline of the day
thanks be to you, O God.
For earth’s colours drawn forth by the sun
its brilliance piercing clouds of darkness
and shimmering through leaves and flowing waters
thanks be to you.
Show to me this day
amidst life’s dark streaks of wrong and suffering
the light that endures in every person.
Dispel the confusions that cling close to my soul
that I may see with eyes washed by your grace
that I may see myself and all people
with eyes cleansed by the freshness of the new day’s light.”
~J. Philip Newell, Celtic Benediction:Morning and Night Prayer

Yesterday, I began my day with this prayer. I sat at a neighborhood coffee shop having my warm cup of coffee, staring into the middle distance at the cars and people rushing by. Now it may seem odd to some that I would have my morning prayer in a coffee shop, but as an extrovert, I am often the most present to myself and to the Holy when I am surrounded by the energy of others. It is just a fact. I have tried to make it otherwise, spending my time distracted in quiet places, forcing myself to pay attention to the silence. While I do need these moments of solitude to remain grounded, I receive a very needed connection in the presence of others…..much like a cord plugged into an electrical outlet.

Reading this prayer slowly to myself as I watched the beginning of a new day, I was aware of how each person I saw, including myself, were in the same boat. We were all starting out our Wednesday, October 27, 2010. The sun had recently come up in the eastern sky, the autumn leaves were blowing in the terrific wind outside in the street. Possibility was all around.

And yet as I looked out at the young man waiting for the bus at the stop across the street, I wondered what the possibility of his day really held. He looked tired, disheveled. And the two women sitting at the table nearby who were in intense conversation about, what appeared, something deeply important to them. What bound them together in such rich conversation? And the young coffee barista, the one that always remembers my ‘regular’, flirting coyly with her beloved across the counter. What did their day hold?

As the prayer indicates, each of us carries a certain darkness and suffering that is visible and invisible to others. The world also carries such a heaviness. But, if we allow ourselves, we can choose to glimpse ‘the light that endures in every person’. I believe that as we glimpse that light, if we take a moment to fan that flame through our interactions or our removed prayers for that person, the light grows and illuminates not only the individual, but also the world. Too often we only allow ourselves to give energy to that darkness, that suffering. By averting our eyes, by ignoring the other, by simply not being present, we can miss the opportunity to bring out the light in another person’s life. When we do, we miss the moment for ‘our eyes to be washed by grace.’ In missing the opportunity of recognizing the depth of suffering and the immensity of joy in those with whom we travel life’s path, we lose out on the chance to have grace rain down on us.

As a new day dawns, may we all find our eyes wide open with the chance……with the choice…of connecting to that enduring light that glows at the center of all Creation. Amidst life’s dark streaks, to do anything else, would really be a shame.

On this rainy day, I am thinking about ideas. Something about these darker, rainy and windy days appeals to my creative side. Don’t know what that is about. It just is. And so it seemed quite appropriate to me that I was privy to an MPR interview with author Stephen Johnson who has written a book entitled Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation. His topic was intriguing and he was also a very engaged and engaging interview. His general premise is that all good ideas are the result of our connections with others and the environment in which we travel, work, play, and make our lives.

Now this may seem like a no-brainer to some. But think of the number of times we look with envy and admiration toward those who seem to be the innovators, the big idea people, the problem solvers. Johnson’s premise is that no one creates anything completely alone. While some may claim credit for having done so, all good ideas, all new ideas are a synthesis of thoughts, and experiences that come together to form something greater than any one innovation or innovator. Any new idea was birthed through the relationships, the conversations, the shared dreams, of many people. It may first be spoken aloud or manufactured by one person but much led up to any initial entrance of an idea into the universe.

Of course, we are always drawn, I believe, to people who speak words we have thought but perhaps not spoken before. When someone else is able to articulate a deep belief you have, it becomes a mighty ‘ah’ha’ moment and a great affirmation. This was my experience listening to this interview. And it probably was so rich to me today because I have so recently had just such an experience of an idea that has now been carried to its conclusion through the creative work of so many.

This fall our faith community has held the theme “A Story to Stand On”. I have written about this theme in this space before. It started with recognizing that the scriptures to be used in worship this fall would contain some of the most familiar Christian stories. Through several conversations, we talked about how we are all held together with the stories of our faith, our families, our nation, the circles in which we travel….so many stories that go into shaping who we are, how we express ourselves in the world. We began asking people to share the scripture stories that ground them. We then asked people to tell stories of how being a part of our church community has shaped them. Finally, we asked them to allow us to record their stories in the spirit of the Story Corps project often featured on public radio and compiled in the book Listening Is An Act of Love.

After these stories were recorded, other people got involved, creating art to introduce the story, music to embellish and hold the people’s words. Still other people listened to all the recordings, choosing significant parts that could be shared with the wider community. And then another person took all these pieces and created yet another iteration of this idea into a short Story to Stand On video. As I now watch them, I am moved every time by the stories people hold within them, about the stories people have to share.

Along the way no one single person could have continued this project. It needed all the players to create the final result. This is the same with every new idea, every new project, composition, book, invention, solution that is being birthed this very minute. The Spirit(I believe) moves through the center of it all whipping up the winds of creativity and connecting those involved into some greater good, something larger than any individual idea. It happens in large and small ways every day. And so it has been since the beginning of Creation.

What new idea is being birthed in you today? Who do you need to invite into your circle of creativity? The Spirit is waiting to dance through it all. Ready. Set. Go.

If you are interested in seeing some of these amazing stories go to: tv.hennepinchurch.org