Easter in the Desert

Today is Easter, and in Atlanta it's raining. More to it, we are stuck inside because of the shelter-in-place order, and unable to worship in Church. Many are unable to celebrate at all, because they are fighting illness or suddenly unemployed. It feels like we are still in the desert, remarked Father this morning in his homily.

And yet we still celebrate - we still rejoice, shouting Alleluia! as we ring bells and sing.

I was talking with a woman a few months ago during Advent, who was puzzled about the reasons we enter into the desert of Lent, or the darkness of Advent. She rejoices in a risen Christ, a world where light has already entered and the promise of salvation already attained. And she wondered - what is the point of the drama? Why bother acting as if God was not with us when He is?

Personally, I think it is crucial to our faith to enter into the Liturgical Year, because life isn't Easter eggs and butterflies and flowers (this year is certainly teaching us as much). Most days, we don't get excitement and the pleasant surprise of the resurrection. We get the dull monotony of yet another day that seems like every day that came before. We get the pain of an unexpected diagnosis, or divorce, or death.

The Liturgical Year intentionally walks through much of scripture - and we are encouraged to take up and read as well - for exactly this reason. When we read through salvation history and God's self-revelation through scripture - the good, bad, and ugly - we see how God was at work, even when life was bleak. Judges, Lamentations, Job: they all tell the ways that God was working even when all seemed hopeless.

This is meant to encourage us, just as much as the resurrection - although, perhaps it only can encourage us in light of the resurrection.

God allowed the Fall, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the slavery of Israel by Egypt, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the split of the Kingdom, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the destruction of the Temple, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the exile, to give us the resurrection.
He allowed the Crucifixion, to give us the resurrection.

O Happy Fault that merited such and so great a Redeemer!

You know, it occurred to me that - yes, this current pandemic is clearly the worst thing much of the world, collectively, has lived through. But we all have tragedies. Darkness is just as much a part of life as light. It doesn't take a global catastrophe to give us a need for hope, it simply takes a single moment that brings us to our knees and makes us wonder - why, God?

The resurrection give us hope that in all things God is working for your good, that He is for you, that He loves you, that He has not forgotten you.

Rejoice in the Lord always, urges Saint Paul. Christ is the Divine Bridegroom, and we are His bride, pledging our fidelity. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.

It is raining in Atlanta today on Easter, and we are living in dark times; and still we will celebrate, for what God is doing even here and now - all in light of the resurrection. Christ is risen; He is truly risen, alleluia!

Waiting - Triduum Journal (Holy Saturday, 40/40)

Holy Saturday is a day of waiting. We wait to sing the Alleluia. [1] We wait to celebrate Christ's resurrection. We wait to feast and rejoice and turn the lights on.

It seems fitting, seeing as we are also waiting for the end of this epidemic. Waiting for health updates of those we worry about. Waiting to visit friends and family. Waiting for the lifting of restrictions. Waiting for churches and businesses to re-open. Waiting to receive the Eucharist. Some types of "waiting" are more painful than others, require more patience and cost more of our emotional strength.

But you know, today we also remember the years that Jesus waited for us. As eager as Christ was to save us, it's a wonder He took as long as He did in order to begin. He waited 30 years before beginning his public ministry, but I can just imagine him as a kid, asking Mary and Joseph - Can I redeem them today, Mom? No, beloved child; today's not the day either.

But even that waiting was nothing, because God "waited" [2] through millennia, slowly revealing Himself to us. The Easter Vigil offers us a brief glimpse at salvation history - "the great rescue operation" - Creation; Fall; Flood; Sacrifice; Covenant; Kingdom; Exile. We see the way God formed a people, Israel, who would seek after His heart and image His love to the nations. But it took ages, and we can't conceive of the reasons God determined to bring about our redemption the way He did. God waited for the right moment, knowing His chosen people would turn away again and again, and He always calling them back - reminding them of His love for them.

We remember the centuries Israel waited for the Messiah - the centuries after the kingdom split. The ten Northern tribes captured and scattered. The Southern tribe of Judah exiled to Babylon, the Temple destroyed, and the line of kings shattered. The rebuilding of the Temple, but without God's presence - without the Ark. Waiting through conqueror after conqueror. [3]

And now, we know how the story ends - Jesus Christ, True God and True Man, who takes the sin of the world unto Himself. He performed signs and wonders, taught, preached, cast out demons, and forgave sins, all while proclaiming the Kingdom of God. Through all this, His ministry interminably led Him to Jerusalem; wherein He was ultimately condemned to death for blasphemy - for declaring Himself the Son of God. He carried the weight of all our guilt to Calvary and offered His life for our sake out of love for you and me.

But even that wasn't the end, because tonight we celebrate the monumental and unthinkable fact of His resurrection - the Empty Tomb. He defeated sin and death, taking on the worst of all - and each - of us, swallowing it up and showing only His Mercy in its place. Incredibly, God shows us that He redeems all the broken bits of ourselves, making them beautiful.

But still, we wait. And He waits. We may know the end of the story - Satan defeated, our resurrections, a New Heavens and New Creation, every tear wiped away for all eternity - but we haven't reached the end yet. We are still living in the midst of a story that continues until God only knows when. He continues to call us to repentance, to salvation, to receiving His life into our very being.

So here we are, on Holy Saturday, remembering all the waitings that have been, are, and will be; knowing what will come tomorrow, but knowing that we are not yet there.

Let us continue to wait.

[1] It's not time yet, so I don't want to spoil it

[2] It appeared that way to us, at least. Being outside of time, there is no concept of God waiting. Just saying.

[3] If you haven't read the whole of scripture, I encourage you to do so - it's beautiful, if viewed through the proper lens.

Life and Death United - Triduum Journal (Good Friday, 39/40)

Lord, the day you died ... the world went on turning. Infants were born. Fish-mongers continued selling fish. Shepherds continued tending their flocks. The sun continued to burn, and You continued to sustain the cosmos.

Somehow, everyone kept breathing, even as You gave up your spirit.

On a day that should have resulted in the end of everything, much of the world didn't even take note. People had their own problems, their own hopes, their own lives.

Isn't it so utterly mysterious? Today we celebrate what was humanity's most tragic moment, when we looked at God-become-man and spat in Your face as You longed to redeem and love us back to life. Even on an earthly level, we condemned an innocent man to death and abandoned him.

Not all. Not all abandoned You. The women devoted to You were there - all of them. John, the beloved disciple, was there. Simon of Cyrene - even if he was conscripted - still faithfully bore Your cross and eased the journey up to Calvary. But most of us turned against You.

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And yet You died for them. For all. For each of us. Your devotion to us was total, and as You hung from the tree You offered Yourself entirely to us.

That tree. I would want to curse it, if it weren't such a beautiful gift. You deserved better - infinitely better - and yet You embraced it, knowing all that would come because of it.

I would want to take Your place. Or ease Your suffering. Or find another way, a better way, so You could continue living. You, whose life was most precious. Come down from the Cross, Lord. How could anything good possibly come of this moment happening this way to You? It is so easy to see only the finality to death, forgetting the resurrection.

But we know how that would have gone. Get behind me, Satan, You said to Peter when he made the same offer. You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.

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We have thousands of doctors, nurses, surgeons, and others who are living their own Good Fridays today. Offering their lives for the sake of their patients, selflessly giving up everything for the sake of the other. Thousands of people will die today, many of them alone or abandoned. They have borne our infirmities and carried our diseases. To see the gift of their lives as only a tragedy (which it certainly is) would be a mistake. There is so much life that will grow from these sacrifices.

If this world is all there is - if this earthly life is all there is - the Cross is senseless. Suffering and death are meaningless. There would be no reason to endure any of it, no ultimate purpose besides the ugliness.

Your vision is different. If the ultimate purpose of life is love, which is to say death to self, the Cross is everything. The greater the Cross, the greater the opportunity for love. The more suffering endured, the more we can find ourselves seeking God and faithfully uniting ourselves with You, who suffered most.

This is how we find true life, You tell us, in marrying ourselves to You. Just as You offer us everything - all that You are, and all that You have - we do the same in return. We find life in giving ourselves away, just as You did.

Stripping the Altar - Triduum Journal (Maundy Thursday, 38/40)

I'm finding it especially difficult to write about the Triduum this year.

My initial instinct on Maundy Thursday would be to talk about the importance of spending time with Jesus in the garden, honoring him for the agony he endured alone and promising to never leave him that way again. I do intend to spend a Holy Hour this evening in prayer in front of the church - as near as I can get to what I want this night to be - but it won't be the same. It feels like that has been stripped away.

Following that, I want to write about Jesus washing the feet of the disciples - the importance of his example of servant leadership. The need for humility and vulnerability when all we have been taught is the importance of standing on our own. But for so many of us at the moment, servanthood means being at home. So it feels a bit like that, too, has been stripped away.

Obviously we could also talk about the Eucharist - the importance of Jesus instituting it at Passover, and seeing Jesus as the true sacrificial Lamb of God, whose flesh we must eat and whose blood washes us clean. The Church still has the Eucharist, but most of us can't receive at the moment. Yet another aspect of tonight that has been stripped away.

We could talk about how today we also celebrated the institution of the ordained priesthood. There are so many beautiful examples right now of shepherds putting their lives on the line for the sake of their flocks, and we could emphasize just how wonderful it is that we have these men who trust Our Lord so much. But the primary purpose of the priesthood is the sacraments, and while that hasn't strictly been stripped away, our access to the sacramental life of the Church has been greatly limited.

So I guess that leaves the stripping of the altar and the removing of the Blessed Sacrament, two of the most somber moments from the Maundy Thursday liturgy. There is something so stark about seeing the Church emptied of all color and stripped down to its bare wood and stone, and I think this year especially the image is so poignant.

Frankly, we're already living that.

We've been living with a stripped-down Church and a stripped-down life the past few weeks, and I know just how hard it is to see one thing after another taken away. We have entered into the Maundy Thursday liturgy, and we're just ready to move on to Easter Sunday - the renewal of color, and warmth, and life.

This stripping-down is something to embrace, because it will lead to resurrection. The Church strips the altar as the soldiers stripped Our Lord. In the same way, we can strip the altars of our hearts - removing all the stuff and leaving behind the bare basics.

Here is our opportunity. Tonight, we can dim the lights. We can turn off the computer and the music and empty ourselves the way our Churches are empty. In place, we can let Our Lord fill us with His presence the way He fills the tabernacle. We can become an Altar of Repose ourselves, where Jesus rests this night.

Tonight, we may not have much that we want. But we still have all that we need.

All the Difference - Lent Journal (Spy Wednesday - 37/40)

When it was evening, he reclined at table with the Twelve. And while they were eating, he said, “Amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” Deeply distressed at this, they began to say to him one after another, “Surely it is not I, Lord?” He said in reply, “He who has dipped his hand into the dish with me is the one who will betray me. The Son of Man indeed goes, as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better for that man if he had never been born.” Then Judas, his betrayer, said in reply, “Surely it is not I, Rabbi?” He answered, “You have said so.” (Mt 26:20-25)

What do you think got Judas to the point that he no longer recognized Jesus as Lord? How long had he been following him as a disciple, but simply going through the motions? Regardless, when it came down to the end - to the upper room, Passover, and the Last Supper - he shows his hand in calling Jesus "Rabbi".

The difference is everything.

One says that Jesus is a great teacher, prophet, healer - perhaps even Messiah - and there is respect in that. But the other recognizes the qualitative difference, that Jesus is God.

One recognizes that there are great spiritual insights to be learned from this man. But the other declares that this man can forgive sins and defeat death.

But I do still wonder: what was Judas's fall? Did it begin when Peter declared Jesus's divinity? Was it the Bread of Life Discourse (John 6)? Was it disillusionment with the type of kingdom that the Son of David was establishing? Was it when Jesus asked his disciples to take up their crosses and follow him? Maybe it was just all the rules?

I think the question for us is: are there any conditions where we would stop seeing Jesus as Lord? Or, I guess a better way to frame the question: are there conditions where we would stop serving Jesus as Lord? We have to confront that question and identify the answer, then ask for the grace of faith to invite Him into that place of weakness.

What was the moment where the rest of the twelve truly gave themselves to Him? In the meanwhile, Judas straggled behind. Maybe he hoped he would eventually get it. Maybe he started looking for an opportunity to take advantage.

Either way, he stopped trusting Jesus and began trusting himself. Because if Jesus isn't Lord, then he is no more authority than any other great guru. He certainly isn't someone you devote your entire self to serving. In doing so, Judas cut himself off from hope, because he lost sight of God's vision for us.

Judas lowered his eyes - lowered his desires - to something less than what was on offer, because he didn't recognize that it was being offered in the person of Jesus: redemption, sanctification, and finally being whole.

The rest of the twelve betrayed Jesus as well in abandoning him in the Garden. Peter even denied knowing him altogether. They weren't perfect, and they needed years of grace poured into them to become the great Saints they became. Their failures were never the issue, because God's mercy is greater than our weaknesses. They repented, asked for forgiveness, were reconciled, and started again.

But we have to know that forgiveness is being extended, so we don't despair when we inevitably fall short. We have to look upward and outward, rather than settling. Knowing who Jesus is makes all the difference.

Resting and Divine Intimacy - Lent Journal (Tuesday, Holy Week - 36/40)

One of [Jesus's] disciples, the one whom Jesus loved, was reclining at Jesus’ side. So Simon Peter nodded to him to find out whom he meant. He leaned back against Jesus’ chest and said to him,“Master, who is it?” (Jn 13:23-25)

The presence of God in the Old Testament was always fearful to approach - you couldn't touch Him, you couldn't see Him (except in part), you certainly couldn't rest against Him. God's presence protected Israel, but the Ark of the Covenant couldn't be touched. When you go outside on a clear night and see the vastness of the universe, you experience the numinous - a spiritual experience of the divine - but it is always distant, something to be observed.

I love that the Incarnation makes God tangible. I adore the images of those who get to touch Him - Simeon and Anna holding him; John baptizing him; the woman who experienced hemorrhaging; the little girl he raises; Mary, who anoints His feet and dries them with her hair; Thomas, who gets to explore his pierced side. Even the centurion who nailed Christ to the Cross came into contact with the Divine in a way no prophet or king of Israel ever had.

John, the beloved disciple, got to rest his head against Jesus's chest. The operative term is rest - this is an image of Divine Intimacy, of total vulnerability and drawing near to his Sacred Heart. We are meant to place ourselves in the narrative - we are the beloved disciple.

But even that pales in comparison with what is being offered once our redemption was won. John rested his head on Jesus's chest; we have entered into Christ's body. And, in turn, Christ has entered into ours.

I'm leaving this post short tonight because I think Our Lord wants to speak to us through this image. I think He wants us to pray with this in mind: that we, even now, can rest against a lover who truly cares for us and longs to embrace us - the Bridegroom embracing his Bride.

Walking on Anointed Feet - Lent Journal (Monday, Holy Week - 35/40)

At the end of the long, tiresome march

   up to Calvary

stumbling, falling, rising again

   only to be Crucified

Do you think Mary's anointing made it somehow

   easier

      painless

         comfortable?

Did his feet bleed any less

   when they were pierced?

Did the aromatic nard cover the stench of

   sweat

      blood

         death?

I suspect not.

In any measurable sense, the spilling of perfume accomplished nothing.

And yet

   that act of kindness

      of devotion

         of gratitude

carried Jesus up the mountain

   as He walked

      on anointed feet.

Perhaps we place too much value

   on the results of our actions

and not enough

   on the love that is demonstrated?

Interrupted Routines - Lent Journal (Passion Sunday)

It was an otherwise ordinary day in 1st century Jerusalem, with villagers from the surrounding countryside entering the city to prepare for the upcoming Passover sacrifice. Hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visited the religious center of Judaism in the course of a week, as they had done daily for a thousand years (minus the Babylonian exile, that is).

It was the same ceremony year in and year out, commemorating an event none of the faithful had lived through: the institution of the Passover, the Exodus from Egypt, the freeing from slavery. Families had their standard visits to purchase their lamb, bread, and bitter herbs; visiting the temple; offering the lamb to the priest; and, of course, the Passover meal. But a lifetime of running through the same events can easily lose its deeper religious significance. Beyond the reminders on the Passover evening from the father of the family, the event could have become routine; ordinary; a non-event.

When a preacher from Galilee entered town riding an ass, everyone woke up; who was that? they wondered, as they rushed over to see who was generating all the excitement. Heard all through the city were the sounds of Hossana to the Son of David, effectively declaring this man King. He swept into the city, interrupting all the typical festivities of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. He entered the courtyard of the temple preaching and calling for repentance, scattering money-changers and booths, and flipping more than just tables.

By the time the Passover came about, nobody was walking through the motions. That same preacher would be arrested and condemned to death for blasphemy on the holiest of all nights, and I suspect the news spread through the city and interrupted the plans of every single faithful Jew.

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Today was such an unusual way to celebrate Palm Sunday. We did a small procession of palms around the cul-de-sac before going in and having Mass. We made palm crosses and generally enjoyed ourselves. But it simply isn't the same.

I guess the thing I'm wondering about the most tonight is what we're going to do with this situation. We've been broken out of the ordinary and the mundane (even the ordinary and mundane that only come once a year). The typical ways we celebrate Holy Week have been scattered like so many disciples after the Last Supper, and those of us who still celebrate Holy Week are forced to get creative.

Whenever you know what to expect year after year - especially in any type of ceremony - it can be so easy to go through the motions. This is the way it's always been done, we say, and we don't think about the deeper significance. We lose our sense of wonder for the fact that there is a ceremony at all.

We take it for granted that on Palm Sunday (Passion Sunday) we will get our palms blessed; hear the Gospel account of Jesus's entry into Jerusalem; process into church singing All Glory, Laud, and Honor. Even the shouts of Let him be crucified! become just another expected part of the liturgy, and we miss some of the meaning that should hit us in it all.

Speaking for myself, I love Holy Week. I love all the liturgy, all the details and events throughout the Triduum. I'm going to be missing them, and it's not going to be the same. But it occurs to me that this interruption might be an opportunity.

We can almost make an idol out of the liturgy of Holy Week (I say all this as a lover of the liturgy), treating it like a retired band that still performs all the old hits at gigs. Play "Washing of the feet", we say. Or we wonder at how Father didn't give us enough time to venerate the Cross on Good Friday. Or we get upset because there were too many readings at the Easter Vigil. Or too few readings.

Liturgy and ceremony are important. But only because they point to something that is significant and meaningful. For some of us, in wanting the perfect Holy Week we made it all about the aesthetics and the choreography. For others, we just wanted to skip past all the fluff and get straight to Easter. Regardless, we forgot the real message of the Gospel in God's love for us through Jesus's passion, death, and resurrection.

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As I said - what I'm wondering about tonight is how these circumstances will wake us up. Will we look at the liturgy in a whole new light? Will we be able to successfully look past the liturgy to the person of Jesus, putting a new perspective on this Week? Will we find new ways of getting back to the Paschal mystery that is at the heart of the liturgy? Will we come to see Jesus's sacrifice through fresh eyes?

Jesus's Last Sabbath - Lent Journal (33/40)

What would you do if you knew you were going to die in one week? As we enter into Holy Week, we get to retrace Jesus's last steps - the final days of his life, as he entered into the mystery of his Passion, Death, and Resurrection.

But we're not there yet. Tonight is Jesus's last Sabbath. His final day of rest. His final opportunity to simply enjoy his Father's Creation.

I bet he spent it in Bethany with Mary, Martha, and Lazarus - with dear friends, steeling himself for the whirlwind of his entry into Jerusalem. I bet they knew what he was about to do, and spent the evening comforting him. Maybe Lazarus even reminded Jesus that he, too, would be raised - just as he had been.

How was the Jewish Sabbath celebrated in the first century? Did he break bread and bless wine, thinking already of what he would do in six nights? Did he sing hymns and make joyful noise, or was he silent as he kept all these things, and pondered them in his heart, the way his mother did at his birth?

Speaking of Mary ... was she with him for a final family meal, Mother and Son eating together for the last time? Were there tears, hugs, kisses? Long goodbyes and toasts in commemoration for what was about to take place? Reminders to stay faithful and trust the Father's will even in the total darkness that was to come?

Did they read the Torah? Did they step through the creation story in Genesis, while Jesus reminded them that he was there bringing about creation? Did they look at Exodus and the manna in the desert, as Jesus showed them how he would be fulfilling the prototype in the Eucharist? Did they read the prophecies of the Suffering Servant and the Messianic promises in Isaiah, as Jesus told them yet again how it would be brought about?

Do you think Jesus slept at all that night? Do you think Jesus would have suffered from insomnia or racing thoughts? Did every moment seem to race by - far too quickly - as they brought him one heartbeat closer to Calvary?

I don't know. If it was me, I wouldn't have slept at all that night. I'd have been wide awake with a mind that wouldn't stop thinking about all the moments that got me to that point. I'd be revisiting conversations that had long since ended. I would be second-guessing because I haven't yet learned to abandon myself to Divine Providence.

Lord, thank you so much for your last Sabbath. Thank you for giving us this coming week. Give us hearts that draw nearer to you and long to see, and touch, and smell. Give us minds that come to life in contemplating your words and deeds, inspired to comprehend just a bit more of the mystery. Give us feet that will draw us after you in walking the Via Dolorosa, carrying our own Crosses. Give us redemption, resurrection, and waves of unending mercy. Give us yourself, poured out and always on offer for us to receive.

Staying In and Going Out - Lent Journal (32/40)

This evening I met Alfonso, a man experiencing homelessness, while picking up dinner. I gave him some money (I made sure not to touch him as I handed him the money) and sat with him for a bit (at a safe distance) to learn more about his story. I also called a few hotels to find him a room for the night (I tried to find a way to get one within walking distance for him, so he could go on his own). Turns out he didn't have an ID, so I needed to book the room in my name and then drive him over (I had both of us use hand sanitizer, opened the door for him, and had him sit in the back seat). After I signed the paperwork at the hotel (I used hand sanitizer again), and shook Alfonso's hand (used hand sanitizer yet again), and drove home (used a disinfecting wipe to wipe down the inside of the car where he had sat, changed my clothes, and washed my hands).

I included all those parentheticals just to say, I was very conscious of how to minimize risk every step of the way. And yet it still may not have been enough, and I'm sure quite a few people are reading this thinking it was a foolish thing to do.

I get it. We have to be so careful right now, and we have a shelter-in-place order for a reason. Especially for myself, I'm conscious of the fact that I have a son - albeit one who I don't see every day - and my parents are visiting this weekend (that's a separate story). All the warnings are right, and people should be at home away for the sake of everyone else.

But I'm still left wondering: if all the people who can shelter-in-place do so, what about all those who have no shelter? If all the people who have sufficient food remain at home, what about all those who are going without? If all those who can care for themselves stay safe, what about all those who require care?

Food pantries, homeless shelters, meal packing for families experiencing food insecurity ... these still need to exist. Individuals keeping an eye out for others ... we need these too. Heck, we've already established that we need grocers, cleaners, EMS workers, etc. As much as we would love to just shut down society altogether for 6 weeks, it doesn't quite work that way in practice. And the ones who suffer the most are the ones who can't afford to be left to their own devices. If all the helpers remain at home - lots of vulnerable people are going to have issues.

I say this even as I also say that every necessary step should be taken to avoid infection, including avoiding going out altogether. But when you see someone in need, it would be callous to simply ignore them. Even more when you feel the tug of the Holy Spirit telling you to give from the heart, from your abundance.

I don't know. I don't have any real answers. I just know that we belong to each other. We owe it to those most at risk of serious complications from the virus, and to the weak and helpless in our communities.

Desiderata - Lent Journal (31/40)

Back in 2002 when I graduated from high school, my grandfather gave me this framed poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann. I let it collect dust until just a few months ago, when I pulled it out and put it where I can see it every day. Right now it's sitting next to my computer on my home office desk, and I'm reading through it tonight while trying to come up with something to write about.

Go placidly amid the noise & haste, & remember what peace there may be in silence.

For the longest time I assumed this referred to my own silence (avoiding conflict), but I think just as valid an interpretation - and potentially more significant - is our need to embrace silence, to find a break from the shouting and constant news from across the globe.

Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity & disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

My girlfriend and I are continuing to pray together throughout the day, and especially tonight we were encouraging each other to maintain hope. Both of us are frustrated at the uncertainty, at the struggle to find ways to serve and support the local community, at the knowledge that the next three weeks are going to get bad for our hospitals and those who care for people who cannot care for themselves. We all need to cling to love right now.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. 

Honestly, this afternoon was just hard, and the most recent news out of Georgia has not made things any easier. On a personal level: my son's birthday is next week, and my parents were planning to visit this weekend. At the moment I'm thinking it may be best to not chance it. I'm feeling a bit crushed that they won't be here. I know my son will be as well, though I'm going to try and make the most of it with him - he will bounce back, with a lot of help. I could use some coaching and encouragement myself, to be honest, and no question I need more sleep.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Boy, is that a tough nut to swallow at the moment. I'm sure I am not alone in that respect. Lord, I do believe; help my unbelief.

Therefore be at peace with God ... in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

Keep peace with your soul ... it's an effort, but doable. Maintain hope, remind ourselves of the great examples of saints who have gone before us, remember that even this is temporary.

With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

We do live in a beautiful world, and the people in it make it that much more beautiful, if that were possible. The encouragement, strength of resolve, unity and solidarity in the face of disaster is simply breathtaking. We're going to press on and keep struggling for every single life.