Gratitude is the first verse of my hymn. I’m insisting on that, no matter what comes next.
The news of a young friend’s death coincides with moving a forty year-old father of three into a hospice room.
His mother tells me she still believes in God, more than ever, but she and He will have a “good talk” when they meet face to face.
It is Spring again.
There’s a new baby.
Old friends celebrate big birthdays.
(Mercy, always Mercy is the refrain)
Rain and sun. Daffodils and skunk cabbage. Hooligans. Crying gulls and roaring sea lions.
A whale!
(There must be a verse for Love)
Community celebrations, community arguments, crowded meetings, and solitary prayers.
(And one for Forgiveness)
Monday dawns with earthquakes. Seriously strong.
(What about a bass drum?)
The ground shook. We braced ourselves in the bed. This is lasting a long time, you said. Should we run? I asked. Then it stopped, and were wide awake.
6.3 you read on the iPad. That would have leveled a village in Italy.
Our home. Our town. Our neighbors, are all unscathed.
( Hear that gratitude descant?)
What should we do now?
Go for a ride.
Wear a helmet, and goggles if you need them.
Look both ways.
Buckle Joy into her car seat.
Sing with me, she says. Please sing a new song.
(Joyful hymns to thee we raise)
