It’s almost Christmas. It’s the fourth week of advent. And we wait. But for what?
Well, we say, we wait for the birth of Jesus, of course. We wait to welcome him again to the world because, unlike those people in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago, we would make room for him in the “inns” of our hearts. Good answer. But would we?
Actually, perhaps the better question is, “do we?” For certainly the opportunity still awaits us. In his essay, “The Time of the End is the Time of No Room,” Thomas Merton writes:
“Into this world, this demented inn, in which there is absolutely no room for Him at all, Christ has come uninvited. But because He cannot be at home in it, because He is out of place in it, and yet must be in it, His place is with those others for whom there is no room. His place is with those who do not belong, who are rejected by power because they are regarded as weak, those who are discredited, who are denied status as persons, who are tortured, bombed, and exterminated. With those for whom there is no room, Christ is present in the world.”
I’m not sure there has been another time in my 55 years that I have felt so much like I was living in a “demented inn.” The world seems wracked in pain — in war, terrorism and every conceivable kind of violence. And yet, Christ comes — has come and continues to come — to us all. Whether we invite him or not, whether we are aware or not, Christ is present. He is not far away, waiting on a high mountain for us to struggle up to him. He is not buried deep in the rubble of history waiting for us to excavate him. Rather, he is standing right beside us, waiting for us to turn toward him.
And when we do that and find him in the comfort of our warm homes, we must be aware of all the others to whom he has come as well. For if Christ lives in us, as we Christians so often claim, then it falls to us to be the sane room in the demented inn, available to others. It is up to us to present Christ to the world, and especially to those who seem to have no room to go to. If Christ’s place is with those who are weak and do not belong, then so is ours.
For those who do not belong,
For those rejected by power,
For the weak and discredited,
For those denied status as persons,
For the tortured, bombed and exterminated,
For those who have no room,
For the immigrant,
For the victim,
For the persecuted,
For the unjustly accused,
For the ignored,
For those led into lives of violence,
Yes even them,
Christ is present.
And where am I?
I stand at the edge of the world
Sea and sand swirling ‘round my feet
Anchored by the weight of the pulling and swelling
Facing outward, toward a monochrome horizon
Ocean and sky barely distinguishable one from the other
A landscape that could have been sketched by a No. 2 pencil.
Hidden in plain view before the sand and the foam
I sing you a song only you can hear within the roar,
A song I’ve known from before I could even pronounce the words
Prayers from my Grandmother’s throat as she rocks me to sleep
A lullaby that lured me into a bigger life than I could possibly imagine.
And as I sing, blowing words into the wind that rush back into my mouth
The clouds shift ever so slightly, a last-ditch effort, it seems,
For a sunny day that has not been,
And I catch glimpses of something beyond
black, white, gray.
A gull’s beak, the color of a yield sign.
How had I missed that?
A soaring pelican with a hint of blue in its wing.
No, wait. Brown. Green.
There it is. Blue again.
Further out, white swimming buoys bob,
Nearly lost in the metallic except for the red icon of danger,
A warning not to be missed,
A signal that there is always something waiting, lurking
Something to be seen.
For if we look
Give ourselves over to standing still,
Rejoicing in the present, recalling the past, peering ahead.
We are sure to see in all three directions at once.
What have I done?
What am I doing?
What should I do?
For you, maker of monochrome skies that hide rainbows.
For you, creator of gull beaks and pelican wings.
For you, hidden but right before my eyes.
Then sings my soul:
How great thou art.
How great thou art.
Yesterday at mass at Assumption Church in Lauderdale By the Sea, Florida, (where we are visiting for a week) the musicians played a song that I hadn’t heard in many years, although it was popular back in the early days of “liturgical folk music” when I was coming of age as a Catholic and as a musician. Hearing its simple melody once again, something deep inside resonated, like I was connected once more to that earlier time. That’s what music does. It resounds in us as a myriad of elements — musical notes, chords, silences and words, but also memories, poetry, other bits of music — all come together to create something new. Taken separately, none of these elements are as powerful as when they come together and resonate in our hearts and heads.
This song, titled “All I Ask of You” and composed by Gregory Norbert and recorded by the Monks of Western Priory, includes this simple and prayerful refrain: “All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.” But as those words and the voices of other worshippers poured over me, I realized that something even deeper was resonating in me — the meaning of the words.
What resonated was the thought that these few lines so simply and beautifully retold Jesus’ great commandment to us — that we are to love God with all of our hearts, minds and souls, and that we are to love those around us as much as we love ourselves. If we could somehow reduce our lives to these essential elements of love, we could certainly begin to believe and hope that we had lived as God wants us to live. And we would be remembered for that.
All we ask (friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, Facebook friends, strangers, neighbors, those in need, those with plenty) is that if you remember us, you will remember us as loving you. Nothing else matters.
All we ask (God) is that you remember us loving others and loving you. Nothing else matters.
Ask yourself in silence: How will those around me remember me? How will God remember me?
Before even leaving for our trip to New Mexico, I knew one of our stops would be the majestic and oft-photographed San Francisco de Assisi Mission Church just outside of Taos. My good friend and mentor Fred Volkmann had shared his photos with me years ago, and I later learned that the mission church has been the subject of paintings by Georgia O’Keeffe and photos by Ansel Adams and Paul Strand, among countless others.
Construction on this adobe masterpiece began around the time of the American Revolution and was completed in 1815 by Franciscan missionaries in honor of their founder and patron, St. Francis of Assisi. Like all mission churches, it held a dual purpose. It was both a place of worship and served as protection from attack, in this case from Comanches. Today, it continues to serve as a parish church in the Santa Fe Diocese and is listed as a National Historic Landmark and designated as a World Heritage Site.
And like all churches of its era, this is a sanctuary built (and rebuilt) by hand. Spanish colonists moved to the area in the mid-18th century from the larger settlement of the Taos Pueblo (unfortunately closed during our visit) and found fertile land for wheat and corn. They built their adobe homes from mud and straw around a central plaza to create community and for protection. The church, with its massive flowing buttresses and bell towers, occupies a place of importance and inspiration on the plaza. A thick adobe wall encircles the church and its small cemetery and forecourt.
The church remains in great condition, thanks to the continuing efforts of the parishioners, who have lovingly and authentically repaired and rebuilt it over the years. In fact, citizens, parishioners and visitors come together for two weeks every other year to re-mud the exterior, a job that can only be done by hand and with the knowledge that they are maintaining a spiritual and cultural home for generations to come.
For all the advances of modern society and advanced building techniques and materials, the sight of this old adobe church basking and baking in the New Mexico sun was a reminder that the works of our hands, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit, are meant for the service of others and for the glory of God.
[Thanks to the National Park Service website for historical information.]
A Purposeful Path: How Far Can You Go with $30, a Bus Ticket and a Dream?
Casey Beaumier, SJ
Loyola Press, 2015
The answer to the question in the title, first of all, is “pretty far, and the journey’s more important than the destination.” And that’s almost always true in life, yes?
Beaumier’s book is a brief memoir of his 1994 Jesuit pilgrimage, an experiment each young Jesuit novice undertakes, during which time he is sent out from his community with only $30 and a one-way bus ticket. The purpose? He must survive by begging, and the point of the experiment, he writes, is to “receive a very special grace of profound trust that the Father will always provide, precisely through the kindness and generosity of other people.”
I had never heard of this pilgrimage until a few years ago when I met a couple of novices in a class I was taking at Aquinas Institute of Theology, and I’ve been intrigued by the notion ever since. So I opened the book with curiosity and wondered what it might have to teach a 55-year-old lay spiritual director and writer. The answer I received was, “a lot,” and so I highly recommend the book to anyone looking for reassurance about his or her own life journeys. We are, after all, all pilgrims.
Beaumier’s journey, fueled by a desire to meet famed writer and teacher Maya Angelou, takes him from St. Paul, Minnesota, to the Appalachian Trail, on to Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and then to Washington, DC, and New York City and finally to New Orleans. Along the way he learns important lessons from both likely and unlikely mentors, including from Fr. Henry Hasking, SJ, who gives him this sage advice on the meaning and purpose of the generosity of others. He tells Beaumier: “You need the courage to ask for what you need in life, and that starts by believing that you are worthy of what it is that you seek. If you weren’t, then you wouldn’t even think of asking for it. Everything is here to help you on the journey. That’s God’s design and plan.”
Reading this, I thought of how many times I felt that I wasn’t worthy to ask God for what I desired, and I recalled many times when those I was directing felt exactly the same. So this is wonderful advice for all of our journeys.
Later, kneeling before an altar as another priest prayed for and with him for the success of his journey, he receives these simple and perfect words of truth: “Be kind. Be kind. Be kind. Remember to be kind to people. Don’t forget to be kind.”
And all the people said, “Amen.” Whatever we do and wherever we go, let us remember to begin and end our days with kindness. The rest will fall into place.
Beaumier receives many good lessons along the way and has numerous encounters with kindness and grace received from God and others. But the hanging question, you are likely asking is, “Did he ever meet Angelou?” Ah, that’s the question. I could tell you the answer but it just wouldn’t be fair to you or the author. Buy the book, for it’s worth the answer. I can only say, please don’t stop before reading the afterword. Like the rest of the book, it’s a story of pure, unexpected thanksgiving, a celebration of grace and the kindness of strangers who are open to becoming friends.
Tonight on our drive from St. Louis north to Des Moines, Iowa (en route to visit friends in Minnesota) we listened to Krista Tippett’s “On Being” interview with Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ, of Homeboy Industries, who has worked with gang members in some of the toughest neighborhoods in LA for decades. During the interview he said this:
“I read once that the Beatitudes’ original language was not ‘blessed are’ or ‘happy are’…but that the most precise translation is ‘You’re in the right place if.’ I like that better. It turns out the Beatitudes is not a spirituality. It’s a geography. It tells you where to stand.”
Which got me thinking…
You’re in the right place if you can stand and embrace your poverty and that of others, for one day you will stand very close to God. Maybe you’re already standing there.
You’re in the right place if you can stand before coffins and graves and cry, weeping for those now beyond your sight, for you will feel the arm of God around your shoulders.
You’re in the right place if you can stand behind and beneath others and let them go first and receive the best of everything, for you have much coming to you in the end.
You’re in the right place if you hunger and thirst for what is right, if justice brings you alive and injustice moves you to action, for you, someday, will be satisfied.
You’re in the right place if you speak words of mercy instead of aggression and accusation, for mercy will find its way back to you and make its home in you.
You’re in the right place if your words and actions are pure love, for you will see God in your own reflection.
You’re in the right place if you can make and embrace peace with those around you, no matter their faults, their addictions, their histories, their origins and leanings and orientations, for then you are accepting your given place as a child of God.
You’re in the right place if you’re ruffling a few feathers, if you’re hated for your hatred of injustice and your acceptance of the little, the weak and the oppressed, for you will find yourself sitting in the lap of God.
“Now will I recall God’s works; what I have seen, I will describe.”
Memory, it seems, plays a crucial role in the lives of those of us who create. For what we recall and have seen, to paraphrase the wisdom of Sirach, we are called to describe to others. The memory might be from just yesterday (an overheard conversation becomes a story, the setting sun hitting the side of a tree becomes a poem or a painting) or it might be something much older (the sound of our mother’s voice becomes a song, a remembered Christmas morning becomes dialogue for our invented characters). Even remembered tastes and smells can be grist for the mill of our imaginations.
And this is especially true (and all the more important), with our recollections of how God has moved and worked in our lives, of the moments when God seemed so real and present that we could not NOT tell others. To experience the love of God and not be inclined to retell the story — in some way — is akin to seeing the Grand Canyon and forgetting to take a photo or send a postcard. Just who could do that? We see, we experience something majestic and grand, and we feel a deep desire to say, “Let me tell you about the time…” or “let me show you something.”
The “trick,” of course, is that we need to set ourselves up to remember. We need to live lives with time for reflection and contemplation built in to the fabric. Whether daily or weekly, this time to remember fuels our creativity in ways we could never imagine. When I write, and when I reflect back, I remember things that have remained buried for days, months, years, even decades. But the act of writing, for me, raises them from the ashes.
An example, right here and right now. None of what I’m about to write have I thought about or mulled over…it’s all spilling forth as my fingers slip across the keys:
It’s about 1973, I think. I’m 13 and a friend has invited me to Holy Saturday mass at the (it seems to me) massive Holy Cross Catholic Church in the Baden neighborhood of North St. Louis. I’ve never been in a Catholic Church before, except maybe for a wedding of some family friends. I’m a little scared. I’m scared of being out of place and not knowing the drill. Raised a Protestant, I’ve heard the stories and the jokes — stand, kneel, sit, stand, kneel, sit. Religious calisthenics. I don’t quite know what to expect.
My senses are assaulted as I come through the huge oaken doors. It is dim in the pews where we sit, the altar aglow with candlelight. It’s crowded, pews already filling with older people and large families. I slide into a pew with my friend and his family (they genuflect but I did not know how), including his 16-year-old sister Theresa, who I always had a bit of a crush on, and his younger brother Mark, who would die the following year in a car crash in Arizona that almost took out the whole family during a vacation. They kneel so I kneel, something we didn’t do in my church. And yet it felt right and proper to do so here, felt like a holy thing to do, like there was something going on here that needed to be bowed to. I didn’t fully understand that, of course. I just sensed it.
The mass began with a long procession, the altar boys (only boys back then) and the priests making their way up the center aisle. One of the altar boys who I knew from baseball was swinging the censor back and forth and filling the space with incense. (There are so many words here that I didn’t know or understand back then I now realize…mass, procession, censor…). I don’t ever remember my sense of smell coming into play during worship before. This was something new. I swooned a bit, I think, the combination of the incense and this new act of kneeling. The priest, I would learn and appreciate a decade later, was Monsignor Martin Hellriegel, a liturgical pioneer and hymn composer who wrote “To Jesus Christ our Sovereign King,” which is still sung in churches around the world.
But back then, I didn’t hear or understand much (Oh, to go back and listen!) and this was just a long, tedious service for someone so young. Three hours of readings, the retelling of salvation history interspersed with psalms and songs, with the incense hanging in the air as a reminder of the presence of God when we pray, that our prayers rise like the smoke rose to the arched ceiling of the grand sanctuary.
Okay, enough of that memory for now. But that’s the power of memory. When we give ourselves some time and some promptings to remember, we can recall images and stories, and stories and images can change lives, can turn people toward God who waits for our turning. For most of us, these stories and pictures speak louder than proclamations. Remember your stories and fold them into lessons. Infuse them into art. Move them into music and dance. Stitch them into fabric.
A challenge: Sit down with pen and paper or your computer and ask yourself these questions: What is one of my earliest memories of faith, of church, of God? What do I remember of that moment…the sights, sounds, smells, touches, tastes? Now just write (or draw!) for ten minutes. Don’t stop to edit and don’t pause long to think. Let your fingers do the work; allow the buried truth (even if your memories are a bit tarnished by time) to flow from you onto the page or the sketchpad. If you’re so inclined, post what you created in the comments section.
Ask yourself in silence: What memories am I missing because I’m not taking the time to recall them?
I am not much of a grower of things. I almost typed, “I am not much of a farmer” but that would be even less true. Maybe someday I will be. For now, a few containers on my deck grow a small selection of my favorite herbs (rosemary, cilantro, parsley and basil) along with a couple of jalapeno pepper plants and some green onions. I’m looking forward to homemade salsa and pesto as the summer lingers on.
My father was an urban backyard farmer in North St. Louis in the 1960s and 1970s, planting short rows of lettuce, onions, tomatoes, green peppers, radishes and carrots in the poor soil (made organically better by him) beneath our old unused swing set in the back of the yard by the alley. He ran a hose up the uprights of the swing set and secured a sprinkler to the crossbar, creating an easy and gentle “rain” on the garden that supplied us with fresh salads and vegetables, which I didn’t really appreciate at the time, I am sure. Today, I wish I had him nearby to share his knowledge and passion for a small plot of earth, as well as his collection of old copies of Organic Gardening Magazine. Oh, the things we lose and throw away.
All this reminded me this morning of songwriter David Mallett’s, “The Garden Song,” which I first learned from a John Denver album back when I was a teenager and which I have performed for many years since:
Inch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground.
Inch by inch, row by row, someone bless these seeds I sow,
Someone warm them from below ‘til the rain comes tumbling down.
The song has been recorded by many artists over the years, including Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul and Mary in addition to Denver, but I was delighted to find this YouTube version of Dave performing it himself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2m0LewjkO4s
Growing a garden is an act of faith and an acknowledgement of gratitude. It is a gesture of creativity and hope — that what we begin and nurture “with a rake and hoe” can become something else, something bigger and more, something that can be shared around a table. A garden beckons family and community to come together in thanksgiving. A garden is a reminder of our obligation to use what we have been given to help others and offer praise to the ultimate giver of life and sustenance.
In response to my last post on finding the extraordinary in our ordinary life I received a wonderful and beautifully written note from a REAL farmer who reminded me of the healing and spiritual power of just sinking our hands into the soil and urging things to grow up from the ground. Ordinary, sure, but it’s also extraordinary at the same time if we allow it to be. Jan owns a fruit farm in Winnebago County, Illinois with her husband Thomas. Sunrise Market Farm is just a mile from the Wisconsin state line and grows blueberries, raspberries and pumpkins. Jan wrote:
I have practiced prayer when I work outdoors with our plants and growing things but the best practice by far seems to be a focus on exactly what is at hand, seeing the beauty even in the weed that needs to be pulled as well as in the plump blueberry that needs to be picked. To breathe deeply of the perfume of the soil and the newly cut clover. And I think “Jesus is here” and my task is a task of love for Him and there is peace and joy. Best of all, there is a further chipping away of the old me, the me I was never meant to be, and a growing of the real me, the one that the One created me to be.
We can find God wherever we look for God, and sometimes, too, in places where we never expected to experience the Divine. We create from what we have been given. We live by what we cultivate in ourselves and in our lives.
Ask yourself in silence: What am I cultivating in my life? By what fruits will I be known?
I’m up early this Sunday morning, searching the quiet of the new day for a spark of inspiration; not only inspiration for writing this — although that’s part of it — but inspiration for the day, the week, the moments that lie ahead. Inspiration to not just get through these times but to actually live through and with them, to embrace the gift of the ordinary that fills our lives and do something productive and creative with what I see and experience.
And isn’t that often how creativity and innovation occurs? I hear birdsong outside my door and think of flutes and the trills of a violin. I hear the natural rhythm of the birds and the crickets and the frogs and I sense not just noise but the percussion of the world around me. Noise becomes music, as it has for so many composers and musicians throughout the ages. From great classical composers to jazz innovators to those who carry forward the folk traditions of aboriginal and old-world music as it reflects the beauty and intricacy of the world around them, the ordinary becomes extraordinary when we put our hands and our minds to work. Do we hear birdsong in the flute or the flute in the birdsong?
The green of the leaves on the trees out my back door is radiant with the early sun’s glancing blows and the lingering wetness of last night’s rain, and although trees don’t move from their rooted stations they move before our eyes, of course, whether slow and subtle in a gentle breeze or ecstatic and tortured in a storm. Ordinary? Of course, but don’t tell that to Monet and so many other artists who made the trees and gardens and their movement come alive for us.
“The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” as Hopkins wrote, but within the ordinary grandeur of our lives are the seeds of our own human innovation and art. Flowers are flowers, spores are spores, but they also contain multitudes — healing medicines and hope for cures when creative scientific minds look beyond the ordinary in search of extraordinary ways to improve our lives. Someone saw a bird fly and began to wonder how we could fly ourselves. And we eventually did.
Our DNA hasn’t changed all that much in thousands of years, but we know now how to look closely enough to notice the changes that bring about disease, so we can begin to bring about healing. A miracle? Perhaps, but only in the sense that we have learned to capture the ordinary to bring about the extraordinary. Perhaps that’s what the writer of Genesis had in mind when he said that God gave man dominion over the earth. We have far too often used that Biblical narrative as an excuse to do whatever we wanted to the earth around us — often to the detriment of the world we are called to protect and nurture — when, perhaps, we should have just been paying closer attention.
And, indeed, many have been doing this for a long time. The history of our art, our music, our science and engineering breakthroughs more often than not springs from our ability to pay attention to the world around us. The ordinary world, from its molecules and atoms to the grandest of canyons and the vastness of oceans, continues to inspire and motivate change, innovation and art.
So what is our response? How do we fit in? What contribution do we have to make? Don’t be confused or disheartened by my examples. We all don’t have the training and the wherewithal to find a cure for cancer, to paint a masterpiece worthy of Monet, to compose music that will reflect the beauty of the world back to its Maker. Or maybe we do.
We all have the ability to transform the ordinary in extraordinary ways. We plant and fertilize and nurture and a garden is born, a gift to those who see it even at a glance or taste its fruits. We write a poem or a letter to a friend who needs to hear that they are remembered and extraordinary. We sketch, we draw, we doodle. We make up stories and games to keep our children amused. We hum an old hymn in the ear of an elderly friend and we cradle a newborn and calm her tears with a whispered lullaby. We solve a business or societal problem by emulating how nature takes care of itself. We pay attention. We get off our duffs and act. We believe we have something to contribute.
Last week, one of my reflections appeared in the Living Faith daily devotional, and I ended it with this:
Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” We can see each sunrise, each newborn child, each encounter with beauty and chalk them all up to chance, or we can stand back in wonder at these daily miracles and choose to see the hand of God. The first option is a yawn; the second is a gasp. You choose.”
Ask yourself in silence: What one thing can you do today to pay attention and act, to respond to your call as creator and reflector of the divine, creative spark?
Challenge: Write and tell me what you did!
There is no death! The stars go down
To rise upon some other shore…
– John L. McCreery
These three days of the Christian liturgical year — the Triduum of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday — tell the story of Jesus’ final days and minutes and, at the same time, remind us all of the one inevitable moment that hangs like the tarnished old chandelier in the midst of our living rooms: our own deaths. For even as we hope and anticipate the day of Christ’s resurrection, even as we trust in our own “something else” beyond these mortal days on earth, it is death that holds our attention now. And that’s the point. There is no death without first living, and there is no life beyond without first dying to this world.
Yesterday I had the honor of being a pallbearer at the funeral of my Godmother, my 88-year-old Aunt Ruth. Although I didn’t get to see her much in her later years — perhaps once a year at our family reunion — she and her late husband, Fred, hold important and iconic places in my life and memory. She was a woman of exquisite beauty and deep faith. She was always impeccably dressed, and never was a hair out of place. She was, using that old word that just doesn’t get used enough these days, elegant. She was likely the first elegant woman I ever knew.
The daughter of a Baptist preacher who married into our largely German Protestant family, she and Uncle Freddie were also the elder spiritual leaders of the extended Eickmeyer (my paternal grandmother’s) clan, the people to whom we turned to say an eloquent and faith-filled grace before our reunion and Christmas meals. No one else ever seemed willing or equipped to do so, so God bless the Baptists! In later years when she could not be present, those gathered began turning to me to say the prayer, a mantle I have been honored to assume. The family’s faith has spread out over the years to include a variety of expressions, including a few Catholics like me, as well as others who don’t profess any faith at all and yet hold on to these few sacred moments of family with heads bowed and eyes tightly closed. Grace indeed.
Funerals are always a reminder of our own mortality, of course. Some shrink back from them, not wishing to experience death so up close and personal. Others are able to embrace and celebrate these moments, finding in them, perhaps, that this three-fold journey of life and death into life is one we all share. Exactly what passage lies between the realms we cannot say beyond conjecture or article of faith. We want to believe, as the minister stated so beautifully yesterday, that it is merely a heartbeat that separates us from what awaits us on the other side of the veil. We’ll see. Indeed, we’ll see. For now, as the Christian band MercyMe sings, we can only imagine:
I can only imagine what it will be like.
When I walk by your side.
I can only imagine what my eyes will see.
When your face is before me.
I can only imagine.
See video at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_lrrq_opng
I kind of like cemeteries. I enjoy a leisurely walk among the stone and trees. Like funerals in general, they stand sentinel and serve as constant reminders that there is more to this life than what meets the eye. But neither do I believe there is much beneath those stones other than the biological waste of dusty bones. Whoever these souls are that so enthralled us when they were alive and among us, they certainly don’t lie beneath the rolling hills and engraved memorials. So I’ll end with this, with the hope of heaven and resurrection waiting just over the next dawn. Happy Easter.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
– Mary Elizabeth Frye
Ask yourself in silence: What do I believe about what comes next? What are my hopes? My fears? What does my faith tell me?