So why get out of the bed and come to church?
Come because life is a puzzle that often eludes our desperate search for a solution or at least some understanding. And we are a puzzle to our self and others. As Norman Maclean observed in the book, A River Runs Through It, “It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.” This is a place to sort out the pieces, to make some sense of the emerging pattern, making it possible to fill in the spaces with missing pieces.
Come because there is still within you, regardless of your age or life experience, an acorn that yearns to become an oak tree, or a drop of water that could become a river, then a waterfall, then an ocean of possibility, or a flower that is about to bloom. There is always the challenge of becoming more nearly yourself, of completing your life before death ends it. There is a Hasidic tale intended to remind us of what is at stake here. “Before his death Rabbi Zusya said, ‘In the coming world, they will not ask me: ‘Why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me: ‘Why were you not Zusya?’”
Come simply out of need, realizing that you are not self-sufficient, self-sustaining, or self-derived. George Odell wrote, “We need one another in the hour of success, when we look for someone to share our triumphs. We need one another in the hour defeat, when with encouragement we might endure, and stand again. We need one another when we come to die, and would have gentle hands prepare us for the journey. All our lives we are in need, and others are in need of us.” You need to know that here you will find gentle hands and hearts. You need to know that your gentle hands and heart are needed to create and sustain the beloved community.
Albert Schweitzer said, “At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person.” Come because the flame of your being needs to be rekindled through music and silence and poetry. Or you might come willing to be the one to rekindle the light of another person.
Come out of despair in. We will offer you comfort, hope, and a song: “Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving/ Ours is no caravan of despair. Come, yet again come.”
Come out of a sense of profound reverence. This is the practice of Namaste: “the God in me greets the God in you.” This is an awareness of the need to cultivate desire, desire for Life, for the holy, for God or for the Goddess, for whatever you consider most precious and profound. Coming here on a Sunday morning could be and perhaps should be a spiritual practice that you do for the good of your soul. Unitarian minister, A. Powell Davies said that, “The purpose of life is to grow a soul.” The Quakers would ask, “How is it with thy soul?” Let us risk asking that question. Let us risk finding answers worthy of our desire.
Come because you are trying to make sense of those things that make it impossible for you to sleep through the night. I am reminded of Paul Simon’s song, The Obvious Child. “Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself/ How it's strange that some rooms are like cages/ Sonny's yearbook from high school/ Is down from the shelf/ And he idly thumbs through the pages/ Some have died/ Some have fled from themselves/ Or struggled from here to get there/ Sonny wanders beyond his interior walls/ Runs his hand through his thinning brown hair.” Now we become real. Now we admit to sorrow and regret, the profound need for forgiveness, especially self-forgiveness; the need for healing, even the need for salvation by which I mean wholeness. Now we accept our mistakes and failures, willing to have them teach us as we choose authenticity over artifice, depth over convenience.
Come because you finally accept the premise, as I have, that life is a hire wire act without a net. There is no way forward but forward and you must risk who you are, which means risking everything, in the service of who you might become. Mary Oliver wrote, “When it's over, I want to say: all my life/ I was a bride married to amazement./ I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms./ When it's over, I don't want to wonder/ if I have made of my life something particular, and real./ I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,/ or full of argument./ I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.”
Come without expectation, but willing to place yourself in a sanctuary of possibility. You might come because you are intent on creating the Beloved Community, one worthy of your commitment, knowing that your presence is essential to that undertaking. You might come out of a sense of holy discontent demanding that together we fulfill the incredible promise of our faith. You might even come with a sense of urgency knowing that it is the only way to make a difference in whatever time you have remaining.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
What if it all means Hallelujah?
Our religious tradition was powerfully transformed by the work of the 19th century German theologian and philosopher Friedrich Schleiermacher who placed experience at the center of the religious life. The fruit of experience is meaning, which is more a felt response to life than something that we can explain in words or defend with reason. T.S. Eliot cautioned that people too often, "...had the experience but missed the meaning." We miss the meaning if we fail to reflect on our experience, to let it speak to us. Parker Palmer writes, "Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you. Before you tell your life what truths and values you have decided to live up to, let your life tell you what truths you embody, what values you represent."
What does it mean? Nothing! Everything! Many things! Only this one thing! What does it mean? This song. That poem. The canvass hanging in the museum. The piece of art on the refrigerator door created by a five-year old. The first kiss. The death of a loved one. The wild flowers in the field beside the road. The architect's dream captured in a building. The bouquet of flowers on the table and the meal that we share made with many ingredients including love. That snow-capped mountain in the distance or the aspen grove through which we have been driving.
What does it mean that increasingly, when I have the occasion to say the pledge of allegiance, I am moved to tears? I could try to explain why that happens, but such an explanation would trivialize the experience and its meaning.
What does it mean? What do you mean? What does our life together mean? These questions yield answers in reflection, in conversation, in listening to the stories that others tell, stories in which you see reflected some of the meanings of your own life. These questions yield answers in the silence, in sanctuary, in worship, and in the dark of night.
Here in the search for truth, we find that we are with others who are like-minded. Here in the search for meaning, we find that we are with others who are like-hearted. Here, in the search, the beloved community is born: a resource for meaning-making, a companion on life's journey.
To bring this reflection to a close, I find myself returning to popular culture generally, and the movie, Shrek (2001), specifically. In that movie the song, Hallelujah, written by Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen in 1984 is a tribute to the love affair between Shrek and Princess Fiona. It was performed by Welsh musician John Cale.
Cale's version begins with this verse: "Now I've heard there was a secret chord/ That David played, and it pleased the Lord/ But you don't really care for music, do you?/ It goes like this/ The fourth, the fifth/ The minor fall, the major lift/ The baffled king composing Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah." (This link is to a YouTube version that I partiularly like: Hallejuah).
What does my marriage mean? Hallelujah!
What do my daughters mean? Hallelujah!
What does this church mean? Hallelujah!
What does my life mean? Hallelujah!
What does being alive mean? Hallelujah!
What about finding and traveling a pathway to meaning? Hallelujah!
But the song is not simply one of joy and praise. Cohen also writes, "And even though/ It all went wrong/ I'll stand before the Lord of Song/ With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah" If I understand this verse correctly then I must also ask, "What do the times that my heart has broken mean?" Hallelujah!
What does it mean? Nothing! Everything! Many things! Only this one thing! What does it mean? This song. That poem. The canvass hanging in the museum. The piece of art on the refrigerator door created by a five-year old. The first kiss. The death of a loved one. The wild flowers in the field beside the road. The architect's dream captured in a building. The bouquet of flowers on the table and the meal that we share made with many ingredients including love. That snow-capped mountain in the distance or the aspen grove through which we have been driving.
What does it mean that increasingly, when I have the occasion to say the pledge of allegiance, I am moved to tears? I could try to explain why that happens, but such an explanation would trivialize the experience and its meaning.
What does it mean? What do you mean? What does our life together mean? These questions yield answers in reflection, in conversation, in listening to the stories that others tell, stories in which you see reflected some of the meanings of your own life. These questions yield answers in the silence, in sanctuary, in worship, and in the dark of night.
Here in the search for truth, we find that we are with others who are like-minded. Here in the search for meaning, we find that we are with others who are like-hearted. Here, in the search, the beloved community is born: a resource for meaning-making, a companion on life's journey.
To bring this reflection to a close, I find myself returning to popular culture generally, and the movie, Shrek (2001), specifically. In that movie the song, Hallelujah, written by Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen in 1984 is a tribute to the love affair between Shrek and Princess Fiona. It was performed by Welsh musician John Cale.
Cale's version begins with this verse: "Now I've heard there was a secret chord/ That David played, and it pleased the Lord/ But you don't really care for music, do you?/ It goes like this/ The fourth, the fifth/ The minor fall, the major lift/ The baffled king composing Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah/ Hallelujah." (This link is to a YouTube version that I partiularly like: Hallejuah).
What does my marriage mean? Hallelujah!
What do my daughters mean? Hallelujah!
What does this church mean? Hallelujah!
What does my life mean? Hallelujah!
What does being alive mean? Hallelujah!
What about finding and traveling a pathway to meaning? Hallelujah!
But the song is not simply one of joy and praise. Cohen also writes, "And even though/ It all went wrong/ I'll stand before the Lord of Song/ With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah" If I understand this verse correctly then I must also ask, "What do the times that my heart has broken mean?" Hallelujah!
Spiritual Memoir
Poet Muriel Rukeyser said, “The world is made up of stories, not atoms.” Catherine Ann Jones added, “Without story, we do not exist. The power of story is how we discover who we are.” Finally, James Carroll observed, “The very act of storytelling, of arranging memory and invention according to the structure of the narrative is holy…. We tell stories because we can't help it. We tell stories because we love to entertain and hope to edify. We tell stories because they fill the silence death imposes. We tell stories because they save us.”
What is the story of your life? It is an important question because, to paraphrase Søren Kierkegaard, we live our lives forward, but can only understand them backward. There are two spiritual practices that allow us to write about, reflect on, and ultimately own our own life in a profound way. One involves journal writing, the other is spiritual memoir.
Henry David Thoreau began journaling on October 22, 1837 at the suggestion of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Thoreau’s first entry recounted the conversation with Emerson: “‘What are you doing now?’ he asked. ‘Do you keep a journal?’ So I make my first entry today.” Thoreau’s journaling continued for 25-years comprising more than 7,000 manuscript pages and two million words. It started as a record of experiences, observations, and ideas, became a writer’s notebook involving introspection and composition, and evolved into the foundational work of his life. His journal was the source of much of his published writing. Thoreau wrote faithfully, often 15 pages a day, and thus owned his life in a way that few people do. We need not be as prolific as Thoreau to reflect profoundly on our life. While a diary is a description of one’s experiences, a journal is also a reflection on those experiences in an attempt to make meaning of experience.
Philip Zaleski defines spiritual writing as “poetry or prose that deals with the bedrock of human existence—why we are here, where we are going and how we can comport ourselves with dignity along the way.” Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew outlines three characteristics of spiritual memoir. 1.) “the writer of spiritual memoir works to uncover, probe, and honor what is sacred within his or her own life story; …2.) writing itself becomes a means for spiritual growth. … and 3.) The writer works to tell his or her story in such a way that the experience of the sacred is made available….”
Our spiritual memoir can begin with the creation of a timeline that attempts to uncover the depth of our life and the formative experiences that have shaped us. These include the homes we lived in, the people who influenced us, the places we went that were filled with meaning, peak experiences that continue to resonate, as well as the crises encountered and the losses that remain healed or unhealed. It also includes the “ah-hahs”—those precious glimpses of wisdom. As these dimensions of the timeline of our life are fleshed out, themes that characterize different phases of our lives begin to emerge. And for each theme there is at least one story, a signature if you will, that illustrates the theme. Recollecting these stories and sharing them deepens our understanding of our own life. And with each retelling, there can be small shifts in understanding simply because our perspective is enlarged.
It is impossible to begin our spiritual memoir at the beginning of our own life because, in truth, we were born into the middle of a story that was already in progress, one greatly influenced by our parents to be sure, but also by previous generations and historical circumstance.
What is your story? If you don't tell it, who can?
John's Garden
Knowing how much my daughters will enjoy the creative process of transforming a pumpkin into a jack 'o lantern, as so many children do, I wanted to share Peter Mayer's delightful song, John's Garden. The You Tube link to John's Garden
Farmer John wandered back
And when he reached the pumpkin patch, began to speak.
He said, "The weather's getting colder,
Summer's over and it's almost Halloween.
That's the day, the reason you were raised
When everything about your life will change.
You will have eyes to see, and for that night, you'll be
A bright lamp burning in the darkness.
But remember that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's heart."
The pumpkins held a meeting then;
Some were very apprehensive and afraid.
"Could this really happen to us?
What could be the meaning?" is what they were saying.
"This is home, it's all we've ever known."
Then one bold, outspoken pumpkin spoke.
He said,
"I don't need eyes to see, it sounds like a lie to me,
I like it just fine here in John's garden.
And remember that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's heart."
There is much to ask and to ponder in the pumpkin patch
When imposing old October shows up at last.
Then a pumpkin from the farther end
Who had been silent up till then
Over the commotion, said
"What would you rather have my friends,
A chance to shine, or die here on the vine?
The better way seems very plain to me.
You will have eyes to see, and for that night, you'll be
A bright lamp burning in the darkness.
And maybe that candle shines for only the briefest time
In a jack-o-lantern's heart,
Oh, but one goblin's smile should make it all well worth while,
You know you might even see the starlight.
And knowing that time is brief, makes it that much more sweet
When you have a jack-o-lantern's heart."
Thursday, October 14, 2010
What is True for You?
In his meditation manual, Noisy Stones, Unitarian Universalist minister Robbie Walsh writes, “A friend asked me to try my hand at rewriting the Ten Commandments. She wanted something to tape to the door of the fridge. I only came up with nine. But then I spent much less time on this than it took Moses to climb the mountain.” Following are his proposed commandments:
1. You shall not worship the finite and conditional as if it were the ultimate.
2. You shall keep to a rhythm of work and rest in the spirit of the Sabbath.
3. You shall keep your promises.
4. You shall tell the truth.
5. You shall try to make amends for the things you break.
6. You shall honor the people who give and sustain life.
7. You shall honor the earth.
8. You shall grant to others the same rights to life, liberty, and property that you claim for yourself.
9. You shall be kind.
Walsh’s commandments are a gentle reminder that we must seek our own sources of authority as we struggle both to know what is true and how to live our lives. These sources of authority include reason, intuition, personal experience, the natural world, science, our religious heritage, and revelation. We use them individually or in combination to discover truth (with a small “t”), for we are understandably cautious of capital “T” Truth that insists that we end our quest(ioning). As theologian Paul Tillich correctly observed, all too often “the passion for truth is silenced by answers which have the weight of undisputed authority.” Sometimes it is necessary to take the position that undisputed authority has no weight and that the dispute is the scale by which authority is weighed.
The integrity of our search for truth is critical. Paul Tillich advised, “Don't give in too quickly to those who want to alleviate your anxiety about truth. Don't be seduced into a truth which is not your own....” This can require the willingness to live with a certain amount of uncertainty and ambiguity until we arrive at our own truths. We need, however, to persist in our truth seeking, to find what is true for ourselves, and to live our lives out of that truth. The process is ongoing.
Some of our truths will last a lifetime, while others will be left behind as markers of our own evolution. This winnowing process occurs as we balance commitment to our truths with a willingness to revise our thoughts and actions based on new information and experience. Such a balance helps us from becoming dogmatic about our truth. One method of truth-testing is to seriously consider the truth statements of others that we do not believe to be true. Niels Bohr suggested that such serious consideration may result in paradox. He writes, “The opposite of a correct statement is a false statement. But the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth.”
What is true for you? What are the insights out of which you live your life? What commandments would you create to transform your truth into ethical action? And does all of this result in life lived with conviction rather than consistency? In his essay, Self-Reliance, Emerson reminded us, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. …Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.” Emerson also believed that the truth that is unchanging might not be the truth.
1. You shall not worship the finite and conditional as if it were the ultimate.
2. You shall keep to a rhythm of work and rest in the spirit of the Sabbath.
3. You shall keep your promises.
4. You shall tell the truth.
5. You shall try to make amends for the things you break.
6. You shall honor the people who give and sustain life.
7. You shall honor the earth.
8. You shall grant to others the same rights to life, liberty, and property that you claim for yourself.
9. You shall be kind.
Walsh’s commandments are a gentle reminder that we must seek our own sources of authority as we struggle both to know what is true and how to live our lives. These sources of authority include reason, intuition, personal experience, the natural world, science, our religious heritage, and revelation. We use them individually or in combination to discover truth (with a small “t”), for we are understandably cautious of capital “T” Truth that insists that we end our quest(ioning). As theologian Paul Tillich correctly observed, all too often “the passion for truth is silenced by answers which have the weight of undisputed authority.” Sometimes it is necessary to take the position that undisputed authority has no weight and that the dispute is the scale by which authority is weighed.
The integrity of our search for truth is critical. Paul Tillich advised, “Don't give in too quickly to those who want to alleviate your anxiety about truth. Don't be seduced into a truth which is not your own....” This can require the willingness to live with a certain amount of uncertainty and ambiguity until we arrive at our own truths. We need, however, to persist in our truth seeking, to find what is true for ourselves, and to live our lives out of that truth. The process is ongoing.
Some of our truths will last a lifetime, while others will be left behind as markers of our own evolution. This winnowing process occurs as we balance commitment to our truths with a willingness to revise our thoughts and actions based on new information and experience. Such a balance helps us from becoming dogmatic about our truth. One method of truth-testing is to seriously consider the truth statements of others that we do not believe to be true. Niels Bohr suggested that such serious consideration may result in paradox. He writes, “The opposite of a correct statement is a false statement. But the opposite of a profound truth may well be another profound truth.”
What is true for you? What are the insights out of which you live your life? What commandments would you create to transform your truth into ethical action? And does all of this result in life lived with conviction rather than consistency? In his essay, Self-Reliance, Emerson reminded us, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. …Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.” Emerson also believed that the truth that is unchanging might not be the truth.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Let Us Remember the Mothers
Let us remember the mothers of small children. May they get some sleep.
Let us remember the mothers who carpool. May they know when to tune in and tune out.
Let us remember the mothers of teenagers. May they have the patience, wisdom, forbearance, and humor that each day requires.
Let us remember the mothers of grown children. May they take pleasure in the work they have done, and if they are blessed with grandchildren, may they delight a lot and spoil a little.
Let us remember those who are about to have children. May this journey bring them great joy.
Let us remember the mothers who have adopted a child. May each be a blessing to the other.
Let us remember the women who have no children, for how could mothers do without their friendship?
Let us remember the mothers who have lost a child and the children that have lost a mother. May we offer them our deepest sympathy for this forever grief.
Let us remember the mothers whose children are not as other children. May they remember that “what is essential is invisible to the eye. It is only with the heart that one sees rightly.”
Let us remember the grandmothers and great-grandmothers. May their gift of love traverse the generations.
Let us remember the mothers who carpool. May they know when to tune in and tune out.
Let us remember the mothers of teenagers. May they have the patience, wisdom, forbearance, and humor that each day requires.
Let us remember the mothers of grown children. May they take pleasure in the work they have done, and if they are blessed with grandchildren, may they delight a lot and spoil a little.
Let us remember those who are about to have children. May this journey bring them great joy.
Let us remember the mothers who have adopted a child. May each be a blessing to the other.
Let us remember the women who have no children, for how could mothers do without their friendship?
Let us remember the mothers who have lost a child and the children that have lost a mother. May we offer them our deepest sympathy for this forever grief.
Let us remember the mothers whose children are not as other children. May they remember that “what is essential is invisible to the eye. It is only with the heart that one sees rightly.”
Let us remember the grandmothers and great-grandmothers. May their gift of love traverse the generations.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Hope - Sketch #2
Hope has long been a central virtue of Unitarian Universalism. While at times we have tended, as Unitarian Universalist minister Earl Holt observed, “toward a sometimes unrealistic optimism,” hope is part of our enduring good news. The Universalist minister John Murray said, “Go out into the highways and by-ways of America…. Give the people, blanketed with a decaying and crumbling Calvinism, something of your new vision…. Give them, not Hell, but hope and courage.” If he had been talking about an easy optimism, he would not have linked hope with courage. This linkage is essential because we must contend with the tragedy, suffering, and inhumanity woven through life.
Some people worry about false hope, concerned that what we hope for cannot be realized. Hope, however, is more resilient and durable than that. It is continually tempered, not by the impossible, but as William Sloane Coffin said, “by a passion for the possible.” Vaclav Havel reminds us that hope is “a dimension of the Spirit. It is not outside us but within us.” Do you recall what Emily Dickinson wrote? “’Hope’ is the thing with feathers-- / That perches in the soul-- / And sings the tune without the words-- / And never stops--at all.”
To better appreciate the importance of hope, consider the debilitating effects of hopelessness. When things appear hopeless, despair triumphs as we feel powerless, immobilized by events seemingly beyond our control. Often hopelessness is a consequence of loss, the loss of someone we love through death or the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, the loss of health, even the loss of a dream. It is as if things will never be all right again. At other times, hopelessness overtakes us without any identifiable cause. We experience desolation, a disquiet of the soul, a spiritual dis ease.
In moments like these, hopelessness can color every aspect of our lives and become overwhelming. William F. Lynch offers this good advice: “One of the best safeguards of our hopes...is to be able to mark off areas of hopelessness and to acknowledge them, to face them directly, not with despair but with the creative intent of keeping them from polluting all the areas of possibility.” Still, it is not enough simply to isolate hopelessness; we must also seek to heal our hopelessness.
Healing hopelessness begins with a process of naming. Robert Browning wrote, “Entertaining hope, means recognizing fear.” We might also say, “healing hopelessness, means naming fear.” Naming our fears allows us to confront them in their limited concreteness instead of being paralyzed by them in their unlimited diffuseness. Healing hopelessness thus requires courage. Part of this work is individual. Another part of this work can occur in community. In this, our church is a community of hope, a community of hopers.
Hopelessness is darkness, a kind of Hell. The caring and encouragement of others can help with its healing. Tom Owen Towle writes, “To en courage, literally denotes the act of ‘putting heart’ into a companion. When our days are dreary and crises bedevil us, spiritual kin are there to encourage us, to lift us up and push us forth, reminding us that there is still more affection and comfort for us to experience.”
The novelist Barbara Kingsolver suggests that, “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope.” Wishing you hope.
Some people worry about false hope, concerned that what we hope for cannot be realized. Hope, however, is more resilient and durable than that. It is continually tempered, not by the impossible, but as William Sloane Coffin said, “by a passion for the possible.” Vaclav Havel reminds us that hope is “a dimension of the Spirit. It is not outside us but within us.” Do you recall what Emily Dickinson wrote? “’Hope’ is the thing with feathers-- / That perches in the soul-- / And sings the tune without the words-- / And never stops--at all.”
To better appreciate the importance of hope, consider the debilitating effects of hopelessness. When things appear hopeless, despair triumphs as we feel powerless, immobilized by events seemingly beyond our control. Often hopelessness is a consequence of loss, the loss of someone we love through death or the end of a relationship, the loss of a job, the loss of health, even the loss of a dream. It is as if things will never be all right again. At other times, hopelessness overtakes us without any identifiable cause. We experience desolation, a disquiet of the soul, a spiritual dis ease.
In moments like these, hopelessness can color every aspect of our lives and become overwhelming. William F. Lynch offers this good advice: “One of the best safeguards of our hopes...is to be able to mark off areas of hopelessness and to acknowledge them, to face them directly, not with despair but with the creative intent of keeping them from polluting all the areas of possibility.” Still, it is not enough simply to isolate hopelessness; we must also seek to heal our hopelessness.
Healing hopelessness begins with a process of naming. Robert Browning wrote, “Entertaining hope, means recognizing fear.” We might also say, “healing hopelessness, means naming fear.” Naming our fears allows us to confront them in their limited concreteness instead of being paralyzed by them in their unlimited diffuseness. Healing hopelessness thus requires courage. Part of this work is individual. Another part of this work can occur in community. In this, our church is a community of hope, a community of hopers.
Hopelessness is darkness, a kind of Hell. The caring and encouragement of others can help with its healing. Tom Owen Towle writes, “To en courage, literally denotes the act of ‘putting heart’ into a companion. When our days are dreary and crises bedevil us, spiritual kin are there to encourage us, to lift us up and push us forth, reminding us that there is still more affection and comfort for us to experience.”
The novelist Barbara Kingsolver suggests that, “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope.” Wishing you hope.
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