Yesterday, my friend Robynn shared a compelling video with me. The video was of Enrique Garcia Naranjo retelling a story about being stopped by border patrol. Before he gets into the actual story, he set… More
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Pieces of My Heart
It’s 8 am and from my upstairs perch in Rockport I can hear someone practicing the trumpet. I wish I could adequately describe the off-key feeble attempts at creating notes. Just know that it has me giggling and secretly glad that I’m not in front of the musician. I’m sure it’s giving them great joy, which is a good thing because otherwise it may be intolerable. But – kudos to them for trying something so obviously new to them.
Several weeks ago, one of my nephews sent me an article on the day that is Ash Wednesday for Protestants. I found it deeply challenging and have been thinking about it these last couple of weeks. Written by Nadia Bolz-Weber, the article references an Old Testament reading from the book of the prophet Joel. And then she asks the reader what is harder – fasting for Lent or returning to God with our whole hearts?
My problem…and maybe yours too is that I sort of piece my heart out to things that cannot love me back – to the unrequited love of so many false promises – my starving little heart is doled out in so many pieces trying to get her own needs met.
Nadia Bolz-Weber in Take Another Little Piece of my Heart, Baby
She goes on to talk about parsing out her heart to social media or addiction or mindless television watching or – fill in the blank. There are uncountable ways that we can dole out our hearts to things that will not give back. They are present and they are easy, even if the things they promise will never satisfy.
Tomorrow, Orthodox Lent begins and tonight is Forgiveness Sunday, where in a beautiful service of repentance, we ask forgiveness of God and each other before entering into this time of fasting and reflecting. As we move toward tomorrow, I am remembering this article and how much I have doled out my heart to everything but God. I find myself empty, discouraged, and wanting. Lent serves as a jolt to my heart, upsetting the status quo and asking rather than demanding that I think about giving my whole heart to God.
Deciding to stop spreading my heart to things that disappoint and returning to God is a theme woven through all of scripture. We see it in individual relationships like the Parable of the Prodigal Son, and we see it in entire communities like God’s constant interactions with the Israelites as they wandered through the Sinai desert. There are few conditions associated with return. We don’t have to look good; we don’t have to be good. The only conditions of return are willingness and repentance. We move forward and, like the faithful father in the story of the prodigal son, he comes running.
Do a search and it quickly shows hundreds of verses. Return to me so I can return to you. Return to me so that you can be restored. Return to me because I’m slow to anger, full of compassion. Return to me for I am gracious, I won’t be angry forever. Return to me. We read and experience this through stories of people over and over again. Clearly, we have a lot of company when it comes to piecing out our hearts.
As I often say in this space, I don’t know what is going on in your lives today. I don’t know what has divided your heart, what pieces and fragments have been spread around in restless longing only to realize that the things you’ve given your heart to will never give you what you long for. I do know that if you are feeling this, I’m with you in the struggle. I’m with you in the discouragement of feeling like the long road is sometimes too long. I’m with you in feeling like giving up, with you in feeling like it’s sometimes just easier to join the throngs of those who seem perfectly happy with hearts that are given to other things.
And I’m also with you in knowing that it’s worth it to return. Indeed – is there any other true way to live than constantly running back to the Father, ready to release my heart, even when I’m so far away? I don’t think there is. In all the piecing out of my heart, I am sure of only one thing – when I decide to return, the Father will be waiting.
Something is Always Leading Us Home
The window of our plane showed a grey sky and light rain, leading me to sigh inwardly. We had just arrived in Boston after six days in Savannah, Georgia. The weather in Savannah could be described as – well, perfect. Light breeze, no humidity, and between 65 and 70 degrees every day. The old oak trees that are quintessential Savannah were magnificent, their Spanish moss (which we found out was neither Spanish nor moss) gracefully draped across branches.
Coming home to a place where your body and soul don’t always feel like they belong can be a challenge. When I look out the window as I fly into Boston’s Logan International Airport, I think ‘why are there so many trees?’ It is a disconcerting feeling, a sense of alienation instead of belonging. As I make my way through the airport to ground transportation, I go into another space between – that space between the airport and the home we have made in Boston. I walk through the chain-link gate of our small city house and through the door. I know from experience that I have to immediately do something tangible, something concrete that says to me “You’re home. Rest. Breathe.” Sometimes it’s arranging flowers, other times it’s baking bread, still other times it is just getting unpacked as quickly as possible and removing suitcases from view. Once I have done that, my soul begins to settle – at least for a time.
What I have come to know is that my struggle for home is not unique. I have also come to a greater understanding of a spiritual reality that I have known since I was a small child, but that has grown in its theological significance through the years. And that is that no matter what home I have or find here on this earth, there will always be something leading me farther up and farther in, something always leading me to my true home.
Heimat is a German word with no English equivalent. It is described as “the first ‘territory’ that can offer identity, stimulation and safety for one’s own existence” and can only be found “within the trinity of community, space and tradition; because only there human desires for identity, safety and an active designing of life can be pleased.” I think that the only humans who ever truly experienced heimat are Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, that perfect place designed by God for his creation. Only in that space was a perfect trinity possible. In a broken world something always disrupts the trinity of community, space and tradition.
Our entire lives can be taken up with the quest for home, the longing for home. And yet, once we think we have found it, something interferes with the perfect trinity we think we have and we find there is something more.
Something is always leading us home. I thought about this as I watched my mom enter her final journey this past fall. Her yearning for home was both spoken and unspoken, a longing fulfilled on a cold November night as her breath stopped, and she entered eternity.
My mom’s longings find an echo in my own heart and soul, a poignant reminder that throughout life’s transitions, moves, stages, and travels something perennially leads us home, not to a physical shelter but to a place of secure identity and complete belonging. My inward sigh is replaced by the deep comfort of knowing that this longing is woven throughout the human story, ultimately guiding us toward that place where the trinity of community, space, and tradition are perfectly restored in the presence of God.
To my Younger Friends
I’ve been thinking a lot about my younger years as a new mom and wife. I shake my head a lot as I remember, wondering sometimes how I survived. But I know how. I survived because I had both friends my own age as well as older friends. My peers offered empathy, humor, and a safe place to sound off. My older friends offered wisdom and solace, a steady voice that was not competitive but understanding, that gave me hope beyond my current stage of life.
It is with this in mind that I write this to my younger friends. You are navigating life during hard times, raising your kids amidst a crazy online world, handling motherhood, working, and trying to keep sanity and common sense – and all in the era of curated lives. It’s a lot!
So, this one is for you. Keep what is worth keeping and as the old saying goes, blow the rest away.
Life doesn’t get easier. It’s just that you no longer expect it to be easy so the hard doesn’t surprise or paralyze you in the way it sometimes does when you are younger. Don’t make the mistake of wondering if anything else can possibly go wrong. Because yes – yes it can, and sometimes it does.
Loving our bodies takes a lifetime, and I don’t suppose we will ever get to a place where we are completely satisfied. But we do get to places where we can laugh about what used to make us cry. I mean…. trying on bathing suits? There’s a reason why women wore bloomers and sailor suits to swim.
Don’t believe everything that you think you see in the mirror. Mirrors lie and reveal things that don’t matter. You are so much more than that dim reflection.
Forgive early and often. Lack of forgiveness and harboring bitterness will create wrinkles that no face cream or makeup will ever conceal.
Save your anger for things that really matter. There is a lot to be angry about and there is an anger toward evil and injustice that is necessary and foundational to caring for a broken world. But don’t let others dictate what you should be angry about. Don’t get sucked into popular outrage that can be more self-righteous than righteous. Choose wisely those things that might keep you awake at night.
A curated life is no life at all. You are so much more than the facade of your social media handles. You are flesh and blood, emotions and feelings, a person who can love and be loved in return. You are three-dimensional in a world that tries to trick you into being one-dimensional. Don’t settle for a one-dimensional life.
Preventive health is critically important. We women who have children tend to take care of ourselves during pregnancy and then between babies and after babies we care for everyone else, leaving ourselves last. But to be able to continue our care for others we have to make that appointment for a physical or that counseling appointment. No one else will do it for us.
Grief and joy go hand in hand, measure for measure, and grace is the mantle that covers them. Accept the mantle of grace and keep joy close. Otherwise, life will be unlivable.
Envy truly does rot the soul. When your heart is bending toward envy, bless the person that you are bent toward. Thank God for their success, congratulate them with gladness and integrity. And then, if envy persists, unfollow them. Not out of malice, but for your sanity and soul.
Laugh at yourself. Laugh at things that are funny. Laugh at the pitfalls and problems of parenthood. Laugh at the days to come. Even in the midst of grief, laughter is possible. I know this deep in my soul. Laughter and joy don’t contradict what is hard. They simply help make it more bearable.
Loving your neighbor and the person next to you at church, loving the family member you despise – those are the first steps toward world peace and the only ones that we have any control over.
Don’t give away pieces of your precious heart to those things that are not worthy. We only have one heart and, while its capacity for loving is a mystery beyond our understanding, it is also to be guarded and nurtured.
Live life out of abundance not out of scarcity. Scarcity will aggressively tell you that there is never enough money or success or love or friendship or fill in the blank. Abundance will gently remind you that what God has given you is enough.
Loving God and loving people well are the two most important things that we can do in this world. If every day, an army of women worked toward loving a little more and judging a little less, our world would change.
In closing, thank you for your friendship. Thank you for inviting me into your lives. Thank you for making the world a brighter and better place.
Rejection, Resilience, and Pressing On
The rejection email came one week after I had submitted the article. In truth, it was a kind and professional email. My article was “thoughtful and creative” they said, and it would not work for their magazine. They left me with best wishes, and it was over.
I felt hot all over as I read the email. There is nothing like rejection letters to take you back to childhood and those feelings of insecurity that all children go through at some point and some children go through at all points. I wanted to cry. It’s ironic that I received the email in the middle of facilitating what turned out to be a highly successful training. But I didn’t see that. All I saw was the “it would not work” part of the email and the picture in my mind of a big fat F for failure notice for all to see.
My first impulse was to hate the magazine. What did I need with some silly old magazine? Weren’t magazines from last century? But that didn’t work, because I love and appreciate this magazine. I’ve read it for several years and many of the articles in it are deep and thoughtful. The articles they publish point me to God; help me to contemplate big life questions and everyday faith and I am spiritually richer for reading them.
My next impulse was to hate my writing. Who do I think I am to publish anywhere besides my blog – that dear space that never rejects me. I never even took a college English course and here I am thinking I can actually put together a cohesive article. Who even is my audience? The whirlwind of self-doubt and criticism was exhausting, hanging heavy in my soul.
I managed to finish the training and finally back at my hotel room, I allowed myself to cry. I realized that the rejection was an outsider’s view of what I’ve felt recently about my writing. It highlighted the discouragement I have experienced, the lack of focus, the many pieces I have saved that are still incomplete. My submission of the article had been a high point of last week. I cared about what I had written – about the subject and the people affected. I felt like it was a pretty good article and I felt brave to have written it, brave to have pressed send on the submission email.
All those things are still true. The rejection email does not take away the good things about the process, the piece, and the courage it took to submit it. At its core, writing is a great big ampersand. It is sometimes brave and other times cowardly. It is at times exhilarating and other times defeating. It is truthful and it is dishonest. At times it resonates, and other times it falls flat, and that is because it is so deeply connected to the human experience.
The only true failure of all of this is if I allow rejection to diminish my love for the craft, if it prevents me from continuing to communicate ideas, thoughts, and things that I love through writing.
Madeleine L’Engle writes poignantly about the rejections she received when she submitted the manuscript for A Wrinkle in Time, a book that continues to be a best seller years after its publication. She described writing the book as a redemptive experience, so after two and a half years of rejection letters, she finally said to her agent that she was done. It was too hard for her, too hard for her family. A few months later, she gave a tea party for her mother, and through an old friend of her mother’s ended up with an appointment with a publisher and ultimately, a book deal for a book that so many around the world love. She writes about the mystery of timing and the mystery of art, its acceptance or rejection at the hands of another. Why, she wonders, does one writer or artist get discovered while another dies in obscurity? We yearn for success she says because “Art is communication, and if there is no communication it is as though the work has been stillborn.”1
I am absolutely no Madeleine L’Engle, but I love the resilience and love for writing that she models, and I take heart in her encouragement to continue writing.
And so, I press on. I press on because writing has become central to my life, central to my faith. I press on because I am not defined by rejection, but by belovedness. I press on because, in the words of the protagonist in Chariots of Fire, “When I write, I feel God’s pleasure.”
- Madeleine L’Engle in Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith & Art pp 25 ↩︎
When I’m 64
Would you indulge me as I reflect and cry a little in this space?
I turn 64 tomorrow. Depending on where you live in the world, it means I’ve either far exceeded the life expectancy, or I have many years to go. Either way, I’m feeling and thinking about many things.
I think it began this morning as I listened to beloved children’s musician Raffi sing “Everything Grows and Grows.”
Everything grows and grows
Babies do, animals too
Everything grows
Everything grows and grows
Sisters do, brothers too
Everything grows
This song is one of my favorites and as I was listening to it the tears came unbidden, and I let them. I had just finished scheduling some medical appointments online and my body’s frailty despite fairly good health was on my mind. We are immortal beings living in mortal bodies – bodies that face all sorts of indecencies and difficulties. From ingrown toenails to brain tumors, we groan and sometimes lose hope. At 64, the “to do” list on our electronic medical charts gets longer and makes us face reality – our bodies are aging. With this, we know we have some decisions to make, and a number of those have to do with acceptance and attitude. I don’t want to be someone who gives everyone around me an “organ recital” as I age. I don’t want to hate my body or blame the God who created me, and yet I see how easily it may be to go down that dangerous path.
I want to accept my 64 years and what they have brought and taught me with joy, gratitude, and a healthy dose of humor. Because let’s face it – the aging body and process can be funny. Perhaps the funniest is that you see yourself as 24 and all your 64-year-old friends as – well, maybe 84. You can’t believe how much they’ve aged! You pat yourself on the back and then you catch a reflected version of yourself in the blackout windows of the car and you clutch your heart thinking “I thought Grandma K was dead! What’s she doing in my car?!” You think about how you should maybe take an exercise class, get rid of some of those unsightly bulges – and then you think “Nah! I look pretty good. Pass the cinnamon roll.”
Getting older is almost like changing species, from cute middle-aged, white-tailed deer, to yak. We are both grass eaters, but that’s about the only similarity. At the Safeway sushi bar during lunchtime, I look at the teenage girls in their crop tops with their stupid flat tummies and I feel bad about what lies beneath my big, forgiving shirts but — and this is one of the blessings of aging — not for long.
Ann Lamott as quoted in The Washington Post
The physical piece is just the beginning. The harder piece is emotional, for in a society that loves beauty and youth, it is easy to feel irrelevant. It comes through subtly and consistently. Unless you’re famous, like Ann Lamott, your life experience, earned fact as it were, is not seen as important or relevant to our fast-paced world. When at a public event, you can see the eyes of younger people look over or through you. There are surely more interesting people in the room to talk to. You want to connect with people, but do they want to connect with you?
Ready to inhale a massive dose of self-pity, you suddenly stop yourself and think: Hold on! It isn’t about me. Life just isn’t. It’s about something so much bigger, better, and more lasting. It’s about loving well the generations that will follow me. It’s about making sure they know that they are beloved, that they are precious. It’s about showing grace even when faced with those who are not gracious. It is about forgiving when you feel misunderstood and hurt, about forgiving when you are not being forgiven.
What do I want 64 to look like beyond medical appointments and fear? Beyond irrelevance and unsightly bulges?
I want it to be a year of peace and joy, of smiling at the future. I want to invest in my kids and my grandkids – another coming our way in May. I want to love them with abandon. I want to see more of my girlfriends, to go out to breakfast and right the world. At our age, we should be able to. I want to learn how to decorate cakes and become a better communicator. I want to write words that are full of life and grace, that point the reader to something bigger and better than me. I want to walk through crowded bazaars in places I love and drink coffee in unexpected coffee shops. I want to go to a Bollywood exercise class and laugh at my mistakes. I want to love others well. I want to grow more compassionate and meet the unexpected hard things without fear. I want to honor the struggle – mine and others. Most of all, I want others to see the God I love, to witness his work and love his world.
64. It’s a lot of me and a lot of life. Will you journey with me on this? I sure hope so!
Finding Place
The city of Boston is ushering in the day, traffic winding its way through the labyrinth of streets and tunnels that make up the city. To the left of the Bunker Hill Monument, the sun rises over the Atlantic Ocean, shades of pink, orange, yellow, and red casting joyful reflections on steel and glass plated buildings. Snow is on the rooftops, a bright white contrasting with the colors of sunrise.
I know these streets and I know this neighborhood. It may seem odd to say this with the sort of pride I feel, but knowing these streets is a hard-earned achievement. I’ve lived here for four years, and this section of Boston has become home. I know its rhythm, the bells tolling on the hour at Saint Francis de Sales Parish across the street with Christmas Carols during Christmas Tide, Easter hymns during Easter, and God Bless America and Amazing Grace in between. I know the schedule of the 93 bus as it stops outside our house throughout the day, its automated “Route 93 service to downtown Boston,” echoing in the early morning hours. Best of all, I know all of my neighbors and some of their extended families. We are sometimes known as the Clarken Court Troublemakers Guild, a title I couldn’t be prouder to belong to.
Those of us who have lived in multiple countries and places are keenly aware that discovering and learning to find your way through streets, alleys, buildings, and businesses in your neighborhood is a wonderful thing. To turn right or left, knowing that even if you take a wrong turn, you can find your way back to the road you were on is an accomplishment worthy of recognizing. It’s all about finding place.
Perhaps also this is the first step in learning to love a place – knowing its streets and buildings, becoming familiar with the tempo of the place, what makes it move and live, what gives it life and personality. Knowing that if you get lost or take a wrong turn, you can always find your way back home.
Finding place isn’t always about instant love. More often, it’s about living life day in and day out, living through the things that make you want to give up and the things that make you want to live forever. Knowing that you can point someplace and say things like “I remember when we went there! We were with so and so and we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe!” “That restaurant closed? That is so sad! We loved that place.” “Remember when the Martinelli family lived there? It was such a happy house!”
And then one day, when you least expect it, you realize that you’ve found a place, a place for you. A place that you have learned to love, and it has loved you back. You know it is not permanent, for nothing ever is, but that doesn’t stop you from settling and calling it home. With some fear and hesitancy, you hang your heart and as you hang it, you breathe a sigh of wistful longing and settled peace. Your global soul has found another place to call home.
Sharp Edges of a Round Globe
What is it about Sunday afternoons in winter that bring on such melancholy? I remember writing a couple of years ago that if Sunday mornings are a time when Heaven meets earth in Divine Liturgy, Sunday afternoons feel opposite. They feel cold and hard, as though the warm grace of the morning has frozen, leaving only ice and cold.
Truth is, I have felt this way since I can remember. It began in boarding school. Sunday afternoon was the time for resting. The entire hostel was quiet. As I think back on this, it is quite extraordinary. How can that many children in one place be quiet? But we were, whether it be from fear of punishment or just the intensity of the week catching up with us, Sunday afternoons had us in our dormitory rooms, curled up with books, taking a nap with a favorite stuffed animal, or hiding tears of homesickness because that is when we missed our moms and dads so much. As I would sit in my room, a yearning sadness enveloped me, and it has remained that way since I was a child.
Today I feel like that boarding school kid once again, a yearning sadness surrounding me and threatening to overwhelm.
Certainly, there is enough to be sad about. I feel the sharp edges of a round globe, like shards of glass are stuck into different cities and regions tearing into people and places. It is too big for most to bear. Besides the global pain is the individual pain that each one of us knows, some of it too difficult to share with even our close friends. And yet I cannot believe that a silent and cruel giant creator is playing with our globe and us like we are toys, wanting to wound those toys like a child bent on cruelty toward inanimate objects.
I cannot believe in a cruel creator because the thread of goodness that I see, feel, and sense is still too strong. I see it in the kindness of a neighbor. I feel it in a friend putting her arm around me as she sees tears well up in my eyes. I sense it in the beauty of the hymns of the church. I see it in the bravery of men and women who are caring for the suffering around the world. And I see it as the sun rises each day in all these places – whether or not we see color through the clouds. But far beyond what I see, feel, and sense is an enduring faith that God is good, and in his goodness I can rest.
This work of faith brings me once again to pray the prayers of the church – prayers that have been passed down through centuries of faith by people who lived in profoundly difficult times. Prayers that I have gratefully received, knowing that I don’t have the words I need. Prayers that are large enough and strong enough to cover a round globe with sharp edges. I leave one of those with you today, knowing that on this melancholy Sunday afternoon they give me hope and help me move beyond my melancholy to a place of peace and rest.
Remember Lord all your servants who are in pain, who are in despair, who are sick, who are poor, who have lost a loved one, who have been wronged, who are by themselves, who have been slandered, who are captives, who are hungry, who are refugees, who have lost their ways, who have been deceived, who are unprotected, who are in prison…Remember Lord all the nations of the world. Keep them in your embrace and cover and protect them from war and evil.
St. Paisios
Faraway Family
Boston is cold. This is the first thing I think as I step out of Logan International Airport, arms heavy with bags and suitcases, and head toward ground transport. The airport is busy as travelers, eager to get on their way with weekend plans, rush or amble to airport gates with their coffee, bags and kids in tow.
This morning we left sunny California where we had 10 beautiful days with three of our children and their growing families. A grandson who is definitely cuter than your grandsons (insert laugh emoji) was part of the package and the soft feel of his body falling asleep on my chest will not easily leave me. How amazing is it to witness a future generation growing? To be welcomed as a part of his life? Though I love words, they fail me as I think about this.
We left as a beautiful sunrise made its way across the western sky, flaming colors transforming an airport into a blaze of otherworldly beauty and light. We left and an ache settled into my heart and body.
Ten days does not feel like enough. I felt the same when I left my oldest daughter and her family in early December. Those grandchildren are older but still young enough that they are wide-eyed with wonder, challenging any cynical or weary adults. Life is a daily adventure of exoskeletons, seeing the stars with their naked eyes, and digging down to the water table (these are their words, and they are way, way too smart for me.)
And I think about how Boston is cold, and Boston feels lonely. I ask myself as I’ve done so many times before – are families really supposed to live so far away from each other?
I come from a long line of movers. My paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather both arrived as immigrants in the United States – one from Leeds, England and the other from St. Petersburg, Russia. They were both children and they left extended family in their countries of origin. My mom and dad were first generation Americans, born and raised in Massachusetts. Unlike their parents, they left Massachusetts as adults, a young married couple with one baby. They traveled eight thousand miles, entering into a completely different way of living than either of their parents, raising their children far from extended family.
Yet, the people who stepped in as proxy uncles and aunts were as much a part of my life as any relative could ever be. Dr. Mary, Auntie Hannah, Auntie Bettie….the list goes on. I think about them every day. They reflected grace, love, humor, and care to me and my brothers. It is hard to find that same dynamic in the United States. As much as I want to say that a church, faith community, or a chosen family fills in those gaps, I have to search hard to see it reflected in the same way. I don’t see people dropping everything to cuddle a baby or make a meal. I witness more apologetic requests, asking for help with hesitancy and a side order of guilt. Guilt that we can’t cope on our own, guilt that we are needy, guilt – dare I say it – that we need people to step in when we are sick, or sad, or have a baby, or just because. We are created for community, created for more than a solitary life. Monks give up the world to live apart and pray for the world, but they know the importance of community and they live it every day.
Are families really supposed to live so far away? I pose the question to a few friends and the responses are quick. No. No – they aren’t. My friend Brit adds to that “I think no, but also it is just a part of the brokenness of the modern world.” There is much truth to that statement.
Faraway family has become normal in a world of displacement. There are those of us who have chosen to move, and those who are displaced through force, not by choice. I think of the massive displacement and death that Palestinians are facing daily and my heart settles into a dull and constant ache for these faraway families. I think of those still held in captivity, taken now months ago and feel an equal ache.
Despite seeing more of this in the modern world, my faith tradition tells me that none of this is new. Families have been torn apart for centuries, some by force, some by choices both good and harmful, and others following a God whose ways are mysterious, whose purposes often show up in future generations not in the generation that makes the move. I think of Jesus, whose birth Western Christians have celebrated, and Eastern Christians celebrate tomorrow. His birth was a transition from one home to another. He left a home where he was one with God the Father and entered a place where he would be both worshipped and mocked; adored and rejected; believed and killed because of disbelief.
He knows what it is to have faraway family, to feel forsaken and alone, to long for the day when he would be reunited. And somehow, he will continue to use faraway family and those close by to remind us of who he is, and who we are; to remind us that we belong, and that family is bigger than we can imagine; to remind us that we are not alone and that our griefs and joys matter; to continue to work out the miracle and mystery of salvation and redemption.
As we move into our Orthodox celebration, we will sing a Nativity hymn “Today the Virgin gives birth to the Transcendent One, and the earth offers a cave to the Unapproachable One! Angels, with shepherds, glorify Him! The wise men journey with the star! Since for our sake the Eternal God is born as a little child.” And in singing, I will remember this journey from heaven to earth, so that family and all of creation could be redeemed and healed to the glory of God.
Marilyn R. Gardner 