Daily Devotion - April 2
I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays) while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara
- Kara
Every night after dinner Andy and I watch the PBS NewsHour. My daughter thinks it's funny to see the reporters all talking from their own homes, with their books and photos in the background like the rest of us, all reaching the world through our screens.
There is a tenderness to the program these days.
I feel like Judy Woodruff is mothering us through this, alone in the studio. After each segment the people say things to each other like, "It's so good to see you." And, "Stay healthy." And, "We appreciate your work so much." And "Thank you for what you do." The nightly news is shimmering with care and humanity.
But I also cry through the news every night. I cry at the horror - overflowing ERs with under-equipped doctors and nurses, freezer trucks as morgues, caravans of migrant workers in India. And then I cry at the beauty - people hanging out of windows and off balconies raucously applauding doctors and nurses at shift change time, a little girl being given a "birthday parade" of cars driving by her house honking, a violinist in an evening gown giving a concert off of her front porch, a woman on her back deck leading a zumba class with a bullhorn while people in backyards in every direction flail along.
Our humanity is showing.
Both the horror and the beauty are on full display right now. The weakness and the strength, side by side.
Tears feel like an appropriate response.
Also, God is here. In all of it. Right here in it. Always meeting us in the places we don't expect or forget to look.
Death and life, lament and resurrection - it's all right at the surface. I want to live awake to it AND being awake hurts a little bit right now. But I am working hard to let myself stay permeable, to allow the sorrow and joy move through me, to rinse me out and get me ready for more. I want to keep watching for God in the midst of it all. I want to keep seeing people. This feels like the most important thing I can do.
I'm remembering now that this means resting more too, and turning it off on purpose sometimes as well. Sabbath has never been more important. For me, this means no news on Sundays. And I am taking Mondays completely off. No screens. No work. Just rest. Being outdoors. Reading good novels. Making good food. Naps. Tending the house. Tending the yard. Tending my family relationships. And I am ending each work day at 4 pm (except Tuesdays, when session meets at 4). The boundaries are not easy for me, but they feel vitally important.
Where have your tears been coming?
How have you been experiencing humanity - your own and others'?
What has been your sabbath?
What boundaries are helping you navigate things?
Living awake takes courage. Staying open takes a willingness to be broken open. Our humanity is on full display. But out there, in here, there is grace for it all. There is grace for what happens, and grace for our response to it, and grace for the next thing after that.
Spirit, open my heart, to the joy and pain of living...
Amen.
CONNECTING RITUAL:
There is a tenderness to the program these days.
I feel like Judy Woodruff is mothering us through this, alone in the studio. After each segment the people say things to each other like, "It's so good to see you." And, "Stay healthy." And, "We appreciate your work so much." And "Thank you for what you do." The nightly news is shimmering with care and humanity.
But I also cry through the news every night. I cry at the horror - overflowing ERs with under-equipped doctors and nurses, freezer trucks as morgues, caravans of migrant workers in India. And then I cry at the beauty - people hanging out of windows and off balconies raucously applauding doctors and nurses at shift change time, a little girl being given a "birthday parade" of cars driving by her house honking, a violinist in an evening gown giving a concert off of her front porch, a woman on her back deck leading a zumba class with a bullhorn while people in backyards in every direction flail along.
Our humanity is showing.
Both the horror and the beauty are on full display right now. The weakness and the strength, side by side.
Tears feel like an appropriate response.
Also, God is here. In all of it. Right here in it. Always meeting us in the places we don't expect or forget to look.
Death and life, lament and resurrection - it's all right at the surface. I want to live awake to it AND being awake hurts a little bit right now. But I am working hard to let myself stay permeable, to allow the sorrow and joy move through me, to rinse me out and get me ready for more. I want to keep watching for God in the midst of it all. I want to keep seeing people. This feels like the most important thing I can do.
I'm remembering now that this means resting more too, and turning it off on purpose sometimes as well. Sabbath has never been more important. For me, this means no news on Sundays. And I am taking Mondays completely off. No screens. No work. Just rest. Being outdoors. Reading good novels. Making good food. Naps. Tending the house. Tending the yard. Tending my family relationships. And I am ending each work day at 4 pm (except Tuesdays, when session meets at 4). The boundaries are not easy for me, but they feel vitally important.
Where have your tears been coming?
How have you been experiencing humanity - your own and others'?
What has been your sabbath?
What boundaries are helping you navigate things?
Living awake takes courage. Staying open takes a willingness to be broken open. Our humanity is on full display. But out there, in here, there is grace for it all. There is grace for what happens, and grace for our response to it, and grace for the next thing after that.
Spirit, open my heart, to the joy and pain of living...
Amen.
CONNECTING RITUAL:
Perhaps, right now as you read this, or tonight before we go to bed, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we might recite or sing this together, and so join our hearts:
Chorus:
Spirit open my heart
To the joy and pain of living
As you love may I love
In receiving and in giving
Spirit, open my heart
1 God, replace my stony heart
with a heart that's kind and tender.
All my coldness and fear
to your grace I now surrender.
2 Write your love upon my heart
as my law, my goal, my story.
In each thought, word, and deed,
may my living bring you glory.
3 May I weep with those who weep,
share the joy of sister, brother.
In the welcome of Christ,
may we welcome one another.
Listen to it here.
This week, we are reading through the Gospel of John. In my house, it is at the dinner table. Maybe for you, it will be when you wake up, or before bed, or over lunch. It can be read in about 20 minutes a day, or by reading three chapters each day. If this is your approach, today, we are reading Chapters 13-15.
Chorus:
Spirit open my heart
To the joy and pain of living
As you love may I love
In receiving and in giving
Spirit, open my heart
1 God, replace my stony heart
with a heart that's kind and tender.
All my coldness and fear
to your grace I now surrender.
2 Write your love upon my heart
as my law, my goal, my story.
In each thought, word, and deed,
may my living bring you glory.
3 May I weep with those who weep,
share the joy of sister, brother.
In the welcome of Christ,
may we welcome one another.
Listen to it here.
This week, we are reading through the Gospel of John. In my house, it is at the dinner table. Maybe for you, it will be when you wake up, or before bed, or over lunch. It can be read in about 20 minutes a day, or by reading three chapters each day. If this is your approach, today, we are reading Chapters 13-15.
2 comments:
Thank you, Kara, for your profound and beautiful reflections. The song you linked was particularly meaningful. Blessings on your ministry.
Thank you, Cynthia! Blessings on you too!
Kara
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