Stop! Look! Listen!

I lead a retreat three years ago, in June 2016, about remembrance, and its place in our spiritual life. I opened the retreat by telling a story.

Storytelling lies at the heart of my approach to leading retreats. I learn about God through my life. I pray. I reflect on Scripture. And, as much as possible, I knead to Word of God into my life — to borrow an idea from French mystic Madeleine Delbrel. As a result, my life becomes the tool God uses to teach me and to draw me into a deeper relationship with himself.

That particular story began seven years earlier, and wound through life experiences and dreams — the nighttime kind, not the wanting-in-life kind. It ended with me reviewing an old prayer journal one Saturday morning and finding an entry that made me laugh out loud. I realized when I read the journal entry that I had entirely misinterpreted an experience in prayer, and that God had fulfilled his promise even though I hadn’t noticed until that Saturday morning.

I concluded my opening remarks by saying, “I have really come to believe that remembrance is an important dimension of the spiritual life. … Remembrance helps us to give credit where credit is due, and when we begin to see God at work in our lives, we become more sensitive to his hand turning us to the left and to the right. For me, journal writing is a way of becoming more open to that guiding hand.”

This morning, I find myself thinking I should probably make a habit of practicing what I preach. I should review my journals on a regular basis to see how God is at work. This practice would enable me to be a more intentional co-creator, collaborating with God’s hand rather than running around willy-nilly chased by emotions, ego and pride.

Not surprisingly, since God has not seen fit to send angels my way, but occasionally speaks to me through dreams when I am being especially recalcitrant, a dream provided the necessary nudge. I dreamed I had to solve a problem. As my alarm relentlessly drew me out of sleep, I was scrambling to solve the problem, knowing that if I failed, the repercussions would be irreversible and devastating. As I was pulled from the dream by the fast current of awakening, I realized I couldn’t solve the problem because I didn’t understand it.

I woke feeling distressed with a question on my lips. What if I got it wrong?

A dream through which God hopes to work (plans to work? works?) usually lingers rather than fading. And so it was on that occasion. The question lingered. The dream image of being pulled away from a conference table and out of the meeting room lingered. The growing awareness that I hadn’t understood the problem we were attempting to solve lingered.

As I wrote in my journal that evening, I realized I was wearing blinders. I realized I was spending less time in prayer, meditation and reflection than is necessary for me to live attuned to God’s voice. I realized I had allowed myself to become so busy — an unfortunate pattern in my life that always proves to be counterproductive — I could only see the immediate present and ways it deviated from what I wanted.

I realized it was time to stop, look and listen. I needed to stop doing so much I sacrificed my prayer time. I needed to look back, to review journals and to identify how God has been at work. If I can’t see him at work, I can’t remember what he has done, and if I can’t remember, I am not open to the guidance he provides.

Finally, I needed to listen. I needed to listen to the way he was speaking through the circumstances of my life and the desires of my heart. The listening has been greatly facilitated by the decision to work less and pray more. I’ve needed to adjust some routines, but already I am more at peace.

Reviewing my journals and reflecting upon what I find on those pages helps, too. As I remember times over the past year when I have experienced peace, joy, love, and the other fruits of the Spirit, I am filled with a quiet certainty that God has been at work. I may not understand his ineffable ways, but I can trust the evidence he scatters through all my days. And so, like the psalmist, I will remember.


I Hurt

I suppose I should get out of bed. That’s what I told myself for well over two hours. I should get out of bed.

If I have something to do, I manage it. You don’t live with depression for as long as I did without developing a few strategies for coping with an energy-sapping roommate like that. The first was always: fulfill obligations.

This morning, I did get up and dress for Mass. I even managed to drive to the church — a new church since the priest in town thinks Mass is a theatrical production, not a worship service. I don’t have patience for shenanigans like that. Unfortunately, the website for the new church hadn’t listed the correct time, and I didn’t have the energy to start looking for a different church.

I went home and went back to bed. Sleep is a wonderful way to escape emotional pain — when emotional pain doesn’t keep you awake, poking and prodding with unanswerable questions until your bed is a tangle of sheets and you’re physically exhausted from tossing and turning. I did manage a couple hours of deep and dreamless sleep; my body was probably exhausted — it happens.

As I lay in bed, I remembered a passage from a book I read more than 20 years ago. I had picked it up on a discount table, where I found most of my books in that pre-ebook era — Legacy of the Heart: The Spiritual Advantages of a Painful Childhood by Wayne Muller. I was no longer in therapy, having unraveled most of the knots which resulted from the physical, sexual and psychological abuse I had suffered. However, I hadn’t found my way back to God.

I vacillated between feeling unworthy — I had been raised Catholic after all — and being angry with God for the plethora of obstacles he had flung in my path. In my late-30s, I was a single parent with two children, receiving no child support, working two jobs with a combined income that still placed us well below poverty level, and had no day-to-day emotional support. Instead, I always seemed to be mothering some young woman or another who latched onto me until she found her bearings.

I was putting one foot in front of the other, but that was about as good as it got. In some ways, I was grieving what might have been. I was smart. I was willing to work hard. What might have been had my life been different? But, there was also the despair of knowing my life wasn’t going to get much better. As a single woman in a low income bracket without the redeeming quality of physical attractiveness, I was always going to be disposable.

I knew that and the knowledge hurt. I wanted desperately to find a relationship with God that would carry me through, that would make the burden bearable. I don’t know that Muller helped me find my way back to God, but he did offer what was for me a life-changing idea. He said we have to enter into our pain and learn what the pain has to teach us to experience healing. He writes about counseling a client, “For just a moment, imagine letting go of the ‘Why’ and just allow yourself to say, ‘I hurt.’ Nothing more, just repeat that phrase a few times slowly, ‘I hurt.'”

I hurt.

How many times over the years have I gone back to those simple words, lived with them, and then slowly allowed healing to enter into my life? Two? Three? Four? The emotional wounds that are nearly as incapacitating as physical wounds don’t come often, but when they come, they take a toll. They not only disrupt your emotional equilibrium, but also churn through your life like a tornado, tearing apart relationships and routines, leaving everything in disarray.

You have to rebuild or move on. I’ve moved on after devastating job losses. This loss is different. I don’t know what I will do, what I can do. I spend hours laying in bed, wrapped in a warm knitted blanket, and mentally review the carnage. I say those two simple words over and over, “I hurt. I hurt.”

In a book which has offered me much encouragement over the years — The Shell Seekers by Rosamund Pilcher — Penelope loses the love of her life during war. When she receives the news, she recalls a poem her lover read to her, a poem from Louis MacNeice’s Autumn Journal, which contains the lines: “There will be time to audit / The accounts later, there will be sunlight later / And the equation will come out at last.” As she recalls the lines, one phrase — there will be sunlight later — stays with her “And it seemed as good a way as any to start out on the left-over life that lay ahead.”

There is always “the left-over life that lay ahead” which must be lived. I know this, and I will undoubtedly manage to live it. But right now, the way is not clear. I can only cling to the words that were a life raft in the past, and hope they will once again help me to keep my head above water.

I hurt.

I can only trust “there will be sunlight later.”

Common, Ordinary Things

“Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you….'” – John 13:8

I know it’s Easter — and Sunday at that — but I am still stuck on Holy Thursday and a phrase from the gospel which tumbles around in my head and heart: ‘Unless I wash you.’

I was eating Corn Chex during hurried morning devotions when the phrase first drew my attention. I’d read that passage in John’s gospel many times before — and heard it proclaimed. That phrase was just part of the exchange between Peter and Jesus where Peter goes overboard again, as usual. But Thursday morning, it led me on a journey of the heart.

The Good News translation is more specific. ‘If I do not wash your feet,’ Jesus answered, ‘you will no longer be my disciple.’ However, the New International Version and the New American Bible simply say, ‘Unless I wash you.’ That was the translation I heard a second time as I drove to work, and continued morning prayer with an audio meditation at ‘Unless I wash you.’

I simply cannot imagine that Jesus and his disciples had begun their supper without washing. Transportation in those days involved walking or using animals which left smelly piles in their wake. Even though the Passover dinner was to be eaten ‘with your lions girt, sandals on your feet and your staff in hand’ (Exodus 12:11), they must have washed their feet and ritualistically washed their hands before sitting down to eat.

But Jesus loved these guys. John tells us this at the beginning of the passage, ‘He [Jesus] loved his own in the world and he loved them to the end’ (13:1). Jesus knows what’s going to happen. He knows he’s angered authorities; he knows Judas is going to help officials arrest him — because folks were identified differently 2000 years ago when photographs, fingerprints and DNA evidence weren’t around to help authorities. How is Jesus going to show his disciples his love?

The twelve chosen as apostles weren’t twelve whose lives had been changed by the miracles Jesus worked. None had been blind. None had been leprous. None had been healed. They were presumably present when he fed the multitudes, and some of them had undoubtedly been present to witness some of his miracles — for example, when he healed Peter’s mother-in-law, who then served them. But, what had he done for them?

I imagined Jesus, as we all do when we know death is approaching, remembering times when he felt loved. He remembered his mother tenderly washing his feet when he was a boy and came in after a rambunctious day outdoors. ‘Jesse,’ she would say as she held both of his feet in her hands, ‘sit still. Unless I wash you, you will not be able to sit down to eat with Abba and me.’ He remembered squirming around, anxious to be off and running again, not understanding why his feet had to be clean to put food in his mouth. He remembered his mother’s patience as she waited for him to settle down so she could wash his feet, and the peace that flowed through him as her love was expressed in that ordinary activity.

I imagined the memory prompting Jesus to get up, take off his outer garments and tie a towel around his waist. He would express his love for his disciples in a privately meaningful, but very ordinary activity. He would wash their feet as servants in the home of a wealthy man might wash the feet of their master, his family and their guests — or as a mother might wash the feet of her beloved son. He was touching them as he had never touched them before, with loving hands on their tired and calloused feet. He was caring for them, not with a grand miracle, but with a personal touch.

I was reminded of a quote from a slim volume by Kathleen Norris. In QUOTIDIAN MYSTERIES: THE LAUNDRY, LITURGY AND ‘WOMEN’S WORK,’ she writes, “We want life to have meaning, we want fulfillment, healing and even ecstasy, but the human paradox is that we find these things by starting where we are, not where we wish we were. We must look for blessings to come from unlikely, everyday places … and not in spectacular events.”

The washing of his disciples’ feet was the most ordinary and everyday of events, and yet it has, over time, become one of Jesus’ most powerful teaching moments. He went on to say, ‘If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow’ (John 13:14-15). We are to care for one another.

We are to show our love by caring for each other in the most basic of ways, in ordinary, everyday ways. That’s it. Folks don’t need us to work miracles; they just need us to reach out with love to open a door, extend a smile, offer a listening ear. They need us to recognize their humanity and to reach out to them with ours.

But, we can only know this in our hearts if Jesus has washed us, because that is what opens our eyes.




“In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, ‘Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.’ But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” (Luke 1:26-29)

Mary was perplexed at the angel’s greeting. Personally, I would have been perplexed to find myself speaking with an angel.

Of course, it’s possible, the angel appeared in human guise. That’s not outside the realm of possibility. A popular television show, “Touched by an Angel,” chose that approach, and God does have a tendency to use themes in his creation. Horse, donkey, zebra — different, but with evident commonalities. Lion, tiger, domestic house cat — different, but with similar characteristics. It’s entirely possible that when angels make their presence known, they look enough like us to be indistinguishable from us.

If that were the case, the greeting would have been perplexing. If, during an ordinary day, when I was about my ordinary business, a stranger greeted me by saying, “The Lord is with you,” I would feel a shimmer of disconnect. I hear a similar phrase when I attend Mass — “The Lord be with you” — but that’s part of the liturgy, and doesn’t set me apart from others who worship. To hear it not as part of a liturgical prayer, but as a statement of fact would be disconcerting.

The Lord is with me? Why? Why me and how do you know? Yet, during this Christmas season, isn’t that the message angels bring each of us? The Lord is with you.

We don’t know exactly when Jesus was born; his birth wasn’t registered at the local courthouse with parents identified and attending physician noted. We celebrate shortly after the winter solstice because, for us, he is the light which shines in the darkness, a light not overcome by that darkness (Cf. John 1:5). It makes sense that we would name clearly what ancients only intuited and celebrated by other names.

However, none of us can fully grasp the mystery of God with us in a newborn child. We can’t even grasp the mystery of wonder we feel when our children are born, when we hold our grandchildren for the first time, when we see a stranger’s child in the grocery store. Something within us — spontaneously, without intent or choice — honors the miracle of that child’s life and inherent dignity. We are drawn to the hope each child signifies; God is not done with us.

Jesus — who would die for us and rise again to show us death is not the end — entered this world in exactly the same way, as a newborn child. We are told there was no room at the inn, but I suspect that was a euphemism rather than the literal truth. Joseph would have had relatives in Bethlehem, but his betrothed — a very pregnant Mary, who would undoubtedly have been condemned by gossip as an adulteress, even if Joseph did not put her aside — would not have been welcome in any “decent” home.

The innkeeper had probably been apprised of the situation and discouraged from taking them in. I wonder if it was the innkeeper who had a heart, or if it was his wife. I wonder which of them said, “Maybe we can’t give them shelter inside, but we can’t turn them away, either. It just isn’t right, especially with that young woman being so close to her time.”

And so it was that Jesus came to be born in a stable, as an outcast. But God was so proud of his plan unfolding, so proud of the son born into the world, so proud of the way generations would be transformed by that pivotal moment in time, he made the announcement to those who would listen — shepherds who kept watch by night. They believed, as do all of us who know the darkness and long for the light.

Not one of us has lived without suffering. We all can name a loss, a disappointment, a closed door, a death, that changed us irrevocably. But, unless we are still in the midst of our grief, we know the suffering, in time, eases. We know that morning follows the darkest of nights. We know a day will come when we are no longer suffocated by pain, and can take a deep breath again. That is God with us. That is the child coming into our hearts as he came into the world.

But his birth was not just a metaphor, it was a reality. His mother felt the crushing pain of contractions and spread her legs so that Jesus could slip from God’s dream for us into the world he created for us, a world in which we are shaped by choice and chance, by his hand working through the natural order of things and our responses to them. We can be like the relatives who did not make the child welcome, like the innkeeper who found a place — not an ideal place, but a place nevertheless — for the child, or we can be like the shepherds who put aside what they were doing and sought him.

When we hear the proclamation, ‘The Lord is with you,’ we have that choice. Which do we chose?

Kindness Matters

I’ve read the article from The Atlantic three times. Titled “Masters of Love,” it explores the dynamic that research suggests may be key to marital happiness — kindness. Apparently, partners who show an interest in one another, give their partners the benefit of the doubt, and share each other’s joys have a 97% chance of having a marriage that lasts and of being happy in that marriage.

One thought strikes me every time I read this: ALL relationships benefit from kindness. Without kindness, there’s not much hope.

I know I go back to this article over and over again because I keep looking for the answer to my question: How do you turn a significant relationship around when kindness went out the door years ago? I’ve been worn out by one such relationship. I don’t want to end the relationship, but I’ve been treated such contempt and such disrespect on such a consistent basis for so long, I just feel like walking away.

On a good day, there’s cool courtesy mixed with snide barbs. On a bad day, there’s outright hostility. Often, situations escalate beyond comprehension out of nothing.

A couple weeks ago, just to make conversation, I notified her that my supervisor — someone she knows — had resigned. I was sorry to see him leave, but also understood the reasons for his choice. She didn’t; I defended him — and BAM! The whole thing spiraled out of control. When I saw a very familiar pattern unfolding, I tried naming the no-win dynamic and asking her to stop. I tried changing the topic. I tried explaining that I had just received news that a friend in hospice wasn’t doing well, and asked her to show some compassion. The situation just kept escalating.

Eventually, I received this text: “You are a self-centered individual. I can’t believe I have even attempted a relationship with you. You can stop communicating with me. Ever.” It’s a disturbing message, but I find myself wondering if that might not be best for both of us.

Obviously, there’s a tremendous disconnect between the way she sees me and the way I see myself. I don’t see myself as self-centered or narcissistic (another of her favorite descriptors lately). I suspect that what she’s really saying is this: “I don’t get from you what I need from you.” I will openly admit that at my age, I have physical limitations that prevent me from being as active as I was at 30 or 40. However, I don’t believe that knowing one’s limitations makes one either self-centered or narcissistic. I think it’s healthy and appropriate.

I will also admit that I have probably withdrawn emotionally in recent years. I doubt if I’ve had a dozen conversations with her in the last three years that didn’t involve criticism expressed with greater or lesser degrees of contempt. I have to give myself a pep talk every time I’m going to see her. Breathe deeply. Don’t get defensive. Show an interest in her, but be careful with the way you express your interest. Look down and not at her if you have any concerns, because if she reads anything in your face, she’ll jump all over you. Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply. Breathe deeply. That’s not good. It’s hard to be loving and supportive when so much energy is tied up in protective mechanisms like that.

So, at present, we’re at an impasse. I can’t change the way she sees me, and I can’t change the way she speaks to me. I’m sure she would say that I should change, but when I reflect on the choices I have made, I believe they are healthy and appropriate. I’ve established appropriate boundaries. I don’t say in anger what I wouldn’t say over a cup of coffee at Starbucks. I keep showing up and making an effort, even though I have been deeply hurt by some of the things that have been said.

But, now I’ve been told to stop showing up. I could say yet again, “She was speaking in anger and didn’t mean it.” Or I could listen to what she says and honor her request. When I consider what led to this communication embargo, I suspect that might be best. I refused to apologize for her thoughts; she insisted I apologize not for what I said or for what I meant by what I said, but for what she decided I meant; she refused to consider the possibility that I meant something entirely different.

That’s not reasonable. That’s not fair. And, it’s certainly not kind. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the long run, but I do know that unless kindness becomes a key component of this relationship, it will not be a relationship that brings either of us joy or enables either of us to feel loved.

If that’s to be our future, maybe walking away is best.

A Sound Eye

The lamp of the body is the eye.
If your eye is Sound,
Your whole body will be filled with Light;
But if your eye is Bad,
Your whole body will be in Darkness.
And if the Light in you is Darkness,
How great will the Darkness be.
(Matthew 6:22-23, NAB)

Light and darkness.

Over and over, I return to Psalm 139:12 (“Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day”) and John 1:5 (“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it”). I am comforted by these verses. Encouraged. And reminded that I am called to be a beacon of light.

I have also come to understand why I was traumatized by the results of the election. Yes, part of it was the way it acted as a trigger to a past event. But, part of it has to do with core values, with the lamp of my body, with the way I see things.

To me, money is a tool, no more and no less. I can use knitting needles and a yarn to make a sweater, or I can use money to buy a sweater; either way, I have a sweater. Because money has no value for me beyond its use — I don’t measure my worth by my income, I don’t feel a burning need to accumulate wealth, I don’t even understand the decisions of those who have a dollars and cents bottom line — greed is incomprehensible to me.

When the Lord gave the Israelites manna in the desert, he said to them, “Gather it that everyone has enough to eat” (Exodus 16:16) — everyone. In other words, take only what you need. In this world, people need different things. I, for example, need to have tools for writing and creative expression; only another artist would need paint, brushes and easel in the same way that I do. I’m so fearful of not having a journal with which to untangle my thoughts and feelings, I have a shelf of blank books, and pens sitting in jars and cups all over my apartment. I may, in fact, have more pens and pencils in one room than most people have in their entire houses. I need to write; I find my way to the truth by writing. But, I have no need for a huge flat-screen TV — and so I have a smaller second-hand set which I use to watch DVDs.

Taking only what you need isn’t about taking exactly what others have; it’s about knowing what you need and being satisfied with having that need fulfilled. The Israelites were also told not take more than they needed, but “some kept a part of it over until the following morning; it became wormy and rotten” (Exodus 16:20). I strongly suspect, since God does tend to be fairly consistent about some things, that’s what happens to those whose actions are motivated by greed. Inside, they become rotten.

(Please note: I said those whose ACTIONS ARE MOTIVATED BY GREED. I’m not talking about wealth; I’m talking about actions and motivations. Wealth is a gift, like other gifts, and can be used for the common good in ways too myriad to delineate here. Wealth, in and of itself, is entirely separate and different from actions that are motivated by greed.)

My suspicions are based on the way Jesus reiterated this idea in his ministry. He taught his disciples to pray for “daily bread” (Matthew 6:11); to trust in God’s providential care (Matthew 6:25-34). He cautioned them against becoming obsessed with accumulating wealth, saying, “For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be” (Matthew 6:21). I suspect that is why he said, after the rich young man went away sad, “it will be hard for one who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19:23). I suspect Jesus was saying, in effect, wealth can become a god when your identity is tied to taking more than you need.

So what matters to me if money doesn’t? People matter; relationships matter; human dignity matters. I firmly believe that you should treat all people with respect whether you like them or not. Period. Non-negotiable.

Just as greed is beyond my comprehension, racism and bigotry and misogyny and all of those other attitudes and behaviors that deny the dignity of each human being are beyond my comprehension. For me, that is a darkness which must be resisted at all costs. For me, that is the face of evil. That is why the election results have been so traumatizing; for me, a great cloud of darkness has spread across the land.

Am I a prophet? Will time show that my fears were warranted? Or am I wearing the blinders of political bias?

Time will tell; time always tells the story and reveals the truth. As this story unfolds, I ask God for a sound eye, so that my body may be filled with light, and I ask for the grace to to be a beacon of light, living my core values regardless of what the future holds. As this story unfolds, I ask God for the grace to trust him not only with each day, but also with the big picture.

As this story unfold, I also ask for the grace to remember each and every day that God is good.

I Finally Understand

To date, I have found two things for which to thank Donald Trump:

  1. For the first time in years, some Republicans broke ranks during the election and engaged in something which could be interpreted as bi-partisan activity. Once upon a time, the Democrats held a position and the Republicans held a position, and the two sides got together to find a working compromise that was good for America. It’s been years since that’s happened, which has not been good for America. Strength comes from standing on common ground, not from polarizing issues.
  2. I finally understand why folks wield the Word of God like a weapon against those who hold positions contrary to their own.

I tend to think God speaks to each of us in a voice we can hear and understand. I also tend to take St. Paul quite literally when he writes (in Romans and I Corinthians) about the body having many parts. My bone-deep acceptance of this has been reinforced by personal experience: I have also seen the way folks with different skills and perspectives can contribute to a common good.

In addition, some of the finest people I know hold political opinions that are different than my own. I can’t say I understand their perspective, but I can say that knowing them, I trust they are voting for what they believe is best. Since — as I just said — I believe we contribute to the common good because of our differences, I trust their judgment.

However, in the past couple weeks, I’ve had to delete whole sections of blogs I’ve written. I have lifted verses from the gospels I love, and I have bludgeoned Trump supporters with them, laying out with logic that was irrefutable — to me — how they had transgressed the Word of God. And then, I remembered some of the folks I love who are good — truly good — church-going people who love God every bit as much as I do, and (in all likelihood) voted for Trump, and I have deleted those passages.

It shocks me and it shames me that I have resorted to a practice I abhor!

Jesus said quite clearly and irrevocably, “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce, you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get” (Matt. 7:1-2, RSV). It’s a constant battle for me not to slip into the habits of my childhood home, where my dad’s unspoken rule of thumb seemed to be: “If you can’t belittle someone, don’t bother opening your mouth.” However, I fight that battle because I believe we should treat all people with respect whether we like them or not.

And yet, for the past couple weeks, I’ve been so overwhelmed by helplessness and grief that I didn’t have the energy to fight that battle. Even worse, I have been tempted to use something I love to injure others. I understand now how helpless and vulnerable those who bash others with the Word must feel. They think that if God is on their side, their opinions will matter more, their fears will be justified, and they will find a safe place on which to stand.

But, it really doesn’t work that way. God loves all of us, but he did not create us with cookie cutters. He created us to be unique and different, and that means we’re going to find ourselves encountering people and situations which are uncomfortable sometimes. We can only increase our comfort at these times by placing our trust in God; attacking others will only increase our discomfort. I know this, and I am grateful I’ve found enough peace in recent days to remember this, but I’m also grateful I’ve learned a lesson that will increase my compassion.

I reserve the right to disagree with those who actually believe Trump has something positive to offer our nation, and I reiterate my commitment to bear witness to his presidency. However, as we move  relentlessly toward what I suspect will be one of the darkest periods in our nation’s history, I will pray every day for the grace to be a beacon of light and only light. I will pray every day for the grace to write honestly, but not hatefully. I will pray every day for the grace to love all of my neighbors — all of them, not just those who agree with me.

And, I will pray for the grace to place my trust in God.