There
are moments when I'm aware enough of the blessed goodness in my life.
Maybe. I know not everyone has a counter full of butternut squash,
apples, onions, shallots, garlic, hundreds (literally) of tiny green and red
tomatoes, and Bosc pears. I know not everyone has a warm snug lying
next to them come the cold, dark morning. Or a reason to get up and do
something with the bounty in the kitchen downstairs. I probably don't
truly understand it, but I get it. My life hasn't been all rose teacups
and long walks along the river with the dogs.
This morning I read a post on a blog I follow (there's a link in my blogroll at right, too).
leave it where jesus flang it
Margaret
writes daily there. It's a prayer journal of sorts. She's an
Episcopal priest on an Indian reservation in South Dakota and life's
hard there. The loss and the poorness and the hurt are hardscabble
painful and it's her job to keep showing up for the difficult moments
and beyond. Today she writes about people nearby whose babies have just
died... And (having had babies who died) I understand where this is and
where it goes. What I am drawn to these many years later is twofold:
1. why...if
we need each other so very badly through the crazy, hilarious, dipping, winding,
bottoming-out life trek, and if church is meant to provide that for
us...why are so many of us no longer part of that community? Or, if we are a part, are those communities truly sustaining us? and 2. a bursting grateful noise for all I have and all those who have loved me through the nearly killing losses. I come back to the idea that to begin with thanksgiving is a perfect way to pray/live and I have to learn it all over again, all over again, all over again. Even if God isn't a welcomed presence in your life, I think the settling of near-constant thanksgiving in our bodies is a positive way to breathe on earth.