Back in the early ‘80’s, when I was still living in Colorado, on Good Friday mornings a friend and I would take the 4 to 5 a.m. Night Watch shift at church, then we’d drive out to Warren Lake.
Worship has been much on my mind recently, not necessarily the liturgy or the music or whether to be online or in person for Christmas services, but mostly I’ve been pondering the innate human need to worship, and its various manifestations.
I smile as the 4-year-old shows me Butterscotch, her much-loved bunny; Butterscotch proceeds to die two days later, and I cannot help or hold the child in her grief.
Howard Thurman writes, “In the stillness of the quiet, if we listen, we can hear the whisper of the heart giving strength to weakness, courage to fear, hope to despair.”
“Grandma, where’s your mean picture?” asks my seven-year old grandson.“Mean” picture? Our house is full of family photos, paintings, icons – but I can’t think of any “mean” pictures.
At the local library yesterday, my four-year-old granddaughter listened to stories about stars, and about how everything on earth – including the Earth itself — is made from the debris of exploding stars, known as supernovas.
Jesus with gray hair? That’s not an image I’d ever imagined, not until my six-year-old granddaughter created one.
Not long ago, as I waited to use the restroom at Friendly Toast in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, I became intensely aware of the sign on the door
Talking with unchurched grandchildren about matters of faith involves a dance whose steps I’m still learning.
What we do now will affect those born a century from now.