November 29, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 1 Comment
I saw my mother’s hand today. It was sticking out of my sweater, wiping homemade cookie crumbs from my daughter’s chair in my dining room. It made me incredibly homesick.
I saw the design of black and white and gray that covered the kitchen floor of my childhood, and felt the hard wooden chair beneath me that I always sat in at the kitchen table. It made me want to grab a book and climb up in the Happy Chair, our La-Z-Boy rocker that was the place to go when Mom had a few minutes to read to me. Mom is hundreds of miles away, in our hometown.
But. . . the Happy Chair was re-covered (a mere 20 years ago) and now sits by my window, waiting for a book and a child and a grown up to fill it. Soon I will travel home for Christmas, bringing giggling children to my parent’s home, to fill our days and hands with joy. Today, I will use these hands to give “one more cookie AGAIN please” to a sweet three year old. We will no doubt grab a book when the lunch dishes are done, and read in our Happy Chair.
I cannot wait to hold my mother’s hands in mine again, and thank her for all those lazy days of my childhood; days that I am realizing were only lazy for me.
Three year old hands have cleared her dishes from the table and found a music box. They are holding ribbons as a beautiful dance unfolds in the living room.
Childhood is such a gift, not only to the child. I think that flutter in my chest is my muse and my childhood memories, holding hands and dancing with my daughter.
October 24, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 0 Comments
As I researched for my book proposal, I felt led to pray for some friends. I stopped and prayed, and the prayer grew longer. Then I heard myself add my book to the prayer, and felt a little voice respond “not now. Put it aside and write what you know.” Here’s what I know today:
The beautiful green tree in my yard turned a brilliant yellow and lost most of its leaves while I wasn’t paying attention. Usually, I love simply sitting with that tree as it stands in its golden glory, in the middle of autumn. The calendar and the house are too filled with things to be cleaned or completed these days. I cherish the people that surround me, but I’m noticing how often things and useless appointments are robbing me of precious connections.
I keep believing that somewhere there is a balance between cleaning and producing and experiencing joy. I think if I just organize better, or get rid of enough obligations or things, then I will step into a nirvana of balance and peace. Perhaps simply acknowledging that both exist, I can begin to find peace in the midst of the the swirling leaves of the messiness of life and the peace of stopping to look.
I feel guilty to notice that Sylvie has been quite cranky and ill tempered lately. Some is, no doubt, due to the fact that she is three; and potty training is hitting a few bumps in the road. But perhaps part of her willfulness and short tempered fits could be due to the fact that I am busier lately. Stopping to allow time for her pretending, together, is such a fleeting opportunity. Already there are times she has no use for me, no desire to come to me for assurance or snuggles. Soon that will increase, and I will watch her learn to care for herself, needing me less and less. I have been invited to become a mermaid, and play with her friend the butterfly, and I sometimes felt that the dishes or laundry or a million other things were more important.
After preschool, I hope to have some tea with a butterfly and a mermaid. Right now, I think I’ll finish the dishes so they don’t steal my attention later. Thankfully, I have today. And the realization that it can be filled with so much more.
September 29, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 0 Comments
While collecting pieces for my manuscript, I found this one and wanted to share.
2-19-03 Relax!
I bought new throw pillows. Somehow the bright blue chenille is like a whisper of spring promises on a gray February day. Not just the promise of changing weather, but the promise that if the mounds of snow and ice can give way to tulips and climbing roses waiting underneath – anything is possible in time.
I have always had trouble writing at home. Somehow, all the chores a house requires call to me as I try and relax to sit and write.
I was struck recently with an epiphany of sorts. Sitting in an airplane seat at the beginning of a long flight, I grew frustrated as I tried to fidget and wiggle into a comfortable position – it was NOT working. A quiet yet firm voice in my mind said, “You can’t ‘get comfortable,’ you must learn to relax where you are.”
Wow.
I figured if I could be completely relaxed on the floor after a yoga class, I could relax anywhere. I slowly visualized each part of my body relaxing and later stepped off the plane invigorated!
That realization spoke to the rest of my life, as well. Instead of spending years anxiously waiting, as if in line, for my heart’s desires that may never be fulfilled; I will try to relax where I am today and simply be in the present.
September 28, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 2 Comments
Apples and Fruitfulness
Today I walked into my kitchen with my half share of fruits and vegetables, a weekly abundance of flavor and nutrition from Kirby’s, our local CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). Each week, I am excited to find a new food to try, or a new recipe to energize my relationship with a food I’ve known all my life.
This week, early autumn, there was a large bag of apples. No surprise, but by gently washing them and placing them in my cobalt glass bowl, they became art. I simply sat and looked at them. The colors were amazing, so many hues of red and yellow stretching out to cover the flesh beneath. Golden greens without a single color variation, even amid the fluctuations of weather we’ve had. The smell was clean and soothing, rich and simple at once. I admit I couldn’t resist, and crunched in to one of the red and yellow orbs. In the silence of the house, the noise was surprising! And the juice that flowed down my chin a delight.
A friends’ daughter collects the apple seeds whenever anyone opens an apple in her presence, and after they are dried she adds them to her collection. That container of apple seeds is carried around reverently, and she loves to describe the process from seed to tree to apple. She’s never planted one, or even asked to as far as I know, but the promise of abundance in that little container is very real to her.
I smile as I reach the core, and spread out the seeds to dry for her. I am struck as I see all of us as that little container; how much promise we hold, and so often keep it shut up within us. Passions that we see as hobbies, to dabble in when we finish our responsibilities. Duties we perform without ever realizing what a struggle those duties are for others.
Every day, we choose what to do with all the parts of who we are, whether we realize it or not. Going through the motions of our day, our calendar, we often let opportunities to connect get lost in the punctuality of our culture. We think, ‘wouldn’t it be nice if I could. . .’ and then the light turns green and off we go, to the next item on our agenda. The nourishment and enjoyment of experiences we could share are kept safe inside our souls; will it eventually rot from disuse like this apple? If the seeds of what could be are simply tossed in the garbage without a thought, how many others will not know the joy of an apple, how many trees will never be? It can be overwhelming to think of all we leave undone. But by slowly realizing the choices we are making, we can bring joy and fulfillment to ourselves and so many others.
I urge you to spend a few minutes jotting down things that bring you joy. Walking in the woods, painting a scene, having coffee with a friend. . . This week, put joy at the top of your “To Do” list; choose one thing that will bring you joy and do it. Begin to look at the choices you make with your gifts and your time. Could they be used to connect to others, to bring joy? Careful, it might be addictive!
February 24, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 0 Comments
My Grandmother’s sister had nice things, but her things were never the focus of her life. The tall majestic china cabinet was so smooth to the touch. Dark wood made sloping proud lines in the glass doors. And in the long center drawer, nestled in the napkins on the far right, there were always chocolates to discover. The mahogany rocker in the sitting room sang a beautiful melody as I rocked in it. I remember the cool smooth feeling of the wood against my fingers as I rubbed the arm of it, or the end table in the living room.
She had a smile that beckoned you into a hug, and she smelled of lilac or some other faint flowery scent. There was always fresh pimento cheese, homemade in Mason jars, in the refrigerator. I never liked celery as a child, but would slather her pimento cheese on it as a treat at her house. The smell of a roast cooking was true magic!
I think each grandchild and cousin felt they were her secret favorite. Each of us felt welcome to stop by for a visit, whenever. How I wish I had more often. I can still close my eyes and feel her skin; wrinkled, soft, cool. She would gently hold my face between her hands, as if holding a cherished gift. Or put my hand in between hers and squeeze.
Her eyes held so many colors in them, and twinkled and danced when she smiled. Somehow, she was as productive as her sisters; keeping a clean home, creating in the kitchen, always looking nice. But I can’t remember seeing her fret. There was a peace to her, a joy in her eyes like a hidden treasure. No matter how long she lived, I would still wish for one more visit.
To hear the screen door whistle as I burst through. To see her dry her hands, drop what she was doing and watch her eyes twinkle, her whole face smiling with joy. To feel her small, bent body envelope me in an encompassing hug that filled my soul. The strength in the spirit of that frail body was pure and abundant. It is no surprise that her heart kept going after the rest of her body stopped. And even after she stopped communicating, she did not rest until my mother and I assured her we would take care of her sisters. The doctors said they did not know why her heart kept going, long after the rest of her had shut down. I know. The strong pure love that filled that heart surrounds us still.
February 15, 2011 - Posted by Rachel - 0 Comments
I feel so grounded, and so lost. It would be easy to decide to get caught up in the day to day and let time slip by. I get so stressed and worked up, so anxious over the small things; packing lunches, cleaning the house, repacking the diaper bag, being on time anywhere!
But I’m too afraid to reach out and even touch the big things, doing something with my voice or putting my writing out there. Why is it so much easier to stand frozen, letting the world push me numbly with the flow, never directing my own steps?
In the water, isn’t it safer to swim in the direction of shore? Actually, no. If you find yourself too far out, it’s safer to conserve your energy and go with the tide, swimming parallel to the shore, until you feel the current lessen, hoping for rescue.
I don’t want to let the current pull me slowly away from my destination and I don’t need to be rescued. I’m not so far out that swimming for shore, choosing my own direction, would be too risky. The earth will not shatter if I pursue my dreams. No one will go hungry (but dinner might be a little late sometimes)!
Unconsciously, I convinced myself that I need all the energy for the whole journey right now, instead of just enough to take the first steps. There will be endless decisions that will need to be made along the way, but they will be millions of small ones, requiring only tiny shifts. The biggest one is definitely the first one.
Suddenly, the idea of reaching the end and realizing I simply went where the tide took me is no longer acceptable. It’s going to be messy and maybe even painful at times. I’m going to get it wrong more than once, and probably curse the day I started; but dammit, I’m going that way! I’m heading for that horizon, and I know I’m stubborn enough to get there.
The nice thing is, I don’t know what to expect it will look like when I arrive. I just know I have gifts and stories and love to share, and they are doing nothing except weighing me down while I keep them snug and safe and tucked away.
Time to shed the fear and just start swimming!
July 25, 2010 - Posted by Rachel - 13 Comments
So much of our faith is defined by assumptions, and never really examined in the light of day. Either out of a sense of fear of the unknown, or a sense of comfort that someone already spelled it out in black and white. For much of my life, those assumptions have quietly caused callouses for me, never quite fitting right, but not sure what to do about it. Several realizations have presented themselves at once, and I feel it is time to begin putting them on paper.
I believe God created each person. Not to pass tests or complete a maze, but for the sheer joy of creating. I picture God mixing this gift with that passion and swirling in certain personality traits for zest. Perhaps there is a messy pallette strewn with colorful splotches, as God chews on a bit of bread and decides what to mix next. People aren’t created with a whole life plan in place, but with endless possibility.
This brings up God’s Will. I do not believe that God draws out our experiences and puts us on a path. Rather, the things that we are good at are part of us so that we can connect with those around us. I know I have felt nudgings to call this person, or help that person, and sometimes I take the time to listen and act. I am always glad I did, because there is joy in easing another traveler’s journey. I have also experienced times when someone helped me, out of the blue, because I had “been on their minds.” I believe that is someone listening to God. But to say that God tests us, or chooses to make bad things happen, paints such a tedious and small picture of God to me.
It feels like there is this spiritual energy in everything, some positive and some negative. We can choose to channel either one, and that has a powerful effect on our journey. But when a child dies, or someone is murdered, saying that God did that to teach someone something, or for some other purpose lessens the worth of the one who died and seriously dements Gods image. I think that God sees such a bigger picture, the pain must be seen differently too. I believe this life is only part of what is, and probably a small part at that. I mean only to suggest a different perspective, not to belittle the pain in the world. It is real and should not be marginalized.
Jesus~ I believe Jesus was a real man. I believe he actively listened to God’s nudging, and got it right way more often than most of us. I don’t need to know which stories actually happened, and which were metaphors; it is not important in my understanding of who he was. If we, as Christians, simply studied the teachings of Christ, and tried to live as he taught; our churches and the world would be a much more peaceful place.
I think all the literal conversations only distract from the amazing truth in the stories found in the Bible. For instance, if the story of Jonah has to be literal, then my mind jumps to the smells present in a whales belly, and how he was not injured, and the stomach acid. . . The truth is in none of that. The truth of the story is that no matter where you are, or what trouble you’re in, God is there. You may still find yourself in the stomach contents of a whale, but you are not alone. The truth of the story is that God needs your gifts to share light with others. The truth is that our hang ups and stereotypes of others only serve to get in the way of sharing the love of God.
This is definitely a work in progress, but I wanted to share where I was today. Thanks for reading!
June 17, 2010 - Posted by Rachel - 2 Comments
This is a hard one, and a long time coming. I have not written much about our miscarriage, which happened seven years ago, until now. As I compile a devotion type book on infertility, I finally had the courage to relive a hard time, so that I could finally deal with it myself and also reach out to others that live it.
Screaming at God
There have been many people horrified to discover that I have had screaming matches with God. Not really matches, as I’ve only heard silence in return. But it was a safe kind of silence, when you know someone is there, strong and safe and silent.
People have said, “You’re a southern belle, a minister’s wife, for heaven sake, surely you have more faith than to scream at God!” I think that misses the point altogether.
I believe it’s because I had faith that I screamed at God.
I think if we are honest, deep in the quiet places of who we are, most of us get mad at God at some point. I’m not sure what we think will happen if we say it out loud. I was always afraid to find out, until the miscarriage.
At the time, I was so broken and raw, I honestly didn’t think about the consequences. It didn’t matter what the rules of engagement were anymore. Life as I knew it was over. I didn’t actually care what happened to me if I really told God what I thought. That afternoon, alone in my house, all I knew was that the tiny, growing being that had fought so hard to exist was now dead.
There had been weeks of doubling FSH levels (which it was supposed to do), and borderline levels, and blood draws every other day on the way to work. I would try all day to focus on the children I was educating, and take the phone call at 1:30 to let me know where my levels were that day. Usually there were children in my office, so I always wore a very straight poker face. We had spent three years trying to conceive, and we had finally done it. Almost there. The doctors said it could very well be that the child would live, and have severe birth defects. I found stories online saying perfectly healthy babies were born that started out this way. So many days I drove home bargaining out loud in the car with God. “We’re almost there! I will love and care for this child, whatever happens. You can fix this! DO SOMETHING!” Then, one day it was over. December 18, 2003.
I stomped in the house slamming the door, throwing things. My two dogs stopped in their tracks, having been headed for our ritual afternoon reunion. They stayed close enough to watch me, but far enough away to say they were scared. I have no idea what I screamed that day, but everything I had been fighting to keep in balance came spilling out of my mouth. Eventually, my voice hoarse, I crumpled onto the floor in our bedroom. The dogs came in and sat on either side of me, leaning their bodies on mine in silent hugs. I wept in their fur until I fell asleep on the floor.
After that afternoon, I went through my days as a zombie. I showed up and did what was expected at work, church, and home. But my eyes were glazed and I felt nothing. Except guilt, I am southern, there’s always room for guilt! I remember feeling guilty for not being sad; guilty for not being there emotionally for my husband. But that was all. It was almost a relief to feel nothing for a change. My days were surrounded by crèches, it was Christmas after all. There were many bitter thoughts about that single teenage girl; that was made pregnant by God. That’s honestly how mad I was. Even Mary wasn’t safe.
But as day bled into day, and I realized I wasn’t struck by lightning, or squashed like a bug; it began to dawn on me that I might make it. I realized through that nightmare that God created me, just as I was. I was living honestly, saying what I felt to someone that loved me beyond measure; someone that loved me way more than I loved myself right then. I was safe with God, no matter how honest I was. There was such power in learning that I could be totally honest within myself and out loud with God.
(In the devotion book, the following will be a writing prompt with room to journal.)
God created you, just as you are. God is amazingly in love with you! As with any relationship, it sometimes has to stand up to hard times. Know that whatever you have to say, God will be there to listen.
Powerful, Silent Friend,
You continue to amaze me. When I am empty, when I am full of venom, when I am exhausted, you are there. Help me hang on when things are raw and outcomes are final and oh so painful. Let me feel your presence. Amen.
June 16, 2010 - Posted by Rachel - 1 Comment
Today has been hard, emotionally, and I wanted to share a couple of pieces about Robyn and Sylvie that are pure joy. I wish there was a ‘pause’ button so I could write down more if it!
(of Robyn. . .)
The First Snow
Even the forecast of snow
is exciting this year, with a four year old.
And in the morning, long before I should be awake
a tiny nose touches mine.
“It snowed EVERYWHERE!” she whispers.
Together we float downstairs and open all the shades.
We stand together silently, drinking in the scene.
Minutes tick by. Finally she moves.
Suddenly we are outside; she falls into the snow,
boots, nightgown, huge snow angel grin.
It has begun.
Doll December 3, 2009
(And of Sylvie. . .)
Growing Joy
Tiny toes balance the body that will not be stilled.
Her mind ever racing, connecting, exclaiming.
The kaleidoscope of emotions plays across her face
with no filter, completely pure.
Every day brings to me varying amounts of exhaustion, anxiety, pressure;
But to her each day is a new exciting exploration, no rushing, only experiencing.
I can get caught up in the pressure, or in glimpses of the beautiful personality
being created in that ever growing mesh of nature and nurture.
The problems in my life, whatever they are, are no bigger than I allow them to be.
It’s not about stopping the world to be with my child,
it’s about traveling the journey together, and
watching the road as often as I watch her experience it.
And now I have to go, there is a beautiful song being sung in the next room,
and the puppet show is about to start!
Rachel Whaley Doll December 22, 2009
June 14, 2010 - Posted by Rachel - 2 Comments
I am embarrassed at how long it has been since I posted anything. I promise to change my ways!!
I came across a story online not long ago, from a friend. It got me thinking, and writing, and I asked Aaron if I could borrow the pulpit some Sunday around Mother’s Day. I preached the Sunday before! This is the sermon, beginning with an excerpt from “The Invisible Woman” by Nicole Johnson.
One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotels she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at all the others put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell the peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package and said“I brought this for you.”
It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription: “To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.”
In the days ahead I would read – no devour – the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:
- No one can say who built the great cathedrals – we have no record of their names.
- These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.
- They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.
- The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.
A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, “Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.” And the workman replied, “Because God sees.”
I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, “I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.”
At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.
I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.
When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, “My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.” That would mean I’d built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, “You’re gonna love it there.”
As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.
I love her visual of the care and detail that went into creating those massive cathedrals. I remember the satisfying feeling of contentment as I rolled my briefcase out of school, my head filled with the small steps forward my students had made that day. Everything I saw was colored with the sense of fulfillment on the life’s work I had chosen. I would leave work and fill the rest of my day with family, books, volunteering, friends and crafts; content in my leisure time after putting in a full day. My lifelong career goal, however, was to be a mother.
Many Mother’s Day celebrations were spent in anticipation, rejoicing with others who were living my dream. Some Mother’s Days were harder, while we were living on the infertility roller coaster. Those were spent at home, pretending it was just another Sunday, not able to face anyone.
Now, at night when I check on the girls for the last time before sleep, I still can’t quite believe it’s real. As amazing as it is, it definitely took some adjustment. I always brought work home with me when I was teaching, but never quite like this new career of motherhood!
I am beginning to hit my stride and find a balance, finally allowing myself to ‘clock out’ and take some time for me, to exercise, to write, connect with friends and with Aaron. I definitely don’t feel invisible, as the author of this reading did, but sometimes there is a feeling of futility.
The kitchen is cleaned, just in time to make dinner and mess it up again. Some days at the playground, I only see the Oxy-Clean in my future, instead of seeing the sheer delight that can be found in puddles after a rain.
I’m discovering more often the beautiful feeling of peace that comes with being grateful for the basic things. We have fresh food to chop and cook, and children to feed and nourish. Robyn is beginning to chime in during bedtime prayers. Mixed in with thanks for unicorns and princesses, there is also thanks for her warm bed and good food to eat. Sylvie and Robyn are learning the joy that comes from helping one another and actually talk about what they want and need instead of fighting, sometimes. I no longer cash a check or roll my briefcase out of a building, but my greatest career goal is being realized every day, in laundry and pretending, in wagon rides and the healing magic of kissing boo-boos.
I thank God for the life I am living, and continue to pray for all the mothers that share my journey, as well as those that fight for the chance to begin the road of parenthood.
But I am most definitely not in it alone. The author, Nicole Johnson, talked of all the unknown builders of the cathedrals. But there were also countless brick makers, construction workers, etc. all working to make the diagrams and dreams into the cathedrals that we still enjoy. No doubt the entire community took part in its creation; the baker, the smith, the farmer all contributed their gifts to make it possible for others to spend their time creating cathedrals.
And so it is with us. In our church, we immediately think of nursery volunteers, Sunday School teachers and choir directors as helping to build our little cathedrals. Rightly so, but it is so much bigger than that. Ever watch a four year old stare at the “big kids” in awe? The “big kids” usually oblivious to their star quality.
One day, as we were leaving church, Sylvie was hungry and whiny in the stroller. Robyn was also hungry and crabby and, well, let’s just say “not helping the situation.” Peter Howlett saw the scene and came over, casually draping an arm around Robyn’s shoulders. He talked quietly and lovingly to Sylvie, who quieted immediately, understandably happy at the attention.
He knelt down on one knee and told Robyn how lucky she was to get to be a big sister, just like he was a big brother. “Just think of all the important things you can teach her.” Robyn grew at least three inches taller, and looked at Sylvie with new eyes.
Peter’s tender words softened the moment and gave Robyn a sense of joy at the revelation of her status. I watch teens congratulate kids on jobs well done, in and out of church life. Adults follow the sports and academic lives of our young people, often showing up at games and concerts. Families come to church with outgrown clothes to share with other kids, which at least for our family, has been priceless.
As lifelong learners, we are all still under construction. Simply by seeing the value in the people that surround us, we provide the mortar to solidify walls and frame windows of beauty. I think we underestimate the power we have in our words. Surely he knows he did a good job with that, surely she sees how much her efforts helped. So we simply smile and say nothing. I’m sure each of us has felt invisible at one time or another in our work at church. We see our contributions as small too often, whether we are cleaning the light fixtures, repairing the walls, baking for coffee hour, or sewing bags for school kits. Luckily, we continue to do them.
Imagine how may small stones it took to construct even the floor of the aisle, how many fragile pieces of glass went into creating the huge stain glass window. It’s easy to step back and see the art in a massive stain glass, but it’s a little harder to see the impact of our daily efforts. Next time you feel fragile or small, when you wonder why you are even bothering to show up, thinking you aren’t contributing at all, remember the impact of that unexpected smile or complement you have received; that hug or handshake when you really needed it.
God created each of us with amazing precision, and we shine brighter when we come together. Our tiny shards of glass unite to form a breathtaking glimpse of the Glory of God. May it be so.
John 13: 33-35 (lectionary) 1 Cor. 3: 9-17
