It’s a warm Saturday morning here in Alexandria. I’m sitting at a high table in a local coffee shop enjoying the warm morning light, the laughter from the tables around me, a gluten-free breakfast sandwich, and an almond milk latte.
I am soaked in gratitude, warmer than the morning light, for a day set aside for sabbath. A day free of classes, homework, appointments, dishes, laundry, scholarship applications, and email. While third quarter certainly did not warrant my level of pre-quarter panic, the work load was formidable and I am breathing easier on the other side. As I invite gratitude to soak through to the depths of my soul, it is the moments of grace over the past eight weeks that come to mind rather than the moments of anxiety, fear, panic, sickness, and failure.
I think of the first really warm day of the spring when I took a folding chair and some homework onto the front stoop to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine. One of my neighbors soon joined me and before long a group of eight or more of us had gathered with a dozen children playing in the courtyard behind us. As we chatted and laughed, I remember looking around the circle and wishing the moment did not have to end.
I think of the evening spent planning a group project at our campus bar, 1823. The meeting was filled with laughter and shared confusion over the projects instructions. And when I left someone called out, “Bye Sarah,” as the door closed behind me.
I think of the day that Richard and I decided to adopt the dog we have been talking about for months. Richard took one look around and picked out Grace right away. She was so excited when we brought her home and walked her around campus for the first time. I’ve grown to love the sound of her running from the back office to the front door to greet me, tail wagging, when I come home from class.
I think of the tearful laughter during the moving homily celebrating the life of my beloved aunt, Mary Ann, plucked from earthly life too soon by pancreatic cancer. The familiar words of The Burial of the Dead from the Book of Common Prayer connected Mary Ann with all the saints who have gone before her and those of us celebrating her life with all those who mourn and commend the lives of loved ones to God.
In the throws of overwhelming panic, fear, anxiety, and grief these moments are nearly impossible to recall, nearly impossible to count on. And yet I cannot come up with a single situation in my lifetime entirely devoid of kernels of God’s grace. We live in a broken world. Pain and suffering reach to the far corners of the earth and hit close to home. It is truly a labor of love to seek out the kernels of love, grace, hope, and faith in this world.
As I continue to work on living into enough and letting go of anxiety, I took up a Lenten practice of Night Prayer from the New Zealand Book of Common Prayer. One prayer in particular has brought me great hope, comfort, and strength over the last few weeks:
it is night.
The night is for stillness.
Let us be still in the presence of God.
It is night after a long day.
What has been done has been done;
what has not been done has not been done;
let it be.
The night is dark.
Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our own lives
rest in you.
The night is quiet.
Let the quietness of your peace enfold us,
all dear to us,
and all who have no peace.
The night heralds the dawn.
Let us look expectantly to a new day,
In your name we pray.
From Night Prayer, the New Zealand Book of Common Prayer, page 184
Photo Credit: “Stooping It” by Richard Allred