Remembering Sunday

At the end of a Sunday, there is always a sense of my mind being fried. So much taken in, so much put out. Sunday mornings are adrenalin rushes. A lot gets packed into a couple hours. It is good this morning to take time and remember what took place yesterday, lest it all get lost in sensory overload.

Some images that come to mind from yesterday: my hands upon the heads of kneeling persons for blessing as they are received into the church. A baby in my arm as I baptize her. The bagel that Tom always kindly has set aside for me at coffee hour because I am always late getting to the window. Sitting with Don in coffee hour as he tells me of how sixty years later the memories of being in World War II are still painful.

And then there was visiting Marge in the hospital, hours after the surgeon removed her foot, her faithful husband Bob at her side. She does her best to put on a brave front — to see the positive. Now she can get on with physical therapy and a prosthesis and stop worrying whether the foot will heal or not. But still, this is her foot we’re talking about.

Don joined the church yesterday. Marge has been a member for half a century.

Dear God, give us your Spirit, that we may be a community where people find the courage to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Let there be much laughter in the midst of the tears. Amen.