TUESDAY OCTOBER 20 —

What does it mean for us to embrace the invitation to participate—and invest—in this life. To bring all that I am to the table of this moment—the sacrament of the present.
To invest my heart.
To be a witness for integrity and justice.
To create space for healing and restitution.
To spill light where I can.

And a memory comes back to me, with a story from some years ago.
On Thursday I waited in a Seattle DMV to renew my driver’s license. We are always quick to grumble that we don’t have any free time. Well, stop by the DMV. You’ll be amazed how much “free time” you’ll be granted. I held ticket number R141 (R120 had just been summoned), and a good book kept me company.
My number is finally called. I stood at the counter.
“Read line two,” the clerk tells me.
“AODFPO,” I tell her, guessing about two of them.
“Good,” she says. And then; “The shootings this week, they were something weren’t they?”
I look up and realize she’s talking to me. Or maybe, like any of us when we are thunderstruck, we are just trying to find words. Or maybe, we just need someone to hear the words that we have.
“Yes,” I tell her. “They were something.”
“How do you know?” She goes on. “I mean, I could just come to work one day. And then craziness. So how do you know?”
Her comments could be rhetorical, I tell myself. Or maybe she really does want someone to reassure her.
I look at the woman helping me, early 40s I am guessing. Is she a mother? Spouse? Friend? I wonder.
“It’s easy to be afraid,” she tells me.
“Yes,” I say. “It is easy.”
“So what can we do? What can we do?”
I was going to say, “I don’t know,” because the truth is, I don’t know.

Except this. I know that on this ordinary day, when our world has been shaken and we know that chaos can be real, we do have this: A meeting place. On common ground. And I would say, on holy ground.
And while we know that we can never be perfectly safe, we know that even there we can reassure one another, and look into the eyes of one another, and remind one another that there are truths greater than fear—and that we are walking one anther home.
What I told her was this, “Well, I don’t know all the answers, but these kinds of conversation sure do help. Thank you for talking to me. Maybe it would be good for you to talk with your co-workers too. We’re better together.”
In my mind is Mother Teresa’s reminder, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
Hope. And courage. And light. Our journey to healing and wholeness does not begin with bravado. It begins with vulnerability. It begins when we know that our hearts can, and will break, and that it is in the very breaking…
that we can get up…
that we can try again…
that we can choose love instead of fear and hate…

I walked out of the office into a gray December day with a new driver’s license. And something else; an unexpected gift in my spirit. That on an ordinary day with two strangers, the light of restoration and resilience spills one conversation and one encounter at a time. Before I started my car, I sat. And said thank you to no one in particular. I realized that a stranger gave me a gift with her vulnerability. I know that whenever anything unnerving happens, we want to hide our brokenness and our vulnerability. Because we live in a world of bravado, and swagger.
Which takes me back to sanctuary. You see, the power of the sanctuary—the power of peace and nourishment and renewal—allows for, and creates the space for, wholeheartedness. Which begins with vulnerability. Whenever I am burdened with worry or disquiet or angst or fear, I am tempted to shut down my heart, to not listen to my heart, to not speak from my heart, and to not offer sanctuary to those who need it.
Henry David Thoreau talked about not wishing to live “too thickly”—barraged by noise or clamor or hype or panic.
Yes. I wish that too.
This week every one of us will walk, journey, show up for work, attend gatherings, “stand in line in the DMV”, in precarious times. That is undeniable. And to pretend otherwise is silly.
So. Here’s the deal: Today, I do not wish for my heart to be calcified.
I do not wish it, because when I give in to fear, I choose and act from cynicism and anger and resentment.
Onward together, my friends.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 21 —

What does it mean for us to embrace the invitation to participate—and invest—in this life?
What allows (invites) me to bring all that I am to the table of this moment—the sacrament of the present?
On my “pilgrimage” today, what have I learned, or absorbed?
Where have I found places (“treasuries”) of grace, and restitution?
What changes (and confessions) am I choosing to make?

In his book “Crossing the Unknown Sea”, David Whyte talks about exhaustion. He asked his spiritual director for help. He was told, “The antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are so tired through and through, because a good half of what you do here has nothing to do with your true powers. You are only half here; half here will kill you after a while. You need something to which you can give your full powers.”

Well, this is good for the heart to hear. You see, wholeheartedness (compassion, service and care), and healing (restoration), are not mutually exclusive.
Yes, care begins with self-care.
In other words, we find replenishment, and, we choose to be a witness. This is not a pep talk. This is not a test to pass. Or a list I check off for God’s thumbs up. This is permission; the invitation and the affirmation to be and to live, wholeheartedly and kindheartedly, the truth of who I am.

I read that before setting out in a canoe, the Ojibwa sprinkled tobacco on the water as an offering to the spirits for a safe journey.
Why? Because the “water monster” might devour you. Yes, ‘tis easy to think of this as quite quaint. But I don’t know. It sounds sensible to me.
They believed that all of our journeys—long or short—are holy endeavors.
And because that is so, we can prepare ourselves, with song, and sacred talks, and prayers, and a little “sprinkled tobacco”.
And when you returned from a long and perilous journey, your family would ask if you had learned a new song, met a new animal, came upon a healing herb, or a source of food, or a holy place.
In other words, after this perilous journey, what vision—or gift or “treasury of grace”—had you brought back for the community?
How do we enrich one another?
How do we keep our hearts alive—and not give in to fear?

“I went into the wilderness searching for God.
A thirsty stranger asked me for water.
By the time he had finished drinking,
my pilgrimage was over.”
Inspired by Rumi

THURSDAY OCTOBER 22 — ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Prayer (poem) for our week…
“May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received,
and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God.
Let this presence settle into your bones,
and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.”
St. Therese of Lisieux (“the Little Flower”)

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Dear Terry, Beautiful sky light… Cincinnati, Ohio.” Faith Lang… Thank you Faith… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

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I am so grateful for the power of pilgrimage. The healing and restorative gift of the journey (the lessons we absorb along the way, as we pay attention like never before, and yes, the health benefits for a middle-age—okay, upper middle-age—body). And grateful for the permission to focus on being drawn to sacred sites and spaces.
I continue to marvel at the spillage from my pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago, and now see all of my “travels” through a different lens.

We spent yesterday in Canterbury. And much of the day in, and around, the Cathedral. It has been a place of worship for over 1400 years. And a center of pilgrimage for centuries. And yes, the inspiration for stories—literature, poetry, drama, and homily.
“During the Middle Ages, the cathedral was one of the most important centers of pilgrimage, rivaling Rome and Compostela. Arriving at Canterbury, the pilgrims made their way up the steps in the quire (choir) aisles, the stone worn by the feet and knees of countless worshippers, and around the horseshoe-shaped ambulatory (the space that allows clergy, choirs, or pilgrims to walk continuously around the apse or main altar without disrupting services).” (Thank you, Canterbury Cathedral.)

In Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales”, 30 pilgrims began their pilgrimage toward Canterbury. And if you’ve read the “Tales” (I remember writing a paper on it in college), you know the journey inspired yarns, lampoons, parables and stories.
“Medieval folks always did love a good pilgrimage. Grueling journeys had a way of proving the mettle of heroes, and far-flung reliquaries held forth a treasury of grace to any commoner willing to tread the pilgrim way.” (Chad Ashby)
Yes, I read and wrote about “other” folk, but curiously, never once considered myself as a “pilgrim”.
Granted, all of us may not be headed toward Canterbury, but we are, each and every one of us, on a pilgrim’s way. Even as we go about the doings of our “very ordinary” day. I may have preached such earlier in my life, but until I walked the Camino, I didn’t appreciate and welcome the power of “investment” in the sacrament of each moment, of each day—welcoming the gifts of spiritual renewal, renewed focus, new communal connections, and yes, physical rejuvenation.

So. On my “pilgrimage”, what have I learned, or absorbed, today?
Where have I found places (“treasuries”) of grace, and restitution?
What changes (and confessions) am I choosing to make?

We are, every one of us, on a daily pilgrimage. It is my prayer that Sabbath Moment accompanies (and sustains) us with stories along the way. Invitations to look for places that heal you, and places that inspires you. These are the places we need to go often.
When people talk about pilgrimage, they often refer to them as a “bucket list walk”.
That makes me smile. And I’ll say this; a bucket list for me, is spending time in places that heal and replenish.
Here’s the deal: Care of any kind begins with self-care.
We too easily don’t see or make the connection. We see shifts and threats to our life and our world, and then we set out, mentally and emotionally and behaviorally, to make changes, as if we need to find “the precise script”. Wondering, where should we be (instead of where we are)?
Forgetting that even when life is catawampus, our choices—to care and give and make a difference—spill from our replenished self. From that replenished place we can see, listen, relinquish assumptions, and choose to make the world—our small world that we touch—a safe, compassionate, inclusive, empathetic, kindhearted, healing place.

Relative to replenishment self-care, I have always found this helpful. When the Shawnee and Chippewa (and other early people) went on hunts or vision quests or long journeys, each traveler would carry in a small rawhide pouch, various tokens of spiritual power—perhaps a feather, a bit of fur, a claw, a carved root, a pinch of tobacco, a pebble or a shell. These were not simply magical charms; they were reminders of the energies that sustain all of life. By gathering these talismans into a medicine pouch, the hunter, traveler, or visionary seeker was recollecting the sources of healing and bounty and beauty. (Adapted from Scott Russell Sanders, “Hunting for Hope”)
I do know this; if my medicine pouch is filled with a need for control and answers (for closure), I can easily be seized with fear, panic, rage, despair, depression, exasperation and frustration. (You get the picture?)
But what if? What if the “tokens” in that pouch are not a magic wand to undo life, but instead, the power and the freedom to embrace the life we have been given. And to see in this life, this day, even in the very muddle of the ordinary, even in the very chaos of the ordinary gone awry, the permission to experience a whiff of the holy.
That God is not waiting until we have it all figured out.
The gift of life is in this present moment.
Yes. That’s it. We can choose. This is an invitation to participate—and invest—in this life. To bring all that I am to the table of this moment.
To invest my heart.
To be a witness for integrity and justice.
To create space for healing and restitution.
To spill light where I can.
What Barbara Kingsolver calls a “conspiracy with life.”

Easy? No. Somedays, I feel very broken. Broken and dispirited. And I don’t have the words. And I don’t have the strength. Maybe you can relate.
So, how can we be a witness then? What possible difference can we make?
Well, this is interesting. You see, compassion (service and care) and healing (restoration) are not mutually exclusive. Because the light we share is born in those broken places. Which means that being a witness goes hand in glove with renewal.
In other words, we find replenishment and we choose to be a witness.
This is not a pep talk. This is not a test to pass. Or a list I check off for God’s thumbs up. This is permission; the invitation and the affirmation to be, and to live, wholeheartedly and kindheartedly, the truth of who I am.
Please know this my friends: it is from this self—the broken or wounded self—that compassion and kindness and tenderness and empathy and healing and reconciliation can flow.

I am writing this in Herne Bay, looking out of my window, onto the shoreline of the Thames Estuary, connected to the North Sea, on a very blustery, and stormy day, the waves roiling and pounding. Let’s just say, I am very grateful for a safe and dry place to watch the theater drama.

Quote for our week…
As we go in to the weekend, let us take with us this prayer from St. Therese of Lisieux (“the Little Flower”).
“May today there be peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received,
and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God.
Let this presence settle into your bones,
and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love.
It is there for each and every one of us.”

​BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: One of the stained glass windows in Canterbury Cathedral (Canterbury, England). There are dozens of them some containing the oldest surviving stained glass in England. And all of them, telling a story… Thank you Marge… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com

POEMS AND PRAYERS

Late Autumn Garden
When I travel
I look for public gardens to visit
“But this is almost winter,”
a docent tells me
“There is not much to see here now.”
As it is
in my own garden.
Except in the early morning light
when outside my study window
I behold a still-life, in sepia tones.
Our lawn encrusted with hoarfrost
now a veil, silver glazed.
Gilded for a commemoration
I am certain,
as I walk under an ice-blue-sky
and listen to my breathing
and hear the crunch under foot.
Stillness is not just a word
in a winter garden.
It is a space,
a place where the air drapes,
literally.
As if there is nothing pressing,
nothing to decide,
nothing to accomplish,
except to wait. And rest.
The Clematis, with vines now browned and brittle,
–from life given as an prodigal summer offering–
covers our arbor
co-mingling with canes of Old Garden Roses
still defiantly nurturing the remnants of old blooms
while perennials have deferred to the weather,
and lay strewn upon the ground,
now a carpet of aftermath–a new year parade’s exhausted gift.
And I smile, and ask myself, “So what is next
on this winter day,
when there is not much to see?”
Terry Hershey

Music for the Soul…
New–​​​​​​
A Pilgrim’s Prayer — Rich Dawson

TUESDAY OCTOBER 13 —

Two men visiting Hong Kong, noticed the ubiquity of street vendors, all pushing their carts along, pell-mell, in and out of traffic. Attempting to gain the attention of any potential customer, the vendors would shout repeatedly, “Sale! Sale! Good items for sale!”
So numerous were these vendors that the men found it difficult to avoid their aggressive sales pitches. It was then that they noticed a lone vendor, different from the others. This man stayed to himself, and slowly and quietly pushed his cart along the sidewalk. Intrigued, they stopped the vendor to ask him about his wares, “What are you selling?”
“Selling?” the vendor responded, “Oh, I’m not selling anything.” With that, he reached into his cart and picked up two pieces of a toy that had been broken. “You see, I buy broken things. My joy comes in mending. Once, mended, it can be given away, and bring more joy.”
This story does my heart good. Because there is a part of me that feels broken. And mending, well, that sounds very good to me. But I believe, in my mind (if I’m honest), that I am exchanging the word mending with the word, fixing. Somehow, I’ve persuaded myself that broken is a deficiency.
So. Let’s begin here: Some of us… no, all of us… break.
Maybe from stress or fatigue of spirit. Or from loss of childlikeness or grief. Or from loss of passion. Or from a world where cruelty and violence is too real.
Yes. Life is difficult.
And no matter how strong or safeguarded, very bad things can happen to good and innocent people. And sometimes I don’t have the words. Even for my prayers.

Here’s what I know: We live in a world where, more than ever, it is easy to lose our way—yes, to lose track of our heart. To feel derailed, disenfranchised, exasperated.
Or, just plain lost.
Bottom line, we are not at home.
And on those days, I wish I was made of stronger stuff. I don’t want to admit it, as it feels like a defect to be concealed.
Okay, I’ll personalize this; when I let the cacophony or noise win, I am not at home.
When either fear, or shame, win, I am not at home.
When I give way to any narrative of small-mindedness (where labels or differences are weaponized), I am not at home.
When I stay mute in the face of intolerance or contempt, I am not at home.
And we want someone to show us the way, or at least, the GPS coordinates.
Let us embrace Henri Nouwen’s invitation. “It means a gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice, which desires our attention. Home is the place where that first love dwells and speaks gently to us.”

Today, let us embrace the wisdom of the little girl in yesterday’s Sabbath Moment story. She knew that “home” is not what we own, home is who we are.
Here’s the deal: I have a choice. Brokenness can undo me. Or I can see an invitation to a bigger self, creating spaces for healing and spiritual hydration and renewal.
This is why I have always resonated with the Gospel story of the Good Samaritan. A man is laying in a ditch, having been beaten and left to die. Two pious men pass by, a priest and a Levite, seeing the man, but they continue to walk, without stopping.
The Samaritan stops. Why? Because he knew what it was like to be wounded too.
“He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him.” (Gospel of Luke)
You see, once we are open…
…to giving up our expectations and demands,
…to having our stereotypes contradicted,
…to embracing our brokenness,
…we find “There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter.” (Mother Teresa)
When we see with our heart, we are grounded. We are conscious—present—no longer numbed. And tender hearts create sanctuaries for those left out. So, if ever there was a time for tender hearted, courageous men and women to step forward, it is now.
I like Thomas Merton’s take, “Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy. That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody’s business. What we are asked to do is to love.”​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 14 —

Here in England, almost every day I walk by a pasture, or field, with sheep grazing. And I smile, remembering the days when I used to preach to the sheep on my walk.
After reading today’s news, I replay a conversation I had with them not long ago.
“I let my spirit get on edge,” I tell them. “There’s so much to do, my world is hungry for people to step up and embrace becoming bigger and better, including the discomfort that accompanies it, even if we don’t fully understand it yet. To give our hearts to creating a world, even if that is the small world around us; where sanctuary is real, where we say No to bigotry and hatred and cruelty. A world that honors dignity, and embraces the human, vulnerable, broken, passionate and redemptive self of anyone who crosses our path.”
“Did you practice that speech?” their look tells me. “That was pretty good. So, why are you still on edge?”
I smile. “You got any advice?
“Stay emotionally and spiritually hydrated.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
“And, a little joy and laughter wouldn’t hurt. You know it’s the superpower of resilience, and it’ll boost your immunity. Just because the world is overwhelmed, doesn’t mean you have to be.”
This makes me laugh. “This is why I like talking with you all.”
As I’m walking away, I hear one of the little ones say, “And don’t forget, more love, and more stories, wouldn’t hurt either.”

An elderly carpenter is eager to retire. He tells his employer (a very well-respected contractor) of his plans to leave the house-building business. He wishes to live a more leisurely life with his wife and extended family. He knows he will miss the paycheck, but it’s kick-back time and he needs to retire. And his family will get by. “I’ve hammered enough nails in one lifetime,” he tells his employer, with a laugh. There’s no need to put myself out any longer, he tells himself.
The contractor is very sorry to see his best carpenter go, and asks this, “Would you be willing to oversee the building of just one more house, as a personal favor to me?”
Hesitant, the carpenter says yes. In a short time, it becomes easy to see that his heart is not in his work. He resorts to substandard workmanship and uses inferior materials. It is an unfortunate way to end a dedicated career.
When the carpenter finishes his work the employer comes to inspect the house. The contractor hands the front door key to the carpenter.
“This is my gift to you,” he says. “This is your house.”
Most of us have been there. Holding those keys. And it never helps slip sliding down the if-only-stream. We know where that takes us.
In my memory I’m back in southern Michigan, the son of a brick mason. I’ve been on countless constructions sites. Most of them as a hod carrier (mixing mortar, lugging bricks). So many days eager to quit. And hearing my Father’s words, “Son, build this one like you’re building your own.” (Twenty-six years ago, my Father helped me build the house on Vashon Island.)
So yes. Let us remember; we make a difference with every nail we hammer, each board we choose, each brick we mortar, each window we put in place.
Because we live in a culture of bluster and ado, we forget that we can make a difference. And more often than not, the wrong people get the attention.

So. Here’s to the restorative power of small gestures… one nail at a time.
We are, all of us, builders. We are about the business of building places and spaces for human dignity and inclusion and justice and hope. For resilience and confidence and courage and safety and wellbeing.
But this is important. This parable is not meant to scold us into making a difference. It’s a recognition that we have been created and are able to do so. It’s not about bootstraps and will power and consternation. This is about letting the language of our (replenished and not overwhelmed) heart speak.
When I live from overwhelmed, I react, I live fearful, I give in to cynicism. No wonder the first to go are my courage and my ability to laugh. Which is not good considering that they both come from the same muscle in our heart.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

THURSDAY OCTOBER 15 —

This week we are reminded that every one of us is a builder. We make a difference—with every encounter, every hand held, and hug given. We make a difference with every nail we hammer, each board we choose, each brick we mortar, each window we put in place.
I am the son of a brick mason. And I have a deep respect for the inspiring and beautiful stonework here in England—dry stone walls, houses, churches, cathedrals. All of them built hundreds of years ago. And let’s just say, on our pilgrimage here, we’ve spent a good bit of time, enjoying and admiring the stonework, with the history and stories that they tell.

It all resonates with my own history. It’s a story I have often told. I am the son of a brick mason. I am the eldest of five children. Which means that my summer options, as a schoolboy, were limited. I could be a hod carrier (mixing mortar—called “mud”—hauling bricks, blocks or stone and intuiting the needs of masons not known for their patience).
Or, I could be a hod carrier.
Being a hod carrier is real work. I mean, physical work. Dog-tired at the end of the day work. And I couldn’t wait to grow up and go to college, and get a real job.
My father’s leadership style, typical of Midwestern fathers of his generation, was straightforward, “Don’t loaf. Don’t whine. Don’t make excuses. This’ll make a man out of you.” (I will admit, as a high school football player and wrestler, I couldn’t have asked for a better workout regimen.)
Even so, college beckoned. Real work, you know, where I could make a real difference. And become somebody.
And I did. After two degrees and an ordination, I set out as The Reverend. No longer just a hod carrier, or just a construction worker.
On one visit to Michigan in my late 30s, my father and I drove the streets in the small town of Sturgis, drifting in his pickup truck. We could drive for miles without saying much. (Not a bad skill to learn.) The truck slowed as if by volition, and I wondered if something was amiss. Then it hit me. My Father slowed to regard a house that he had built; decades prior. He parked by the curb. And he told me stories, about building the house, about the owner, about members of the crew and about pranks played on the job site.
For the rest of the afternoon, we meander the streets, looking not just at houses or chimneys, but also at the quality of work that has stood the test of time. These weren’t just buildings. They were works of art and labors of love.
And then we stopped in front of a house I recognized. Where I spent a summer on a crew, just a hod carrier, building someone’s dream. (But I hadn’t seen it.)
And the light bulb came on.
Now, I never use the phrase “just a” anymore. About anyone.

I know this for certain: it doesn’t take much to nurse resentment or regret. There are times when whatever we are doing seems not enough (no doubt a miasma of guilt or shame and the vagaries of public opinion).
Over the years I have heard, “I’m just a volunteer (or just a member, or catechist, or teacher, or aid, or worker, or helper, or employee, or friend, or mother or father or fill in the blank).”
To each I say, No.
You see, “just a” creates a label and tells us what we are not. And when we label, we dismiss. (Regardless of the label. Dorothy Day once scoffed, “Don’t call me a saint. I don’t want to be dismissed so easily.”)
So, how then do we make a difference?
Here’s the deal: Your work (labor) is your turf of responsibility. Which is only part of our DNA. Because no matter where we labor or toil, our calling is to spill the light.
And the good news? For this we don’t have to pass a test, or qualify, we have only to be willing.
Jesus made it simple, “Let your light shine.”
Not, when you get your act together.
Not, when you feel noble.
Not, when you find a specific vocation.
Not, after you’ve chased all the gloom away.
Just let it shine. Because the light is already there. Inside of you. Now.
What we do—how we “choose”—and who we are, touches lives, plain and simple.
This matters more than ever, in a divisive world, a world on edge, a world where a kind word or gesture makes all the difference. We need a reset on making a difference.
My Father never signed a contract. His handshake was his word. One man told me, “When Jerry Hershey shook your hand you knew you were going to get something you would be proud of. Something that would stand the test of time.”
What did my Father build? Houses.
What did my Father do? He made a difference.
My Father died in 2020. RIP dad.

Because we live in a culture of bluster and ado, we forget that we can make a difference. And more often than not, the wrong people get the attention.
So. Here’s to the restorative power of small gestures.

FRIDAY OCTOBER 16 —

I am writing this Sabbath Moment, sipping my coffee, in a “house” (a building), that became a “home” (a dwelling for stories and relations), in the small village of Duxford, UK (near Cambridge).
In 1793, Benjamin Pyne, a “probationer” Minister with the Methodist Church, purchased the land. It was his vision to build a chapel, and a manse.
The construction of the chapel, which cost all of 396 pounds (yes, you can pause and smile at what looks like a typo) commenced the following year. It was a community endeavor, and the local farmers gave of their time and energy, hauling (free of charge) bricks, tiles, stones and windows mostly from nearby Horseheath.
The chapel was completed in the summer of 1794. And the locals gathered for worship for the first time, on August 3rd.
The Church was officially constituted in November, 1794. The following month Mr. Pyne, just aged 27, was ordained. Mr. Pyne ministered at the church, and in the community, until he fell ill in 1831.
In the years that followed, the church continued to grow and minister to the community, which at one time in their history showed a “directory” of up to 750 congregants.
The chapel continued to be a faithful witness in the village throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. After significant damages in WWII, the building was not only a place for worship, but slowly brought into other community uses, which included serving as the village Post Office. In the years that followed, the congregation grew smaller, and the momentous decision was made to close the Chapel in 2019.
The building was converted into two mezzanine apartments. And gratefully, it intentionally maintains much of the feel of the church, including the windows (and the light that spills through, as I write these words, not far from where the pulpit would have been). And I raise my cup to Rev. Pyne. I am grateful and moved, to be in places and spaces, that hold stories of how people created communities where they bonded to make our world a place of sanctuary and friendship and healing.
(For this history, thank you to Matt Carter.)

Two observations come to mind. The first is the gift that comes when we embrace the wisdom of the little girl in Monday’s Sabbath Moment story. She knew that “home” is not what we own (meaning the building itself), home is who we are—and the offerings of kind-heartedness and compassion we bring.
And I remember this affirmation at the funeral of Pope Francis.
“He (Pope Francis) often used the image of the Church as a ‘field hospital’ after a battle in which many were wounded; a Church determined to take care of the problems of people and the great anxieties that tear the contemporary world apart; a Church capable of bending down to every person, regardless of their beliefs or condition, and healing their wounds.” Cardinal Re said in the funeral homily.
Yes, and Amen. Francis, a voice of mercy, for the wounded and the marginalized—inviting the compassionate treatment of those in need, and yes, the gift of “home” and grounding (even and especially when it’s within one’s power to harm or “punish” them).
And this I know my friends: We live in an emotionally and spiritually de-hydrated world, thirsty for the sustaining balm of mercy—as builders of healing places and “repairers of our world.”
Because we live in a culture of bluster and ado, we forget that we can make a difference. And more often than not, the wrong people get the attention.
So. Here’s to the restorative power of small gestures.

And this from SM reader Mary Louise, “Terry, your carpenter story reminds me of one of my father’s favorite poems.”
“Princes & Kings
Isn’t it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?
Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.”
(R. Lee Sharpe)​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Prayer (poem) for our week…
After the good earth
where the body knows itself to be real
and the mad flight
where it gives itself to the world,
we give ourselves to the rhythm of love
leaving the breath
to know its way home.
And after the first pure fall,
the last letting go, and the calm
breath where we go to rest,
we’ll return again to find it
and feel again the body welcomed,
the body held,
the strong arms of the world,
the water, the waking at dawn
and the thankful, almost forgotten,
curling to sleep with the dark.
The old wild place beyond all shame.
David Whyte

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Hi Terry, The unbearable heat in San Diego this past week brought beautiful sunsets as well, as seen from my backyard. Enjoy your weekend!” Kathy Frost (San Diego, CA)… Thank you Kathy… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

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I am so very grateful.

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A soldier’s young daughter (her father in the process of being transferred and moved to a distant post) sits on the floor in an airport departure lounge, among her family’s meager and ragtag belongings. Sleepy, the girl leans against the packs and lays her head on a duffel bag.
A well-dressed woman walking the concourse, stops when she sees the scene, and pats the little girl on the head. “Poor child,” the woman says. “You haven’t got a home.”
The child looks up in surprise. “But we do have a home ma’am,” she answers. “We just don’t have a house to put it in.”

Plato reminded us that “whatever is honored will be cultivated.” To put it another way, whatever we honor determines the way we “see” the world—it becomes our lens, or our paradigm.
This is a story about paradigms. The woman who stopped—even plausibly well intentioned—had a paradigm: home equals “stuff”. Or, in this case, big stuff, such as a house. (And, if we are honest, we must acknowledge that this is ingrained in all of us… it is our “American” paradigm.)
In her wisdom, the little girl in the story knew that home is not what we own, but who we are.
“It means a gradual process of coming home to where we belong and listening there to the voice, which desires our attention,” Henri Nouwen writes. “Home is the place where that first love dwells and speaks gently to us.”
Yes. And Amen.
This is the gift I received on my pilgrimage, walking the Camino de Santiago. I learned that my journey was not about “arrival”, or walking focused only on a “destination”, but the healing gift of reframing—and receiving—what it means to “be at home”. It was the invitation to open my eyes, to see, and embrace, the place where love dwells.
And I smile, remembering Laura Ingalls Wilder’s authenticity, “Home is the nicest word there is.”
So, let us begin here: This love Nouwen refers to, gives us a birthright gift of self. Every one of us—let me repeat, “every one of us”—arrives with our own gifted form, with the shape of our own sacred soul.
Parker Palmer observes, “Biblical faith calls it the image of God in which we are all created. Thomas Merton calls it true self. Quakers call it the inner light, or ‘that of God’ in every person. The humanist tradition calls it identity and integrity. No matter what you call it, it is a pearl of great price.”

It is true, there are many things that “take us away” from home—the feeling of “not being at home.” And not having a house isn’t among them. I’m thinking of things such as anger, busyness, self-importance, self-doubt, unforgiveness, despair, frenzied consumerism, and bitterness. It is seldom sudden.
And heartbreakingly, now in our world, too many among us are being told “you are not at home here, because you don’t belong here.”
But in every instance of disconnect, there is this reality—and it’s easy to see how this new weight becomes the definition for our identity (and of the identity, of every person who is dishonored).

And here’s the kicker: the above list requires that we focus on the periphery issues, on whatever is needed to impress, or use, or measure, or perform.
Bottom line? We end up focusing on what we don’t have.
Or even crazier, we focus on what we don’t have enough of. And it tells us who we are.
Even when we finally get what we are certain we “needed,” it turns out we needed more. Go figure.
In Sabbath Moment we often talk about the paradigms of sufficiency versus scarcity. And this we know; Scarcity is peddled in many ways… “More is always better.”
“That’s just the way it is.”
“Sorry, whatever you need, there isn’t enough.”
“If only you tried this…”
So, how can we move beyond the scarcity paradigm and dispel the illusion?
When Jesus reminded us that we are the “light of the world,” he didn’t add, “But only after you have your house in order.”
Sufficiency is the fuel, forming the ingredients and gifts that make up our home. And maybe, the “house” we put these gifts in, is not a building, but an encounter, a gesture, a conversation, a helping hand, a smile, or a hug.

My friends, the bottom line is this: carrying the little girl’s paradigm, we change—meaning that we choose to honor—what really “counts.” What a reminder (and gift) for the world in which we live.
Buckminster Fuller, he of geodesic dome fame, said that scarcity is about a “you-or-me world,” and sufficiency is about a “you-and-me world.” (Let us remember: We are on this journey together.)
I get it.  If we begin with sufficiency, then perhaps what we “carry”—our home—is not stuff (or things or possessions) but rather opportunities.
Opportunities to be generous, big-hearted, kind, human.
Opportunities to be thoughtful, empathetic, and attentive.
Opportunities to offer hope.  And yes, even if the gift we give (or the light that shines) comes from a wounded or broken heart.
I have an idea… This week let’s break the rules. The old rules demand that we obtain, consume, clutch, win at any cost—with no shame in hurting and demeaning others, and give only when it makes sense (or there is a payoff).
As a result, we see only what we want to see.
The little girl is right. We do have a home—full of gifts and a light that shines. A place that anchors us and sustains us. And also, a birthplace and incubator for creating space, offering sanctuary and affirmation and generosity for those who are left out. So. What houses (encounter, gift of generosity or healing, conversation, helping hand, smile, hug, and yes, saying “no” to cruelty) can we put “our home” in today?

And today was a gift for me. We visited Wimpole Gardens (a National Trust acreage near Cambridge), to wander gardens, and forests, and meadows. Including the permission to walk through the sheep meadows. So, yes, I had to stop for a wee bit. I do miss the time when I was able to preach to the sheep on Vashon Island.
I told the sheep here at Wimpole, that I was “impressed at how they reflected the spirit of serenity that being ‘home’ brings. And I want to thank you.”
“No worries, mate,” one said.
It made me smile real big.

Quote for our week…
Home (in my own skin), that “safe space to regain my bearings, reclaim my soul, heal my wounds, and return to the world as a wounded healer,” Parker Palmer writes. “It’s not merely about finding shelter from the storm—it’s about spiritual survival and the capacity to carry on.”

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Hi Terry, I know you’re in England but just had to share these pictures my sister sent. They are in southern Alabama and waiting for hurricane Isaias to come ashore tomorrow. As she said, this sunset is the calm before the storm. So happy you’re getting to enjoy the beautiful UK and thankful we still get our Sabbath Moment every day.” Marge Austin… Thank you Marge… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com 

POEMS AND PRAYERS

For the very earth is holy.
The ground under our feet.
Take off your shoes and feel it,
feel the dry-ground-powder
and the sharp stones,
the infinite tiny beings
that call the earth home.
Take off your shoes.
Know you are part of
all this, part of the
the glory that fills
all things, as the waters
fill the seas.
You will be heard,
wherever you are.
You can listen,
wherever you are.
You are home.
Andrea Skevington, “Holy Ground, barefoot”

Music for the Soul…
New–
Homeward Bound — Simon and Garfunkel

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TUESDAY OCTOBER 6 —

Anthropologist Eleanor Leacock spent a lot of time with the Cree Indians of northern Canada. She went on a hunting trip with a Cree name Thomas.
Deep in the bush they encountered two men, strangers, who had run out of food, and were extremely hungry. Thomas gave them all his flour and lard, despite the fact that he would have to cut his own trip short as a result.
Leacock probed Thomas as to why he did this, and he finally lost patience with her.
“Suppose, now, not to give them flour, lard,” he explained, “just dead inside.”

I get the feeling dead (heart “shut down”) part.
But that’s the last thing I want, or need, to be.
Here’s what I believe: Even though we might not “see” it, or believe it, every single one of us has the resources to feed, and to nourish, one another.
To bring another back to life.
To make us all (and the world we live in) more, and not less human.
So. What is it that allows us to live from our heart, to contribute, to mend, even in a broken and wounded world?
Speaking words of courage in frightening times with her column “My Day,” Eleanor Roosevelt spilled light. And she admitted that her indefatigable service for us to be our better selves, was an antidote to loneliness, anxiety, and the periods of depression she called “Griselda moods.” (Smiling, knowing that I’ll be borrowing that expression.)
So yes. This does my heart good. Knowing that wholeheartedness flows even from our own wounded and broken places, from places where we may feel fragmented, and vulnerable.
True, my mood often tells me otherwise. My mood tells me to guard my heart.
But I’m learning that the easiest way to take care of your heart, is to give it away. The “gift of lard and flour” to someone in need. Go figure.
“Suppose, now, not to give them flour, lard,” he explained, “just dead inside.”
Today I am glad for any reminder that “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.” (Irish Proverb).
Today, in a world where cruelty is unmistakable, I am glad for any reminder of the capacity to be fully human, tender, vulnerable, and kindhearted.
Today, I am glad for any reminder that the human world of helping is larger than our fear, or anxiety, or our ego.

I will confess that the highs and lows of life these days—the warnings of peril, alongside signs signs of courage, and hope—do leave me feeling both shaken and steadied. And, if I don’t close my eyes (or shut down my heart) I am reminded not only how much is at stake, but how much depends on—and how much hope and healing is replenished by—the life-giving choices ordinary people make, when they give from their heart.
Oh yes, there will be days when we forget. When we lose hope. On those days, let us take this to heart: “In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out.  It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being.  We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.” Thank you, Albert Schweitzer.

We offer hope, we extend hands, and hearts, of compassion.
We see our connection with the lives of others around us, especially those broken or grieving or lost.
We see that they need a hand to hold. They need a voice. They need a sanctuary.
Gratefully, whenever we love, we are not alone. So, we wade-in, and stand in places—even places of brokenness and woundedness, places of death and loss—and we find grace there. Amen.
My friends, if you see a hand that needs to be held today, or an opportunity to give “flour and lard”, please reach out.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 7 —

Always try to leave people better than you found them. Hug the hurt. Kiss the broken. Befriend the lost. Love the lonely.
I want to live in that kind of world.
But this is my confession: some days (well, too many days), I wonder if it’s possible. (I can hear my spirit say, “A tenderhearted world? Yeah, right.”)
My cynicism rears its obstinate head, hoping to take root in my heart and spirit. And despair is often not far behind. (Is it okay to admit this? Of course, I’m shaking my head as I write these words, because I’m not sure whether I am more afraid of the despair, or the fragility and vulnerability in a world where tenderness is real and can still give us hope. And why would I be afraid, and why would I see both of them as weaknesses?)
So, it comes as no surprise that I would look for ways (give time and energy) to armor (safeguard) my heart. An armor sadly, marinated in fear.
Ram Dass talked about this wrestling in his reflection: “how do you keep your heart open in hell?” You see, when I assume life is “either / or”. In other words, there can’t be tender open hearts, and brokenness—pain and suffering—too. I try to distance myself from the pain because in my mind, both cannot co-exist. But here’s the deal: when I see the world this way (as either / or), I always miss something.
I miss the strength (yes, our enoughness) in fragility and vulnerability and brokenness, and the power to embrace what is there.
I miss seeing the humanity that is alive and well (yes, hearts open in “hell”), and the capacity for compassion and redemption.
I miss the invitation to make a space to embrace what is authentic, and the gift of being beloved even in our brokenness.
I miss the capacity for regeneration.

So, it’s story time. And I take hope in a lovely story about seeing our world as “both–and”, and the emotional significance of reparation.
In “The Well Gardened Mind”, Sue Stuart-Smith tells the story of the book L’enfant et les sortilèges (The Child and the Spells) by Melanie Klein.
The plot, based on a story by Colette, starts with a little boy being sent to his room by his mother for refusing to do his homework. In his banishment, he embarks on a rampage of fury, reveling in destruction as he trashes his room and attacks his toys and pet animals. Suddenly, the room comes to life, and he feels threatened and anxious.
Two cats appear and take the boy out to the garden, where a tree is groaning in pain from a wound, he inflicted on its bark the day before. As he starts to feel pity and lays his cheek against the tree trunk, a dragonfly whose mate he recently caught and killed confronts him. It dawns on him that the insects and animals in the garden love one another. Then a fight breaks out when some of the animals he has previously hurt start to retaliate by biting him. A squirrel is injured in the fray and the boy instinctively takes off his scarf to bind its wounded paw.
With this act of care, the world around him is transformed. The garden ceases to be a hostile place and the animals sing to him of his goodness as they help him back to the house to be reunited with his mother.
As Klein described: he is restored to the human world of helping.

Children (and the child in all of us) need to see positive confirmation of themselves in the world around them and they need to believe in their capacity to love, a capacity fueled by embracing vulnerability even in pain and suffering and brokenness.
Yes, and amen. Even in cacophony, we are still connected to one another. We still make a difference. A human world of helping. No one of us is on this journey alone.
And maybe, the armor can come down.

Yesterday we wrote about Eleanor Roosevelt’s wrestling with periods of depression that she called “Griselda moods”. And I received this from Sabbath Moment friend Stephen Burger. “Eleanor Roosevelt referred to her periods of depression as ‘Griselda’ as a way to externalize and manage them. By giving her depression a name, she could think of it as a separate entity—something she could confront or control rather than an inseparable part of herself. This technique helped her cope with low moods while maintaining her sense of duty and resilience during stressful times.” Thank you, my friend.

THURSDAY OCTOBER 9 —

Today, I am glad for any reminder that “It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.” (Irish Proverb).
Today, in a world where cruelty is unmistakable, I am glad for any reminder of the capacity to be fully human, tender, vulnerable, and kindhearted.
Today, I am glad for any reminder that the human world of helping is larger than our fear, or anxiety, or our ego.
And no, this is not easy to do in a world that does not honor slowing down, or making (honoring) space for healing and restoration.

Confession: As a ‘P’ on the Myers-Briggs—translated, “deadline means time to get started,”—I give ‘Js’, “the list makers”, a hard time. But this is not just about list making. It’s about our cultural obsession that any activity (or production or pursuit) be married to urgency. Like the company whose motto is “we only do rush orders.” So. Our adrenalin is wired to “get stuff done. Now.”
And it reminded me that worry, and urgency, are too easily the peer pressures of my world.
Here is what I know: One. Urgency is predicated on our need to overcome, or tidy up, fix, or cope. There is something about control, I suppose. And I wonder what kind of control I need, and what does it feed? And why am I so afraid of any uncertainty, (or brokenness, or woundedness), or unpredictable parts of my world?
Many years ago, at the Gardens and Grace Conference, in Baltimore, the Cathedral of the Incarnation had a lovely blue slate courtyard, surrounded by shrubs and trees. The setting and marriage of deep green and slate blue (still wet from the evening rain) is calming. The patio is littered with yellow leaves dropped from the nearby trees. The leaves are scattered, random. And exquisite. The impression is playful and whimsical. I hear a noise, all too familiar, as a custodian carries out his assignment of blowing the leaves off the patio. After ten minutes, the patio is “clean,” and ready for use.
So. When he finished, and there was no one else around, I picked up a few handfuls of leaves and scattered them, onto the patio.

And Two. Letting go of urgency (for the purpose of rest—Sabbath—and renewal) is intentional.
John Killinger once asked Sister Corita Kent, a nun known as a leader of worship, to help lead worship services. He received a postcard a few days later that simply said, “Dear, I am trying to be quiet. S. Corita.”
Why do we need permission to give up urgency, even for a day? If you have a patio, scatter some leaves. If you have a pond, sit on a rock (or bench) nearby, and sip your coffee. This is not an assignment. It is all about healing that place where urgency will be born.
I am grateful for this from Kent Neburn’s book, “Small Graces”. It did my heart good…
“I have walked a quiet path today… Do we really need much more than this? To honor the dawn. To visit a garden. To talk to a friend. To contemplate a cloud. To cherish a meal. To bow our heads before the mystery of the day. Are these not enough?
If we should be so lucky as to touch the lives of many, so be it. But if our lot is no more than the setting of a table, or the tending of a garden, or showing a child a path in a wood, our lives are no less worthy.”

To do justice. To love mercy. To walk humbly with our God.
To bring peace to the old. To have trust in our friends. To cherish the young. Sometimes, it seems, we ask too much. Sometimes we forget that the small graces are enough.
Our Jewish brothers and sisters use a prayer beginning, Barukh Adonai, Blessing God, or seeing God in all things, in all places. It is a way of slowing down.
So, wherever you are, take a moment. Be still. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Light a candle.
Carry a talisman (a stone or some object from a place) that reminds you of a sacred space.
Say the rosary.
Watch the birds dance at the feeders.
Walk in a park, and enjoy the autumn air.
Spend an afternoon in your special chair.
Or, wander a garden, and smile real big.

“By means of a diversion we can avoid our own company 24 hours a day.” Pascal

FRIDAY OCTOBER 9 —

Some days, we wake up in a world that is not a friend of grace. At least, it doesn’t feel so.
And I take to heart my friend’s reminder, that we find sanity and sanctuary when we stop and distinguish between big world and small world. Yes. With big world, news is in your face and stoked with anger. No wonder we feel as if our control is demoted. And we ask, how can I make a difference in a broken world?
Well that’s just it, we make a difference in the small world.
The small world is the place where we stand. Today. Where we care and give a damn. And hug and give and try and love and fall down, and get up and repent, and cry and embrace, and challenge and reconcile, and heal.

Makes me smile. Yes. Making a difference in the small world with compassion free of ulterior motive, and straight from the heart. The path we walk (the choices we make), is not arbitrary, or because we mentally assent to a certain creed. It is guided by and fueled by an identity that is grounded in and spills from sufficiency, and not scarcity. Sufficiency is that place where Grace is received and given freely.
Sufficiency where we remember Jesus’ words to each of us, “You are the light of the world.” He didn’t ask us to make the light. Just shine it.
When I live from scarcity, I’ve lost my mooring. I’m driven by “not enough.” I clutch, and I blame.
When I live from sufficiency, I am not compensating for what is missing, the world does not make me hate, I trust my heart, and any assumed scarcity (of kindness and compassion) does not get to say how the story ends.
But how? And where do we begin in a broken world?
There is a well-known story concerning a Rabbi who came across the prophet Elijah, and asked him: “Tell me—when will the Messiah come?”
Elijah replied, “Go and ask him yourself.”
“Where is he?” asked the Rabbi.
“He’s sitting at the gates of the city,” said Elijah.
“But how will I know which one is he?”
The Prophet replied, “He is sitting among the poor, covered with wounds. The others unbind all their wounds at the same time and bind them up again, but he unbinds only one at a time and binds them up again, saying to himself, ‘Perhaps I shall be needed; if so, I must always be ready so as not to delay for a moment.’”

In his book The Wounded Healer, Henri Nouwen adds, “What I find impressive in this story are these two things: first, the faithful tending of one’s own woundedness and second, the willingness to move to the aid of other people and to make the fruits of our own woundedness available to others.”
I’ve known about the story of the wounded healer for many years. I first read it in seminary. I understood in cerebrally. Now, I get it, in my gut. I just don’t like those wounded (flawed, broken) parts of me. But I do know what it is to be wounded.  Though I do my very best to hide it. I see nothing good there. But what if? What if brokenness is not a “fixable problem,” but an opportunity for grace and love and ministry?
Many of us live under the illusion that one of these “experts” has created a life to die for, to be emulated. If that’s the case, knock yourself out, but just remember that there’s no one to complain to when you find out that, in the end, you—the flawed and broken you—can be a pretty trustworthy guide on this expedition we call life. Nouwen writes, “Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?’”
When we do, we are “Tikkun Olam”, repairers of the world.

The book “Gracie; Love is Blind”, is about the power of shining light in our small world even in our woundedness. Gracie is a Petite Basset. And Gracie is blind. “Life doesn’t always go as planned and love doesn’t always make sense,” Patsy Swendson writes. “I was to be profoundly blessed to witness Gracie as she would take control of rooms full of patients, or in private visits, with warriors returning from combat missing arms, legs or eyes. She commanded these moments and filled them with nonjudgmental love and warmth. I am certain that Gracie was put on this earth to help alleviate pain, if only for a moment. To know that you are loved unconditionally, completely and wholly, can allow you to take the first step toward learning to be who you are despite what has happened to you… she offered light in places where people needed it the most… Gracie has been a heart healer from the first moment I saw her.”
Here’s the deal: We are all wounded healers (where our wounds cease to be a source of shame and become a source of healing). No, this is not a strategy. This is a fact. It spills from those parts of our life that have been broken open, from those parts of us flawed and imperfect. So. What if this is not about accepting imperfection as some kind of divine teaching moment? What if the gift is in the inimitability of our humanity? When we embrace what is already inside, we live from the power of sufficiency.

I love the autumn garden. Or in this case, gardens. We are in Cambridge, England. The deciduous trees have begun their parade of color. And the perennials accept fragility, as if unafraid of the temporal and the broken. They have only this moment, days with golden light. Absent now is the manic pace of a spring garden. And the plants shine without striving.

Note: A variation of the Messiah story appears in the Talmud–Sanhedrin 98a​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Prayer (poem) for our week…
An Examen in Caring for Others
What interactions with others were significant to me today?
What care and compassion did I show?
What was going on in my head during these interactions? Was I truly present?
What control do I have over the circumstances of these individuals?
Did I do all that I could in this point in time?
What can I do for tomorrow?
Prayer for Compassion
Merciful God,
Open my heart and mind to be fully present to those I interact with throughout the day.
Allow me to listen to others without passing judgement or haste to solve what I cannot change.
Give me patience and understanding and grant me grace in my shortcomings.
Be with me in times of fatigue and lift me up with the strength to carry out your compassionate love to all those I meet.
​​​​​​​Amen.
Ashley Henkes

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Terry, Here’s a photo from the recent Nor’Easter in Maine. Powerful ocean at Schoodic Point in Acadia National Park.” Martha Resotko… Thank you Martha… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

​​​​​​​Donation = Love… Your gifts make Sabbath Moment possible.
I am so very grateful.

Please Share Sabbath Moment with others.
​​​​​​​And find it on our website terryhershey.com

We are, every single one of us, wounded. That is a gift.
We are, every single one of us, broken. And that is a gift.
We are every single one of us, blessedly human, and no one of us is on this journey alone. That too, is a gift.
Yes, I know. It doesn’t always feel that way. I look, but don’t see any gift. Because I see brokenness and woundedness as impediments, or disabilities, to be tidied up, overcome, or prayed away.
What I don’t see, is the invitation to befriend my brokenness, and embrace the beauty and wonder.

I will admit that there is comfort donning my cape, morphing into Mr. Tidy OCD, an emotional life fix-it hero. And I know why. It distracts and protects me, because there’s a part of me that is afraid to pause, reluctant to befriend my scattered and wounded self. Afraid to let myself be loved for being this wonderfully messy, imperfect me. Grace, it turns out, is WD40 for the soul.
I remember a Far Side cartoon. Two women inside their house. Outside the closed front door (we see through the window) a giant hideous insect. Says one, “Calm down Edna, yes it’s one giant hideous insect, but it could be one giant hideous insect in need of help.”
We don’t see the gift, because we’ve been marinated in a narrative of scarcity (“I am not enough”). It is no surprise that we ascribe beauty to only the uncluttered, and success to only the strong or powerful.
My friends, here’s to the Power of Pause. You see, when we pause, and give ourselves the permission to hear the voice of grace (trusting our sufficiency), we are no longer afraid of the brokenness, or woundedness, or imperfections. Bottom line: they are not a threat to wholeness. In embracing our wounds, they become (as Richard Rohr reminds us) sacred wounds, because grace is alive and well.

So. It’s paradigm shift time. Time to move from a “project-management” view of life, to a “wade-in” view of life.
Life, in its brokenness, is not to be contained, explained or fixed. As if we recover and move on to “real life.” You know, the non-messy parts.
When we need to “move past” the life we have now, we miss the wonder, the beauty, and the tender purity, in what often feels like a cacophony.
We miss the sacrament of the present moment.
We miss that even in the sorrow, and the pain, and the unknowing, there is a whiff of the holy.

I am so grateful for this Sabbath time I’ve enjoyed here in England. And this week, I’ve been marinating in grace (a mixture of prayer, good vibes, blessings, and yes, virtual hugs). What a gift. It reminds me, incarnationally, that we do indeed walk one another home. And a reminder that befriending our woundedness is not a solo act.
And my confession: Marinating is not easy. Well, more candidly, it is not easy to be “embraced by the gift of grace”. What with our mind swirling about whether we deserve it, or whether we’ve done enough to earn it, or what will happen when our broken and unlikable parts become known.
And I am smiling about how we look at, see, and label “brokenness”. In the past two weeks, I’ve been in about 20 gardens—some public, some private, some National Trust gardens and arboretums—all life-giving, and all with a somewhat—well, even notable—different method of garden maintenance. We are here in Autumn, a garden season that kindles leaf-color-transformation. And in the perennial beds and borders, the dahlias are stunning, a contrast to the reminders that the blooms and foliage on many (well, most) of our best-loved flowering plants have come and gone. But I can tell you that my favorite gardens are those that do not remove the spent blooms on their perennial plants. I can hear in my mind the strict gardener voice, “Oh dear, you need to remove that unpleasant dead and brown part. It is unsightly.”
And I wish to tell them about how it does my heart good to celebrate, and say “thank you” to that “dead part” for the light it brought—and still brings—to our world. And the irony, that most often, the “dead part” is filled with seeds that will spill (and share), and make plants and gardens for the future.
Which brings us back to our theme. The gift of “brokenness”.
And to the connections we make when we share, remembering that no one of us is on this journey alone.

There was a farmer who grew excellent quality wheat and every season he won the award for the best grown in his county. One year a newspaper reporter interviewed the farmer, and learned that each Spring the man shared his seed with his neighbors, so that they too could plant it in their fields.
“How can you afford to share your best wheat seed with your neighbors when they are entering their crops in the competition with yours?” the reporter asked.
“Why that’s very simple,” the farmer explained. “The wind picks up pollen from the developing wheat and carries it from field to field. If my neighbors grow inferior wheat, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of all the wheat, including mine. If I am to grow good wheat, I must help my neighbors grow good wheat.”
Amen. That’ll preach.
Here’s the deal: By planting and then sharing (spilling), we fight, and we resist contaminated “wheat” (shame, fear, small-mindedness, myopia, defensiveness, and callousness), with life-giving “wheat” (empathy, belonging, generosity, inclusion, reconciliation, and kindness).
From these places—sacred wounds—we speak truth, we do not need to pretend, or excuse.
We offer hope, we extend hands and hearts of compassion.
We see our connection with the lives of others around us, especially those broken or grieving or lost.
We see that they need a hand to hold. They need a voice. They need a sanctuary.
Whenever we love we are not alone. So, we wade-in, and stand in places of death and loss, and we find grace there. And if you see a hand that needs to be held today, please reach out.

For all of you in the leaf-changing parts of our world, savor the colors.
And for all of you who follow college football, enjoy the games. As a Michigan boy, I’ll lick my wounds while enjoying a pint in a British pub.
Gratefully, the weather here continues to impress, meaning the daily sun on our faces. And yes, another garden to visit.

Quote (Prayer) for our week —
The Blessing of Peace
Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.
Ancient Celtic Prayer

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Dear Terry, Your Sabbath Moments calm my soul. Each day they remind me to live in the present, be kind and gentle to all, humans and creation, even on the days which fill with pains and disappointments and frustration. I am glad you were able to visit Hidcote Manor. I was there a few years ago. The beauty and diversity of the plants , flowers and trees were a balm of joy and peace. The surrounding  country  side in the Spring  enthralled my senses. All the plant, bushes, and flowers diversity in and around the manor points to the truth of how unity in diversity creates beauty. I too sat in the Silent Space, so grateful that they had made room for it. Here are a few photos I took around Hidcote.” Sue Allen…

POEMS AND PRAYERS

Breathing Lessons
Let it in, let it all in
Let it all in to your heart
All that is, all that is gift
You don’t’ have to take it apart
Everything we do is like breathing
We’ve been holding our breath for too long
Could you trust your life to the seasons
​​​​​​​and let the wind take you along
Let it out let it all out
Let it all out of your mind
Let it go, we don’t have to know
The answers to all that you find
There’s an emptiness that comes from having too much
Too much without any soul
Let out the lifeless the stale and the stuck
And let in what makes you more whole
Let in what makes you more whole
Charles Gaby

Music for the Soul…
New–
Be Still My Soul — Mount Royal Kantorei​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 29 —

I once asked my analyst why I was in therapy. He told me it would make me a better gardener. Gardening can be strong medicine—an elixir that nurtures and shapes the soul. For that reason, it is a tonic seldom taken straight with no ice. Gardening has way of seeping into your soul, and one day you find yourself, in the words of poet May Sarton, spending the first half hour of the morning “enjoying the air and watching for miracles,” the joy and the light still alive.
Today Nancy and I enjoyed garden wandering in the Cotswolds. And the child in me, savoring the moments that make my heart come alive. With surprises, like so many flower blooms, varieties, and combinations all new to me.
Autumn is Dahlia heaven—now a plethora of colors and varieties. Maybe an extravaganza, or Fall pageant.
And fresh surprises. Blue Rock Bindweed, a soft and gentle blue. The exotic and charming white blooms on the Yucca plants. Meadow saffron, with wispy petals. And Everlasting flower (Straw flower), the flowers as if divinely chiseled. Their blooms continue to open as they dry, their yellow centers turning a beautiful, jewel-like golden color.

In the garden, I am viscerally aware of the replenishment vital to be fully present, and fully alive. In Hidcote Manor, there is a sign near a bench under an Italian Shelter that says, “Welcome to Hidcote’s Silent Space. We have partnered with the charity Silent Space to create an area of the garden where visitors are invited to take a moment to disconnect from the outside world and reconnect with nature.” Yes, and Amen.

A day that was heart-warming and heart touching. A wonderful reminder of our theme this week. We are hearts that touch.
Which may sound too sentimental in the real world, where hearts touch, and hearts hurt. In the real world, where hearts hope, and hearts break. Hearts heal, and hearts splinter. But here’s the good news: it is from those splintered places, that hearts give—love and empathy and healing and mercy—again, and again, and again. We are hearts that touch, and it makes our world a better place.

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
“The Boy’s Uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
“The Velveteen Rabbit”, Margery Williams​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Thank you, my friends, for being a part of Sabbath Moment. I am grateful for the community. If you know anyone who would enjoy, and benefit from Sabbath Moment, please invite your friend to join us. 

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 30 — ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

We are hearts that touch.
Which may sound too sentimental in the real world, where hearts touch, and hearts hurt. In the real world, where hearts hope, and hearts break. Hearts heal, and hearts splinter. But here’s the good news: it is from those splintered places, that hearts give—love and empathy and healing and mercy—again, and again, and again. We are hearts that touch, and it makes our world a better place.
And here’s the deal my friends; when we ask one another, “How’s your heart?” it is an affirmation, and reminder, that self-care matters.
This we know: Care of any kind—compassion, generosity, forgiveness, reconciliation, peacemaking, service, ministry, teaching, giving, healing—begins with and is nourished by self-care. By self-compassion.
Care for our heart begins here: let us be gentle with ourselves. It is a restorative mainlined straight to the heart.

And if I practice what I preach (which I confess, is not always the case), you’ll find me out in the garden—and nature. The garden gives me permission.
To slow down.
To receive gifts of grace.
To be at home in my own skin.
I do love wandering gardens, drinking in the wisdom and gladness of late summer blossoms and colorations, which never say, “I’m just a flower.” They simply, and wonderfully, bloom.
This little light of mine…

And in Center for Action and Contemplation’s Daily yesterday, this life-giving affirmation from Thérèse of Lisieux. “Jesus set before me the book of nature; I understood how all the flowers [God] has created are beautiful, how the splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not take away the perfume of the little violet or the delightful simplicity of the daisy… If all flowers wanted to be roses, nature would lose her springtime beauty, and the fields would no longer be decked out with wildflowers. And so it is in the world of souls.” (Thérèse of Lisieux, “Story of a Soul”)
I’m not sure where the “garden”—nature, walking, reading, music, eucharist, meditation—is for you. But the invitation is life-giving. It’s okay to take care of yourself.
Be gentle with yourself. It is okay to ask for help. To not be perfect. To make mistakes. To not appease everyone. To say, “no”.

This is from Kent Neburn’s book, “Small Graces”. And it does my heart good… “I have walked a quiet path today… Do we really need much more than this? To honor the dawn. To visit a garden. To talk to a friend. To contemplate a cloud. To cherish a meal. To bow our heads before the mystery of the day. Are these not enough? If we should be so lucky as to touch the lives of many, so be it. But if our lot is no more than the setting of a table, or the tending of a garden, or showing a child a path in a wood, our lives are no less worthy.
To do justice. To love mercy. To walk humbly with our God.
To bring peace to the old. To have trust in our friends. To cherish the young. Sometimes, it seems, we ask too much. Sometimes we forget that the small graces are enough.”

Ahhh yes. This is the power of wonder. It is not just a reverie for my bliss. It is a grounding for my heart. And a grounding for mindfulness; the permission to pay attention to this life, and to the people who are in it, now available to greater depths of compassion and love. In other words, we see the people who make us better, and we see the people who have been wounded, depleted and diminished, who need compassion.

THURSDAY OCTOBER 1 —

Yesterday, I sat on a bench in Batsford Arboretum and Garden Centre (Gloucestershire, England) enjoying the sun on my skin, serenaded by the “music” the breeze inspires, as the limbs and the leaves dance.
I close my eyes, smile real big, and let the cares of the world (those that clamor and gnaw), gratefully recede.
And in my mind, I’m back to my university days, at the Abbey on the Isle of Iona, off Scotland’s northern shore.
In my mind compline has just begin. The breeze in the trees leads the chant, reminding me of the gift of enough. And the gift of wonder. The gift of my heart.
When compline “ends”, I replay the lines from a Mary Oliver’s poem.
“I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”

“It’s a gift to yourself but it’s a gift to anybody who has a hunger for it,” Mary Oliver told Krista (Tippett) in a 2015.
The thought echoes something philosopher Simone Weil once said — that “attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” At a moment when the world can feel strange and difficult — or, at the very least, monotonous — Oliver’s poem draws our attention back to how our earthly existence may be just enough to get us through. She found inspiration in the works of the Roman poet Lucretius, whose Epicurean philosophy she sums up as: “What we are made of will make something else.”
“There is no nothingness — with these little atoms that run around too little for us to see. But, put together, they make something,” she said. “And that to me is a miracle. Where it came from, I don’t know. But it’s a miracle, and I think it’s enough to keep a person afloat.” If we understand existence as a miracle, then maybe the generosity that Simone Weil speaks of is not what we extend to others, but instead what the world offers us — if only we’re lucky enough to look up and around in awe. (Thank you, OnBeing Project)

From my time at Iona, I found grounding in Celtic Spirituality. And I carry with me each day the deep reverence for nature that is a central conviction in Celtic Spirituality. God’s presence permeates all of creation. Every single piece of it.
It is no surprise at all that wonder is our birthright. When our heart gratefully smiles big, and often laughs out loud.
But we forget that don’t we? “(Wonder) comes easily in childhood—the feeling of watching dust motes dancing in sunlight, or climbing a tree to touch the sky, or falling asleep thinking about where the universe ends. If we are safe and nurtured enough to develop our capacity to wonder, we start to wonder about the people in our lives, too—their thoughts and experiences, their pain and joy, their wants and needs. We begin to sense that they are to themselves as vast and complex as we are to ourselves, their inner world as infinite as our own. In other words, we are seeing them as our equal. We are gaining information about how to love them. Wonder is the wellspring for love… But you don’t have to be religious in order to open to wonder. You only have to reclaim a sliver of what you once knew as a child. If you remember how to wonder, then you already have what you need to learn how to love.” (Thank you Center for Action and Contemplation)
This is the power of wonder. It is not just a reverie for my bliss. It is a grounding, a mindfulness; the permission to pay attention to this life.
And, the permission to pay attention to the people who are in it, now available to greater depths of compassion and love. In other words, we see the people who make us better, and we see the people who have been wounded, depleted and diminished, who need compassion.

Which brings us back to our theme for the week: The heart is strong, and has capacity to give life.
After all, we are hearts that touch. Which may sound too sentimental in a real and fractured world; a world where hearts touch and hearts hurt, hearts hope and hearts break, hearts heal and hearts splinter… and; from those splintered places hearts that give again, and again.
An invitation to “pay homage with our presence, and what we fight for from the ground of what we love.” (Thank you Krista Tippett)​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

FRIDAY OCTOBER 2 —

Prayer (poem) for our week…
We do not become healers.
We came as healers. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become storytellers.
We came as carriers of the stories
we and our ancestors actually lived. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become artists. We came as artists. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not become writers… dancers… musicians… helpers… peacemakers.
We came as such. We are.
Some of us are still catching up to what we are.
We do not learn to love in this sense.
We came as Love. We are Love.
Some of us are still catching up to who we truly are.
Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Good afternoon, I decided to take the Point Defiance Ferry (Tacoma) at Sunrise. Since God was having an Art exhibit I wanted to attend it. Thank you for your dedication to our journey home,” Marguerite Gerontis… Thank you Marguerite… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

​​​​​​​Donation = Love… Your gifts make Sabbath Moment possible.
I am so very grateful.

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​​​​​​​And find it on our website terryhershey.com

With care the surgeon reiterates the essentials about the heart surgery to his patient, as the gurney is about to be rolled into the operating room. Regardless of how many times the surgeon has performed this procedure, he is aware that for each patient the anxiety is firsthand and not easily quelled. The patient’s mind feels thick (perhaps the drugs), and while the words are understandable, the meaning muddled. Seeing the patient’s fear, the surgeon takes a model heart from a nearby shelf, shows it to the patient and says, “You brought me your heart. I’m going to give you back your heart. And it will be in better shape than the way you brought it to me.”
Not a bad mantra for all human encounters.
After all, we are hearts that touch.
Which may sound too sentimental in the real world, where hearts touch, and hearts hurt. In the real world, where hearts hope, and hearts break. Hearts heal, and hearts splinter. But here’s the good news: it is from those splintered places, that hearts give—love and empathy and healing and mercy—again, and again, and again. We are hearts that touch, and it makes our world a better place.
Yes. This does sound encouraging and inspiring, but if I were honest, I would tell you that I often wish for a world, where there are no broken hearts.

And my mind goes back to a lesson I learned, while sitting in a barber’s chair.
Years ago, I was in downtown Atlanta with a conference for Spiritual Directors International, doing a presentation about how spiritual care is grounded in self-care.
I have a window of time, and need a haircut. So, I take the recommendation of the concierge, and find myself in a salon near the hotel—in underground Atlanta, following a young hairdresser toward a chair in the back of the salon.
One of my philosophies is this: In a barber chair—an inevitability on par with airplanes and bank teller lines—conversation is a bother. Just cut my hair, and let me go. After all, I have important stuff to do.
Because she made me laugh, I break my rule about staying mute. Seeing another chap in the chop getting a buzz cut, I tell Sharon that maybe a buzz cut is in order, and then say, “I’ll look like my Dad.” I then tell Sharon about my father’s decision after cancer, to enjoy his new hair-free care-free look.
She smiles and I say, “Just take a wee bit off and I’m good to go.”
As she is cutting, I look into the mirror. Sharon has a Bob hairstyle, and it is perfect for her bubbly personality.
And then after a bit of silence, she says. “I’m a cancer survivor too. Just finished my chemo.”
Okay. I wasn’t ready for that.
Because if there is conversation, these chairs are for small talk only—no different than coffee hour after church.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “When did you learn about the cancer, and what kind of treatment did you go through?”
“I had the whole nine yards,” she laughs. “Surgery. And then more surgery and then chemo.”
We are quiet, except for the sound of scissors.
“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” she adds.
I’ve heard people say that—about tragedy or loss or heartbreak or misfortune—but am honestly unsure what to think. How can such a statement be true? I do know that something inside us wants (needs) to find a silver lining, a way to make sense of what appears to be an utterly senseless invasion of our body, or life, or world.
I watch her in the mirror. Sharon is young, late-30s, petite, her facial features delicate and freckled, carrying a youthful innocence. There is no sign of any recent clash with the drug treatments that traumatize body and spirit, all in the name of health.
She looks into the mirror, and holds my gaze.
“It has made me softer,” she tells me. “And now, I love different.”
A single mother, Sharon talks about her 15-year-old daughter, in a tenor both wistful and filled with pride. She describes a young girl whose life was turned upside down with the possibility of a mother’s death. And about a renewed relationship between mother and daughter.
I nod. I understand.
“We never know,” she continues. “A year ago, if you had told me that this is where I’d be, I’d have told you you’re crazy. But not now. Now I look at people different.”
After a pause, I tell her, “Your hair is really cute.” And then, quickly realizing my blunder, I try to apologize.
But Sharon shakes her head, tossing her hair, looking cute and sassy. “Thanks. I made it myself. And it is something I do now. It is my new calling. I make personal wigs for people going through chemo, so they can look beautiful on the outside, and feel beautiful on the inside too.”

Go figure. I’m at a conference with spiritual directors from different faith traditions around the world, and my moment of enlightenment and grace is gifted to me in a beauty-salon-barber-chair, where self-compassion was alive and well. And the empowerment to spill light, and grace, to the world around them. A confirmation that hearts that touch, make our world a better place
I was taught—in church—as a boy, that we should love one another. You know, practice kindness and compassion.
But here’s the deal: love can only spill from a heart that has been softened, and in most cases, broken. A heart where self-care—yes, self-compassion—is blossoming, replenishing, and healing.
In these encounters—if I do give, or offer my heart—it does come back to me in better shape. Because it comes back to me, softer.
There is no doubt that when faced with tragedy or chaos or uncertainty or misfortune, we want to have a “handle” on it, or fix it, or make it go away.
But this is not about a way to figure life out. Nor is it about determining whether we have intentionally or unintentionally invited chaos or sickness into our world.
It’s about the permission to see the world—this day—through the eyes of our heart. Our heart made soft.

After the conference someone asked me, “What did you do there?”
Well, I got a haircut.
And felt my heart soften just a little.

I am writing this Sabbath Moment in the Cotswolds (England). Visiting and wandering in gardens, and looking for fields with sheep to chat with.
And today, grateful for church service, in St John the Baptist. An Anglican church in Burford, England, that dates back to building work which began in 1175, and finally completed by 1500. Let’s just say that the walls hold oodles of stories.

Quote for our week… “The heart is the only broken instrument that works.” T.E. Kalem

BULLETIN BOARD

​​​​Today’s Photo Credit: St. John the Baptist. An Anglican church in Burford, England… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​POEMS AND PRAYERS

Never Give Up
No matter what is going on
Never give up
Develop the heart
Too much energy in your country
Is spent developing the mind
Instead of the heart
Be compassionate
Not just to your friends
But to everyone
Be compassionate
Work for peace
In your heart and in the world
Work for peace
And I say again
Never give up
No matter what is going on around you
Never give up
Dalai Lama XIV

Music for the Soul…
New–
May God Love You (Like You’ve Never Been Loved) — Over the Rhine

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 22 —

“Small change, small wonders—these are the currency of my endurance and ultimately of my life. It’s a workable economy.” Thank you, Barbara Kingsolver.

And speaking of small wonders…
It was scheduled as “boy’s weekend out”. Five friends hurtling down the Colorado River, a white-water raft our ticket to peril and pleasure. We had been plotting this day, determining ways to make it a sport, a contest, talking big about our fearlessness and our desire for serious rapids. We were, after all, real men, all belly and bravado, and nature’s playground beckoned.
The sun reigned high over an expansive Colorado mountain sky, endless and open, bleached of any rich or subtle hues. The sun baked our faces while continual sprays of river water baptized us with exhilaration. We whooped and cavorted and egged each other on. We looked forward to that evening in the Jacuzzi, beer in hand, telling and retelling the day, a forum for exaggeration and pure blarney about our exploits.
While the rafting crew worked to pull the raft from the water after our run was completed, I climbed the embankment and sat on a rock near the top, drinking in the warmth of afternoon. The area near me was littered with woody mountain shrubs. Something else caught my eye. Over the embankment to my left, growing from a ledge, stood a single clump of iris, sixteen inches high, a desert gemstone in a rich azure luster.
I scrambled down near the ledge—literally on my belly, my face near the flower—and gaped, frozen as if in the company of a magical snow leopard.
I confess to you that I touched its delicate falls, like the face of a lover.
And then I didn’t exactly know who to tell, or what exactly I would say: “Hey guys. Come up here and check out this flower!”
That would have gone over big.
I do know that my hand shook as if I were overcome with awe. And a line came to mind: “A great many people will live out their days without ever seeing such sights, or if they do, never gasping.” (Thank you again, Barbara Kingsolver.)

Small wonders indeed… And I felt lucky. And I knew. This is why I had come to Colorado. A single iris arresting something rudimentary in me. All my previous priorities paled. For neither my resume nor my clerical collar mattered one whit to that flower. For most of my life, my spiritual had depended upon answers. Sitting on an embankment above the Colorado River, I had none. Only the glow of a flower, the warmth of the sun, and the invigoration of the river’s energy and strength. I had only mystery and awe. And peace. For once there was no compulsion to explain, or clarify, or analyze.
Which meant that I was lost in the moment—what Jean-Pierre de Caussade (18th Century) called the Sacrament of the Present Moment—seeing each “present moment” as diffused with the sacred. It reminded me of Susanna Wesley’s immortal prayer, “Help me, Lord, to remember that religion is not to be confined to the church, or closet, nor exercised only in prayer and meditation but that everywhere I am in Thy presence.”
So I sat for a spell in that presence, and at home.
Here’s the quandary: How do you tell someone that you were unraveled by an iris?
It’s not exactly fodder for small talk.
Like it or not, the card deck of life’s priorities is reshuffled in moments like that. Your resume takes a back seat, and you scramble up the embankment with a new posture, and a new frame of reference, knowing that your load is a little lighter even though you hold something new and sacred in your heart.

And while the Colorado River trip happened some years ago with friends (I tell the story in my book, Soul Gardening). I need it on my mental redial.
With so much of today’s news being fueled by fear and uncertainty, I wonder some days if my own passion and heart is being leached from me. My mind races. When that happens, my spirit is anxious and heavy. And I detach. It is a dark place in me that I do not like. Or maybe I don’t like that I’m susceptible. Either way, it numbs the part of my life and my spirit that is essential.
Today I needed a reminder of the renewing, and replenishing, and healing gift of small wonders.

Our question this week is, “Today, where did you see, find, savor wonder?”
“Where did you embrace passion and the delight of wholeheartedness?”​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 23 —

I fell in love with English gardens when I went to University in London. And my inspiration to be a garden creator, was born during my visits to the Cotswolds.
I’ll be visiting gardens there on Thursday, and my mind goes back to some of the early discoveries that did my heart good.

For children of all ages, C.S. Lewis’s wardrobe has been the entryway to the magical world of Narnia—of emerald witches, talking horses, kings, and magic apples. But for L.R. Holmes of Camp Cottage, Gloucestershire, the threshold to enchantment is nothing more notable than a grey gate. An ordinary grey gate, in need of repair.
Many years back, my companion and I were “on holiday,” six miles west of Gloucester in western England, scouring the countryside for private gardens open for tours—each listed in a slim yellow volume we discovered in a timeworn Oxford bookshop. Our day had been carefully planned, an ambitious schedule covering three districts and four gardens. The absence of a speed limit on any motorway accommodated our manic pace. It was mid-afternoon by the time we pulled our car into the Camp Cottage drive. The sight of a lifeless grey gate, flanked by an equally worn, lighter grey, paint chipped garage was disheartening. If not for a small lemon-colored paper sign—on which was stenciled “GARden Tour SaTURday” stapled to a tomato stake, we would have chalked it up to a bum map, called it a learning experience, and retired to the nearest pub for solace. Which is never a bad idea.
Instead, slumped behind the wheel on the wrong side of our Vauxhall, I heaved great sighs, and simmered in disappointment.
But… beyond the gate.

Caught off guard, my senses reel, unable to fully ingest a Bacchanalian feast. I am greeted by the rambling rose “Goldfinch,” a prolific and wanton panoply, a twenty-foot tunnel of small salmon-colored blooms, oozing an intoxicating, honeyed sweetness. The pergola on which it spreads, forming an awning over the pathway, is shaped from stout wood staves (each a full six-inch diameter, and made by L.R. and his step-brother “for only 250 pounds sterling,” he later reported proudly, with an infectious lack of self-consciousness) and covered prodigally by an intertwining of tawny honeysuckle, milky clematis, and the musky cologne of the antique climbing rose Madame Alfred Carriere’—indispensable if for her name only.

Here’s the deal: We are all in favor of beauty, for moments of wonder and the gifts of delight.
But for some reason, we think we need to tidy up first.
May Sarton wrote that we need to a way to sanctify the ordinary.
Yes, grey gates and all that. Which sounds wise, that is, if the ordinary weren’t… well, so ordinary. We know from experience that ordinary doesn’t sell. And no matter how we doctor it up, the fact remains that life is so… so… daily.
For two hours my companion and I immersed ourselves into the mosaic of color and the jumble of scents that was L.R.’s garden. Well, there was simple no alternative. Extreme conditions call for extreme measures.
So. I sat down for some time and savored the day. On a bench near the garden edge, sharing the seat with a drowsy and placid cat, I let the sunshine work its antidote. It’s not easy, to just sit. I wanted to be productive in my sitting. I wanted to describe what I was seeing, what I was feeling. I wanted to find the right words, or take a picture, wanting to find container for this moment. Before long, the internal manic cadence begins to lose its steam. And your eyes being to refocus. Off come the shoes, and you settle in, to revel in the gift. If I give up, you know, needing that formula.

This week, we embrace the invitation to sanctify–and embrace delight in–the ordinary.
The hiding place for the holy.
May Sarton put it best (and now my daily mantra). “I spend the first 20 minutes of my morning walking the garden looking for miracles.”
I am struck by the rootedness that comes with investment.
And gratefully, it is the place where delight bubbles up, a “praising of the mysterious and tender touching we are so often in the midst of.” (Thank you Ross Gay, The Book of Delights.)
Joseph Campbell’s observation, “People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive—of the rapture of being alive.”
Yes, and Amen, the sacrament of the present moment…

My friends, “Today, where did you see, find, savor wonder?”
“Where did you embrace passion and the delight of wholeheartedness?”

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 24 —

Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium is the strangest, most fantastic, most wonderful toy store in the world. The store is run by Mr. Edward Magorium (who claims that he is two-hundred-forty-three years old), assisted by an insecure Molly Mahoney, and a very young Eric Applebaum, a lonely hat collector (who has only Molly and Mr. Magorium for friends).
Mr. Magorium hires Henry Weston, an accountant, to adjust the accounts of the Emporium.
Henry is a very serious and humorless man. Henry is working behind a window, intent on his work, when Eric approaches the window with a request, written on a piece of paper, held up to the window for Henry to see.
“Do you want to play checkers?” It reads.
“I did when I was a kid.” Henry writes his response.
(Eric) “Want to play?”
(Henry) “When I quite working.”
(Eric) “How about after work?”
(Henry) “I never quit working.”
This is not just a story about work.
This isn’t about jobs either. This is a story about how our fixation—or busyness or distractions or even the cultural noise—can consume us. And we see our value tied only to this burden of “busyness” (or mental preoccupation).
(Oh yes. Remember those times, as a youngster, when we were told, “Dad—or mom—is coming back, quick, look busy.”)

This is a story about where we tether our identity. And ultimately, about how we perceive what is important.
And if we are trapped (like Henry), we lose our sense of play.
We lose our sense of wonder.
“The Missing Ingredient of Modern Life. Why we need wonder.” (Ian Bogost)
And consumed and inattentive, we also lose our sense sanctuary—the invitation for rest and restoration.
Sanctuary is where we go to cherish our life. It’s where we practice being present. And it’s never that many steps from where we are, “to be here, now”.
We can also say that this is a story about the invitation to wake up.
As Ronald Rolheiser reminds us, “God in Jesus became what God loves—everything human.” Yes. Which mean the child within. You see, if I feel seen, safe and loved, I don’t need to obsess about life as a contest or test or beauty pageant.
In Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, Eric invites Henry to an awakening.

In December 1944, 37-year-old Father Alfred Delp, S.J., was imprisoned in Tegel Prison in Berlin, having been arrested months earlier on suspicion of being part of the Resistance movement against the Nazis. While in prison, he wrote a series of Advent and Christmas reflections during what would be the last Advent of his earthly life. In an astounding spirit of hope, he writes: “The kind of awakening that literally shocks a person’s whole being is part and parcel of the Advent idea. It is precisely in the shock of rousing… that a person finds the golden thread which binds earth to heaven and gives the benighted some inkling of the fullness it is capable of realizing and is called upon to realize.” (Thank you Fr. Gregory Schenden)

The planet needs people who wake up.
So. What if, waking up begins with wonder?
What if waking up begins with gladness, curiosity, gooseflesh, delight?
Without wonder we approach life as a self-help project. Eugene Peterson reminds us, “We (only) employ techniques; we analyze gifts and penalties; we set goals and assess progress. Spiritual formation is reduced to cosmetics.”

I believe that Eric had the right idea: Today I don’t need to overcome. Today I need to play. Latch on to moments of wonder and joy.
So. “Do you want to play checkers?”
What if I don’t feel like playing? What if my spirit is too heavy? Fair enough.
I know exactly what that feels like… So. Let’s think of it this way: Play is an openness to a part of me that has been closed or discounted.
Which means that play is not so much an activity, as a suspending of control.
Let this be our prayer:
Let us recapture that child in each of us;
that child still smitten with wonder.

Where is the play in your life?
Where is the rest?
Where is the wonder?
Where is the gladness?
Where is the gooseflesh?
And St. John of the Cross reminds us of the soil where this seed, this awakening to wonder (this inkling of the fullness) comes to life.
“When you regarded me
Your eyes imprinted your grace in me,
In this, you loved me again,
And thus my eyes merited
To also love what you see in me….
Let us go forth together to see ourselves in Your beauty.”
(Spiritual Canticle)

I am writing this on an airplane, crossing the North Atlantic. And I am grateful for the well-wishes, visiting a part of the world that is for me, both sanctuary and Sabbath.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 25 —

Embracing—and being embraced by—the gift of wonder, grounds us (and anchors us), in the “Sacrament of the Present Moment”. Thank you to Jean-Pierre de Caussade, for his wonderful reminder.
However, wonder (not to mention, being present) is not easy when parts of life—or elements of your day—go catawampus. I’m writing this from Burford, England, in the Cotwolds. I was scheduled to be here much earlier in the day. But many things, did not go as planned. Ahhh, how easy it is to rehash the lure of our mental script. You know, the one we carry that tells us what our day “should” look like.
And now I’m sipping my coffee (with sun on my face) and smiling, as I listen to Jimmy Buffett, serenading me.
“I bought a cheap watch from a crazy man
Floating down canal
It doesn’t use numbers or moving hands
It always just says now”
“Breathe In, Breathe Out”

Thank you, Jimmy. The permission to be here now.
And now, enjoying gifts, from Winnie the Pooh, and Mary Oliver.

“Say, Pooh, why aren’t you busy?” I said.
“Because it’s a nice day,” said Pooh.
“Yes, but—”
“Why ruin it?” he said.
“But you could be doing something important,” I said.
“I am,” said Pooh.
“Oh? Doing what?”
“Listening,” he said.
“Listening to what?”
“To the birds. And that squirrel over there.”
“What are they saying?” I asked.
“That it’s a nice day,” said Pooh.
“But you know that already,” I said.
“Yes, but it’s always good to hear that somebody else thinks so, too,” he replied…
(From “The Tao of Pooh”, Benjamin Hoff)

I lounge on the grass, that’s all. So
simple. Then I lie back until I am
inside the cloud that is just above me
but very high, and shaped like a fish.
Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place
of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-
wanting. When the blue jay cries out his
riddle, in his carping voice, I return.
But I go back, the threshold is always
near. Over and back, over and back. Then
I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I
have been asleep. But I have not been
asleep. I have been, as I say, inside
the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating
on the water. Then I go back to town,
to my own house, my own life, which has
now become brighter and simpler, some-
where I have never been before.
Of course I have always known you
are present in the clouds,
and the black oak I especially adore,
and the wings of birds…
Mary Oliver, “Six Recognitions of the Lord”

My friends, “Today, where did you see, find, savor wonder?”
“Where did you embrace passion and the delight of wholeheartedness?”​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Thank you, my friends, for being a part of Sabbath Moment. I am grateful for the community. If you know anyone who would enjoy, and benefit from Sabbath Moment, please invite your friend to join us. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Prayer (poem) for our week…
As the light of dawn awakens earth’s creatures
and stirs into song the birds of the morning
so may I be brought to life this day.
Rising to see the light
to hear the wind
to smell the fragrance of what grows from the ground
to taste its fruit
and touch its textures
so may my inner senses be awakened to you
so may my senses be awakened to you, O God.
Celtic Benediction 

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Terry, Sunset tonight in Iona, Florida. My cousin sent to me and said I could send to you for Sabbath Moment.” Mona Priest… Thank you Mona (and thank you to your cousin)… We are grateful… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

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Some days we wake up in a world that is not a friend of grace or mercy. At least, it doesn’t feel so. And the news puts a spotlight on what we do know to be true: we do live in very unnerving, unpredictable, and broken world.
In the conversations I have with people from different parts of the country (and world), I know that most have been tainted with a kind of bafflement. (Some more than others.) Wondering, “What’s next?” “Where do we do from here?”
And it hurts my heart when it feels like insecurity and pain win.
A few years ago, talking with my friend Phil Cushman in the grocery store, we shook our heads about our world’s fragile nature, as if to say, “Where do we find—and create—sanity and sanctuary? And where do find hope?”
“It helps when I distinguish between big world and small world,” he said to me.
With that, a light bulb came on. You see, with big world, news is in your face, and stoked with anger. And often, cruelty. No wonder we feel as if our control is demoted.
Going down any of these roads, take me too easily into darkness. Or, yes, some days, a stockpiling rage. And then, a little voice says, “Terry, you need a Sabbath Moment.” You need time in a safe and spiritual space. A space that nourishes hope, and fuels inspiration.

When life does indeed feel upside down, we ask, “How can I ever make a difference in a broken world?”
“What does it mean to create safe places?”
“How can we created places of sanity and sanctuary?”
Well that’s just it, so let us begin here: We—every one of us—do make a difference in the small world.
The small world is the place where we stand. Today.
It is the place where we care, and where we give a damn. And hug and give and try and love and fall down, and get up and repent, and cry and embrace, and challenge and reconcile and heal. Where we stand up—knowing we will not “close our eyes” to injustice—because we choose to make a difference with mercy and kindness.

So. I put my pen down. (Yes, I do indeed write Sabbath Moment with a nib pen.)
And head outside, to wander a wee bit. The sun still high in the sky, and the warmth is reviving and energizing on my skin. And the garden gifts instantly catch my eye. And I smile real big. Anemone blooms—as if faces of laughter, and exuberance. A hummer is at the saliva, here for his afternoon happy hour—and still flapping his wings 50 to 80 times per second. And in the grass nearby, a wood frog lingers, so I chatted with him a wee bit. On one of the roses, new buds, promising Autumn offerings. This I do know, the garden and nature gifts remind you that any “time piece” is of no need, or importance.
Yesterday, my Atlantic magazine arrived. The first article, “The Missing Ingredient of Modern Life. Why we need wonder,” by Ian Bogost.
“I’ve come to believe that wonder, the most immense of our sensations, is the antidote. Wonder can rise up anywhere,” he writes.
Oh my. Yes. And Amen.
And now, it’s paradigm shift time. The question is not, “Where did you feel unsettled or undone today?”
Rather, “Today, where did you see, find, savor wonder?”
“Where did you embrace passion and the delight of wholeheartedness?”
The good news: wonder is not detoured by life’s unkindness.
The Celtic church had a word for these moments of transformation. They called them thin places. “A thin place is anywhere our hearts are opened,” writes Marcus Borg. “They are places where the boundary between the two levels becomes very soft, porous, permeable. Thin places where the veil momentarily lifts, and we behold (the ‘ahaah of The Divine’) all around us and in us.”

Yesterday, Nancy and I were grateful for the visit of Charles and Hillary Reyburn. (Charles is a deacon in the Diocese of Fresno, where I’ve presented.) They rode a WA State ferry from Seattle to see us. It was their very first time on a ferry. (An incredible vista if you’ve never been.) And Charles couldn’t help replaying the story I’ve often shared, “Looook!”
Speaking of wonder, it is a story worth re-telling.
A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from Vashon Island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Rainier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light (14,400 feet above sea level). (And it is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Rainier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where’d that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
“Looook,” she announces loudly, “we can see the mountain. Everybody looook!”
She has the demeanor of a person “not all there.” You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who “embarrass” us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She’s not normal, we tell one another in code.
“Looook,” she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, “the mountain.”
I’ve seen the mountain a thousand times, but I figure, “What the heck.” So, I put down my book, and look. The rising sun has just crested the Cascade Mountain ridgeline. It looks as if it is sitting in a saddle between two peaks. The shaft of light from the sun glistens on the snow face of the Cascades, the color of a good English beer. It hits the Puget Sound, and dances across the water, now a golden pathway from the ferry to the sky. Mount Rainier, backlit and venerable in this morning light, appears etched, as if a great artist rendered it in charcoal or pen and ink. The water of the Puget Sound is gun-metal-grey, and calm.
To the south is Tacoma harbor, where a crescent moon hangs in what I can only describe as a melancholy blue sky.
I do not pick up my book again. I look. A morning vista as sacrament—a dose of grace; a brew, fortifying and settling.
“Looook,” the woman is talking again. “The mountain. Everyone looook, the mountain.”
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the “crazy woman” is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. For whatever reason, she sees the day with delight, and without the extra layers of defense. (Or if you’ll permit an impenitent play on words, she seizes the day, carpe diem.)

This week I’ll be writing Sabbath Moment from England, where Nancy and I will be spending a month in the Cotswolds, our time for Sabbath replenishment. We will be visiting our favorite gardens, and cathedrals, both enlivening delight. 

Quote for our week… “Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.” e. e. Cummings

BULLETIN BOARD

​​​​Today’s Photo Credit: Welcome to the Pacific Northwest, and the Puget Sound. This photo taken in Port Townsend, a WA State ferry guided and led by the Rainbow… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com 

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​POEMS AND PRAYERS

Dear God,
This week is a doozey.
If anxiety produced a sound, it would be deafening right now.
Open my ears to the sounds I need most: the wild geese overhead, Aretha Franklin’s Amazing Grace (1972); the sound of my friend on the other end of the phone; the sugar-high laughter of children who need us to dial down the doom.
If fear could be seen, it would be obscuring everything else.
Open my eyes to the sights that I need most: my puppy underfoot with a toy in her mouth, ready to play; the brightening of my neighbor’s eyes under their mask when I pass them in the stairwell; that sidewalk covered in an oak tree’s fallen leaves like nature’s confetti.
If sorrow could be tasted, the bitterness would overcome me.
Open my mouth to the sweetness I need: words of kindness; deep, unhurried kisses; and absolutely as much Ben and Jerry’s as I deem necessary.
Help me remember that you are in the other side of Tuesday, no matter what.
Amen.
Nadia Bolz-Weber

Music for the Soul…
New–
Sanctuary – Carrie Newcomer
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