Terry Hershey

The music of hope

TerryHershey — Sun, 13 Sep 2026 22:54:26 +0000

Lorraine Hunt Lieberson began her career as an accomplished viola player. While on tour in Europe (in the late 1980s), her viola was stolen. She could have replaced it. As would be imagined, the theft threw her into a state of feeling lost, and uncertain. And Lorraine stopped playing.
After a while, Lorraine began to work with the only instrument she had, her voice.
When asked, Lorraine stresses that her decision to go into singing happened quite naturally. “There were a lot of encouragements along the way, but no individual, earth-shaking event that made me change,” she says. “But, back in 1988, when my viola was stolen, I took that as a sort of omen.” And although she has not yet replaced her stolen viola, she avows “the viola is always with me in spirit when I sing.”
Interestingly, Lorraine is shy about being interviewed; she has no press agent. But when she sings, she is known for an ever-widening swath of ardor, and awe, that she leaves in her wake. And a life-giving intensity. Bottom line: her voice—her singing, yes, her “music”—touches hearts and lives.
The irony is that the gift—the artistry—she has given us all began, when life turned left.
Because this is not a story about a viola, or about what has been lost. This is a story about the music that remains, and perseveres, and spills even after “loss”—whether that be trauma or distress or harm. And we—every single one of us—are the instruments.
This week, I needed Lorraine’s story as a reminder (and perhaps, reassurance). And to underscore a necessary paradigm shift for us all.
No, I don’t play viola. But I know what it’s like to have the “unknown” take a toll. And many know, like Lorraine, what it means to feel lost or adrift. Or, “at the mercy of”.

This is a question we refer too frequently, in Sabbath Moment: in our disarrayed world, where do we tether our identity, for well-being, for self-respect (self-care), for dignity, and for recovery?
Because this I know at my core: if we cannot find that place, it is easy to stop playing “music”. It is easy to stop caring. It is easy to stop risking, or giving.
So, let’s start with the paradigm shift. And the good news.
Here’s the deal: Life is not only about what has been lost. Life is about the music that resides, and endures. It is the music that gives, and empowers, hope. Which means that we have a choice, to say how the story ends. Because when I believe that I am at the mercy of the story—or the script, or “incidents”—I demand to make sense of it all. Or rail against it. Or play a victim.
As if I’m helpless. “I’m sorry, I’d love to ‘play music’—I’d love to care, or make a choice, or make a difference, or take a risk—but I lost ‘my viola.’”

When I’m weary in my spirit, I confess that I click my ruby heels, hoping to be transported to a gentler and saner OZ. And in the past, I’ve talked about wrestling with depression, which only exacerbates this notion that we need to make sense of everything before we care, assuming that the job is to find answers or solutions. When life is uncertain it is easy to live inconvenienced. (Making matters worse because we assume that uncertainty is a bad thing. Meaning that we don’t trust our internal resources.)
You see, this is where we go off the rails. When we focus only on what we’ve lost (scarcity), we are unable to access what we have (sufficiency). And when I see only scarcity, I miss the fact that every single one of us has been gifted with the “music” of creativity, abundance, heart, love, passion, gentleness, helpfulness, caring, kindness, tenderness, restoration, and a shoulder to lean on. This is the paradigm of internal sufficiency.

When you meet someone new, the preferred starting question is, “What do you do?” Which is—ironically—not really about walking your dog or tending your garden, but about your “job”, or your “career”. As if that’s our tether.
So. Let’s pause here. It is worth noting that in the context of our work (or job), to live wholehearted, authentic and from the inside out, is about the difference between a career, and a vocation. A vocation is a calling; a service, or ministry, or passion that spills from what is already inside, regardless of mood, or pleasant circumstances, or the need to avoid struggle.
The place from which the music spills. And people who play the music that is inside, honor the artist.
That’s not easy to do in this world. Ask any class of kindergarten students, “How many of you are artists?”
How many raise their hands? Every single one of them.
Ask fourth graders. Maybe half.
Seventh graders. A handful.
Seniors in high school. Maybe one.
It’s quite the educational system we have created. We begin with artists, and we slowly wean it out of them.

So, what’s the secret?
Remember that in every encounter with people, Jesus helped change the paradigm. “You are more than the sum of your circumstances. He saw the music—the artist—inside.”
I do know this: it is easy to lose sight of the artist that resides inside every one of us. Whether lost or buried or stuck or forgotten or dismissed or ignored… or “stolen.”
When we tag or label or describe ourselves, “artist” is seldom used.
Where I was raised, artist was a phase you went through (a dream), you know, to grow out of, to move on to something more useful and sensible—in order to get a “real job”.
What is this artist? It is the place in our spirit that births… creativity and enchantment, imagination and play and wonder, and attention and risk and investment, with a whole heart.
I quote David Orr frequently. But it’s worth it. “The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind.”

My friends, thank you for the gift of being you. Thank you for the small and gentle ways you spill that gift—yes, the music—with the people and in world around you.
More than ever, we need sanity and restoration. Be gentle with yourself this week, and let your music—and your compassion—spill.

Quote for our week… “I keep asking myself, what is mine to do, now. Every day, every moment: what’s the most creative, loving, courageous, and authentic way that I can show up now?” Miki Kashtan

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Dearest Terry, Your topic of being seen without labels was poignant. I took my grandson to a garden to see Tree frogs. My grandson is on the spectrum (a label) and he didn’t really want to go. I told him we would only stay a little while which he liked. Then when we arrived time was no longer important just visiting these tiny creatures was important. In their own way the Tree frogs and my Grandson ‘saw’ one another. It was beautiful! I love the way God weaves your stories into such a beautiful tapestry! Blessings always,” Marguerite Gerontis… Thank you Marguerite… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com

POEMS AND PRAYERS

The first rule is simply this:
Live this life and do whatever is done, in a spirit of thanksgiving.
Abandon attempts to achieve security, they are futile,
Give up the search for wealth, it is demeaning,
Quit the search for salvation it is selfish,
And come to comfortable rest in the certainty
That those who participate in this life
With an attitude of thanksgiving will receive its full promise.
John McQuiston,
“Always we begin again: The Benedictine Way of living”

Whatever happens to me in life,
I must believe that somewhere,
In the mess or madness of it all
There is a sacred potential-
A possibility for wondrous redemption
In the embracing of all that is.
Edwina Gateley
“A Mystical Heart”

Music for the Soul…
New–
Nelson — Larry Murante

Daily Dose (September 8 – 11)

TerryHershey — Tue, 08 Sep 2026 01:55:01 +0000

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 8 —

This week, we are embracing and being embraced by, the gift of Mercy and Grace.
We told the story from Luke’s Gospel, about a “bent woman.” We don’t know her name. Just the label that has been given to her. A label she has carried for 18 years. A woman “imprisoned” by her name. And Luke writes simply, “When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, ‘Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.’”
In other words…
I can see you.
You matter to me.
I love you for who you are.

Last Saturday, we celebrated the Feast Day of St. Teresa of Calcutta. And it did my heart good to read the words Pope Francis spoke during his homily, at the canonization Mass for Mother Teresa, on September 4, 2016.
“Mother Teresa, in all aspects of her life, was a generous dispenser of divine mercy, making herself available for everyone through her welcome and defense of human life, those unborn and those abandoned and discarded. She was committed to defending life, ceaselessly proclaiming that ‘the unborn are the weakest, the smallest, the most vulnerable’. She bowed down before those who were spent, left to die on the side of the road, seeing in them their God-given dignity; she made her voice heard before the powers of this world, so that they might recognize their guilt for the crime – the crimes! – of poverty they created. For Mother Teresa, mercy was the ‘salt’ which gave flavor to her work, it was the ‘light’ which shone in the darkness of the many who no longer had tears to shed for their poverty and suffering… Mother Teresa loved to say, ‘Perhaps I don’t speak their language, but I can smile’. Let us carry her smile in our hearts and give it to those whom we meet along our journey, especially those who suffer. In this way, we will open up opportunities of joy and hope for our many brothers and sisters who are discouraged and who stand in need of understanding and tenderness.”
(Thank you Pope Francis)

I do hope you found moments to savor, moments of rest on Labor Day. Moments to “be gentle with yourself”.
I set my “list” aside (well, I had misplaced it, but didn’t give myself grief for not trying to find it). And I was grateful for rest and replenishment—moments of Grace indeed. And yes, I did spend a wee bit of time in the garden.

WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 9 —

In the Autumn of 2024, I walked the Camino de Santiago (Porto to Santiago). It changed my world, and my life.
I am so grateful for the gifts and lessons—of Mercy and Grace—from the Camino. (And yes, that includes the freedom at the Camino’s end, to set down my hefty backpack for a wee spell.)
But I do still, heartily, carry memories, visuals, and aha moments with me, throughout each day.
And the best gift, the most healing gift of the pilgrimage for me was (is) the permission to be at home, in this skin. Not the together Terry, or the Terry who has arrived. To be at home with the Terry who can be seeking and discovering. Yes, accepting and embracing, this Terry.
Accepting, even at my core, this broken Terry.
Because it is in that embrace that I hear—and absorb—the liberating expansion of grace.

In a book I am reading, I smiled at this sentence, “she was reclaiming herself, alive in her own skin.” Yes, that’s it. Unabashed in a skin (a self) that feels, values, honors, esteems, loves, fears, desires, hopes for, believes in, and commits to. With nothing to earn or prove, because life isn’t a race or a contest or a beauty pageant.
And please know this: it is from this self—the broken or wounded self—that compassion and kindness and tenderness and empathy and healing and reconciliation can flow to the world around us.
We spill light from those places in our life.

I am often reminded of moments on the Camino, but the memories all congregated today, as I was listening to music from Over the Rhine. And their song, “All my favorite people are broken”.
Music is life-giving to me. Meaning an invitation to let tears flow, and to be embraced in the arms of Grace.
Enjoy a bit of the lyrics from the Over the Rhine’s “All my favorite people are broken.”
“All my favorite people are broken
Believe me, my heart should know
Some prayers are better left unspoken
I just want to hold you and let the rest go
All my friends are part saint and part sinner
We lean on each other, try to rise above
We are not afraid to admit we are all still beginners
We are all late bloomers when it comes to love”

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 10 — We went to the outskirts of Bourke (Mother Teresa writes), where all the Aborigines were living in those little, small shacks made of tin, and old cardboard. I entered one of those little rooms and told the man living there, “Please allow me to make your bed, wash your clothes, to clean your room.”
He kept saying, “I’m alright, I’m alright.”
“But you will be more alright if you allow me to do it.”
Then he allowed me, and at the end, he pulled from his pocket a little old photograph of his father. I said, “You are so like your father.”
He was overjoyed. I blessed the photo, gave it to him, and it went back into the pocket near his heart.
After I cleaned the room I found in the corner a big lamp, full of dirt. I said, “Don’t you light this lamp, such a beautiful lamp?”
He replied, “For whom? Months and months nobody has ever come to me. For whom will I light it?”
So I said, “Won’t you light it, if the Sisters come to you?”
And he said, “Yes.”
So the Sisters started going to visit him for only about 5 to 10 minutes a day. They started lighting that lamp. After some time, the man got into the habit of lighting the lamp himself. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the Sisters stopped going to his shack (although they used to go every morning). I forgot completely about my first visit, and then after two years he sent word, “Tell Mother, my friend, the light she lit in my life is still burning.”
We are fortunate people. We do not live in shacks made of tin and old cardboard. But each one of us knows what it is like to let the light go out, or to leave the lamp unlit, or to bury the lamp (for any number of reasons, whether it be fear or shame or being just plain stuck) in the corner, under the debris of disillusionment and disconnection.

This I can tell you with all my heart. In the world in which we live, I am so very grateful for the voices of Mercy and Grace. Voices from men and woman alive and well, spilling light among us. And voices from those who have gone on, as we continue to benefit from the light they spill.
And this is why Mother Teresa’s story reignites something inside of me.
Even in (and especially in our vulnerability) we are reminded that very, very simple gestures, can make a profound difference.
Simple gestures; to light a lamp, to give hope, to listen, to embrace, to empower, to hug. One Irish way of saying hug is, “duine a theannadh le do chroi”, to squeeze somebody with your heart.

I don’t tell this story as a motivational tool. As if there is an obligation to “be kind.” I tell it as an affirmation and a reminder (mostly to myself) that within each of us there is a light. And that this light—of hope, dignity, delight, passion, justice, beauty, grace—still shines, regardless of the dirt that covers it. Yes, there are times we forget (and throw our hands into the air). However, there are also times when a simple act of kindness, or gift of compassion, rekindles the light in our own spirit. This gift we give to another, becomes a gift we gratefully receive. In the story, both—the giver and the receiver—are liberated.
Mother Teresa wasn’t in that shack just to be kind. She was there to shine. In reading her book (“Come Be My Light”), you realize that she did so at a time when her own life was racked with doubt and frustration and moments of deep despair. Yes, even from darkness, the light still shines.
More than ever, we need one another.

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 11 —

Today is 9-11. Images are seared into our memories. And remembering the questions: “Where were you? What did you feel? Who did you call?”
Although I remember very vividly, I didn’t know exactly how to answer what I felt. Because there are times when we just don’t have the words.
“Answers, especially those sought in the wake of immeasurable grief are a funny thing. They can be inconclusive and unsatisfactory. Or they can be epiphanic, coming from the most unexpected of places or people,” Gabriella Ferrigine writes about her mother Michaela’s story, who had been scheduled to attend a meeting in one of the twin towers. That meeting was postponed. She lived, but many of her friends who worked in the tower died.
Here’s what I do know: telling stories is a non-negotiable part of healing, and reconciliation.

My good friend The Rev. Dan Matthews (former Rector at Trinity Church Wall Street and St. Paul’s Chapel) told me the story about Mike and Jim, the parish property managers.
Opened in 1766, Manhattan’s oldest public building in continuous use, St. Paul’s Chapel not only survived the blast and fallout (astonishing in that it sits across the street from Ground Zero), it eventually become the rest station, where volunteers took shifts as cooks, masseurs, podiatrists, and counselors for first responders. Cots were provided for exhausted rescuers. Many slept on the wooden pews (still marked and scarred from boots and equipment to this day).
On the Friday after the attack, the nation was asked to observe a moment of silence. Mike and Jim asked Rev. Matthews if they could ring the bells at St. Paul’s just before the noon hour, as a call to remembrance. Although a noble gesture, it wouldn’t be possible given the debris in the vicinity, the fact that part of the chapel had been quarantined and the reality that the bells were disabled. Undeterred, they decided to go ahead with their plan, making their way to the top of the bell tower. On the way, amidst the debris they found an old steel pipe. When they reached the top, Mike told Rev. Matthews that he used that piece of steel “to beat the hell out of that bell.”
Looking out at the scene below, they could see that every worker at ground zero had removed their hard hat, and turned to face the bells. Mike said, “It hit me, that even when things get their worst, I know that there is still hope.”
William Sloane Coffin’s affirmation, “It is hope that helps us keep the faith, despite the evidence, knowing that only in doing so has the evidence any chance of changing.”
I like Michael Gungor’s frame, “Faith comes from listening to the right stories.”
And yes, sometimes, hope is not easy. Because the real world can be a harsh and uncaring place. Cynicism is no surprise. Recently, I heard this, “Anyone who pretends to care, or needs caring for, is only fooling themselves.”
And yet. In a world where so much can go wrong, we are tempted to forget (or do not see) the moments where so much can go right. Despite the debris, moments when we can find the courage to make our way to the bell tower, where Leonard Cohen reminds us to “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering.”
What do we do when the unimaginable happens? When in our vulnerability, we feel completely “at the mercy of.” When those who should know, have no words. I still remember recordings of panicked 911 calls from the towers, “Can you please tell me what’s going on!” “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t know.”
We want to move on… even though we believe, sometimes, that our wounds will never heal.
But here’s our question: Can our vulnerability shape the very building blocks that make healing possible?
Yes… there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. It is the great irony, and heartfelt beauty: Our strength and resilience does not come from a show of force or bravado, but in the freedom to be tough enough to be soft.
We are prophets—of steadfastness, justice, compassion, and mercy—when we do not hide our woundedness.
When we find the wherewithal to stand in the middle of it all, even without words. And let the healing begin there, knowing that we are on this journey together.
In St. Paul’s, one reporter overheard a firefighter say, “When I come in that door, I’m covered with blood sometimes, and they hug me. They love me, they take care of me, they treat me as a real human being. And then they feed me, and they massage me, and they give me adjustments. These are my people. This is my place. This is where I come to be with God.”

And. If we don’t know what God has called us to do, we know for certain that we are called to…
“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in”

And “Shanah Tovah”—a blessed Rosh Hashanah 2026 to my Jewish Brothers and Sisters, starting just before sundown this evening (which ushers in the Jewish year 5787). It goes straight to the core, when you hear the shofar (ram’s horn).

Prayer (poem) for our week…
God,
To live content with small means,
to seek elegance rather than luxury,
and refinement rather than fashion,
to be worthy, not respectable,
and wealthy, not rich,
to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly,
to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart,
to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely,
await occasions, hurry never,
in a word to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious,
grow up through the common, this is to be my symphony.
Amen.
William Ellery Channing (1780-1842)

Photo… “Woodland Park Zoo (Seattle, WA). Butterfly garden.” Geri Hanley… Thank you Geri… 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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You are home

TerryHershey — Sun, 06 Sep 2026 23:27:38 +0000

“Home is where you hear love within the stillness.” Thank you, Raquel Franco.
In Luke’s Gospel, there is a life-giving story about a “bent woman.” We don’t know her name. Just the label that has been given to her. A label she has carried for 18 years. A woman “imprisoned” by her name.
Have you ever felt “bent,” bound or restricted in some way by a label given to you?
Have you ever felt weighted by such a label (or doubt, or shame, or even despair?)
Have you ever felt invisible? To those around you? Or to God?
This is an amazing story. Luke writes simply, “When Jesus saw her, he called her forward and said to her, ‘Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.’”
In other words…
I can see you.
You matter to me.
I love you for who you are.

This story could have gone another way. Jesus could have finished his lesson, and moved on to the next town, and no one—literally, no one—would have known, or even given any thought to this woman. She was invisible.
But Jesus didn’t move on. He stopped.
Not because this woman asked him to.
Not because she offered a reward.
Not because she believed.
Not because he felt coerced, or pressured, or needed brownie points.
He stopped. Because he saw her.
Which meant that he saw more than a superficial, cruel, limiting label. He saw not just a “bent woman,” but a “daughter of Abraham, and an heir to the blessings of God.”
Which meant that he saw a woman now free to pass those blessings on to anyone she touches. It is no surprise that he said this on a Sabbath. He invited this woman, even bent, to rest. He said, in effect, “Now that I see you, you are safe. You are home.”

My friend, I hope you hear the voice of Grace today. You are home.
You see, here’s the deal: When I miss the sufficiency and abundance in Grace, I see only scarcity, missing the fact that every single one of us has been gifted with creativity, heart, love, passion, gentleness, helpfulness, caring, kindness, tenderness, restoration and a shoulder to lean on (for crying or for dancing, depending on the mood at the time).
Grace calls something—invites something beautiful—from each one of us, and grace never leaves until the invitation is heard and embraced. It may shake up our life, there’s no doubt about that.
We’re not used to being unconditionally loved. (Okay, my confession; it was not at all easy to believe, that I was unconditionally loved.)
I do not know where you see Grace in your life. I do know we don’t cut ourselves enough slack, and I do know that when Grace appears, it’s best if we don’t analyze it, but just… pause, and let it seep into the core of our being. The reality of true Grace is that it does not waiver or diminish. It does not depend upon our response, performance, attitude, faith or checkered past. It just is.
Why? Because Grace heals not by taking shame away, but by removing the one thing our shame makes us fear the most: rejection.
What does it mean to live from wholehearted vulnerability, embraced by Grace?
Let us choose to eliminate the question, “What did you accomplish today?” It makes my head spin, as I’m never sure if I get the answer right. Instead, I hope that somewhere we hear the voice, “Look at my eyes. You are seen. Free from your label, you are valued. You are loved.”

Let’s just say that not everyone in the crowd that day was thrilled with what Jesus did. I’ve learned the hard way, that as long as there are overly-religious people (you know, people whose blind unquestioning devotion to rigid and dogmatic rules eclipse kindness and compassion every time; you know, people who clear their throats a lot, just to let you know you’re on the wrong side of the issue); there will be disgruntlement, even in the presence of mercy and grace. These are people who prefer to use labels. It’s easier to know where others fit. And easier to keep those who are different, in their place.
I don’t think Jesus was itching for a fight, but he gave them his two cents. Saying, “Dudes… you are definitely missing the boat here. I don’t really care how religious you are. This isn’t a contest. And the sad thing is, you suffer a form of blindness, because you are hypocrites.” Hypocrite—from the Greek hupokrites—relates to the practice when ancient theatrical performers hid behind the masks of a particular character. Sometimes the mask keeps us from seeing. And sometimes it keeps us from trusting.
So. What did the bent woman do? She recognized that she was more than the label. And she began to do a boogie, right there in the street. (Okay, that may be a minor free translation, but I’m sticking with it.)
What I do know, is that she ceased striving to be someone she was not.
To be blunt: she was at home.
“Finding a place where you can feel at home is something I think we’re all searching for… I believe we are all seeking a resting place of sorts—a place of meaning, a place of acceptance, and a place of relief where we are known and where performance isn’t required.
When you welcome someone home, you are saying to another human being: I’m so glad to see you. You belong here. You can rest here. You can be yourself here, exactly as you are.” (Thank you, Maria Shriver.)
Now, back to labels for a minute. They are a resigned choice. And when they define reality, we live stuck. Boxed in. And sorrowfully, with labels we ignore the people and systems, that hurt people.
In a recent conversation with someone I’ve known for some time, about a family we have known well for some time. “They’re just illegals.”
I stopped. And my heart skipped a beat.
No. They are human beings. Parents. Neighbors. Friends.
And they are suffused with dignity, and the Imago Dei.
What does it mean to practice Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s legacy of Ubuntu? A person is a person through other persons. My humanity is bound up in yours. Ubuntu does not ask whether we are connected. It tells us that we already are. And allows us the invitation and freedom to give, or receive, or apologize, or forgive, or love, or set right, or grant mercy, or receive mercy.
And to know that my choice is empowered by the gentle sovereignty in that voice, “I see you. You matter.”

Savor the moments on your Labor Day. And hats off to all who give, and work, and toil, and care. And please take a moment to say “thank you” to those in your life and world who give you the gift of Grace.

Quote for our week… “Humanity is not lost; it is buried beneath fear, greed, and noise. But every time you choose compassion over indifference, empathy over apathy, you bring us one step closer to remembering who we are. The world does not need more wealth or weapons—it needs people willing to be brave enough to care.” Cleo Wade

I write Sabbath Moment to create a space where we feel community—as we are walking one another home—and a place where, for a wee bit, we can put down the load we may be carrying. To be embraced by the gift of sanctuary. Welcome home indeed. I’m glad you are here. Please invite a friend to join us with Sabbath Moment.
And join us for Sabbath Moment Daily Dose (Tuesday through Friday). Go to the Sign up, and choose Daily under The dropdown menu.

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Terry, Steve and I just came back from Star Island which is off the coast of NH. So beautiful everywhere you turn. (This is sunrise from East Rock). It is my Spirit’s Home and although the conference required a lot of extroverting there was plenty of quiet time too. A true sanctuary. I did a lay led chapel service on Wednesday evening and mentioned the Sabbath Moment blog and yourself, as I quoted from one. The topic was ‘Be the light!’–lots of great material! Loved the Wendell Berry poem in today’s ‘daily.’ Take Good Care Terry, Blessings Always, Beth Hayward… Thank you Beth… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com

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POEMS AND PRAYERS

“Holy Ground, barefoot”
This people had no temple,
no worship-place.
This people built temples
for others,
for gods they dreaded,
rising in terrible power
over them, having
no regard for
their misery.

They prayed under
the weight of their burdens.
They cried out in
the unprayer of pain,
and God, having no need
of temples, heard,
as God always hears.
And God, leaning to the
brokenhearted, saw,
as God always sees.

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

Music for the Soul…
New–
Amazing Grace — Dolly Parton

Daily Dose (September 1 – 4)

TerryHershey — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 23:04:10 +0000

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 1 —

“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 often happen 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 the 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.”
(The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams)

It is easy to say. And easy to read.
And it is most certainly true.
But saying and doing are two different things.
I do know this: Some days I do “mind” being hurt.
And I want to run away.
Or I want someone to fix it.
Or I want to tell whoever or whatever to “go away.”
And on those days, I need the reminder and the invitation and affirmation that self-love is a radical act of healing, resilience and well-being.
There is no doubt, uncertainty and “broken things” are very real. But here’s the deal: I don’t want to shut down. An essential reminder that care of any kind—engagement, service, kindness, generosity, ministry, teaching, compassion, gentleness, encouragement, healing—is predicated on, and fueled by, self-care.

And so I’m grateful for those in my life who have said, “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.”
“Take my hand” is a way of saying, “I see you. You are Real. And you matter.”
Presence does not distinguish.
Or judge.
Presence just is.
Meaning that presence makes space. For healing, and restoration, and grounding, and recovery.
Because in the touch, we can be present.
In the touch, we create heart space.
In the touch, we’re in the mending business.

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 2 —

Today, Wendell Berry died at his home in Port Royal, Kentucky at the age of 92. Wendell was one of my favorite writers.
He was a writer, yes; and a farmer, environmentalist, scholar and poet. I connected with him, and his profound love of gardening, and his commitment to care for the planet we call home.
It is the gift of awareness and connection to “this place”—this sacred place, the sacred ground on which we stand, and the invitation to care, encourage, nurture, and “rest in its grace”.
The poems of Wendell Berry invite us to stop, to think, to see the world around us, and to savor what is good.
Rest in Peace, Wendell.

And one of my favorite poems—which I’ve quoted in a Sabbath Moment in the past—is “The Peace of Wild Things”.
“When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
Wendell Berry – The Peace of Wild Things.
“The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry”

Connection to “this place” links us back to our theme this week, because of the reminder that we are on this journey together.
And so I’m grateful for those in my life who have said, “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.”
“Take my hand” is a way of saying, “I see you. You are Real. And you matter.”
Presence does not distinguish. Or judge. Presence just is.
Meaning that presence makes space. For healing, and restoration, and grounding, and recovery.
Because in the touch, we can be present.
In the touch, we create heart space.
In the touch, we’re in the mending business.

Earlier today, my mind wandered while fretting about news headlines, and the music of Sara Bareilles with John Legend, offered the invitation, “Take my hand,” with her song, A Safe Place to Land.
“The ocean is wild and over your head
And the boat beneath you is sinking
Don’t need room for your bags
Hope is all that you have
So say the Lord’s prayer twice, hold your babies tight
Surely someone will reach out a hand
And show you a safe place to land
Be the hand of a hopeful stranger
Little scared but you’re strong enough
Be the light in the dark of this danger
‘Til the sun comes up”
Sara Bareilles, A Safe Place to Land

THURSDAY SEPTEMBER 3 —

Have you ever heard of Buddy Ball?
Beth Campbell started the program in 1994, in Bellevue, Washington. Because of his disabilities, Beth’s son Stevie, age 7, was unable to play in the regular t-ball program. So, Beth started a baseball league that mixes children with disabilities and able-bodied children.
Every player has a buddy.
Each team has 18 players.
If you can’t hit, a buddy hits for you.
If you can’t throw, a buddy throws for you.
If you can’t run, a buddy runs for you.
If you can’t catch, a buddy catches for you.
A child with cerebral palsy (confined to a wheelchair but allowed to hit for themselves) is pushed around the bases by a buddy.
You’ve got to go to a Buddy Ball game. Just to see the unmitigated joy on the face of a child, who may never be able to catch a fly ball, but who knows that he or she is playing baseball; know that he or she, is in the game.
Oh, by the way. I need to let you know one of the “rules.” In Buddy Ball it is against the rules to “strike out”. Once you get six strikes–you get six tries–you get to go to first base. (Yes, you are rewarded for trying. Some of you are thinking, “Well, I could have played with those rules!”)

But here’s the deal: Six strikes and you go to first base is about grace, and such grace unnerves people. At a conference for professionals, I told the Buddy Ball story. After my lecture, a therapist literally was “in my face,” letting me know where I went amiss, “Six strikes and you still get to go to first. How dare you teach that kind of freedom to children!” his face puffed and red.
“Sir,” I said, “with all due respect, you could use more roughage in your diet.”
I’m quoting now (from memory) from an article in the Seattle Times, “When Beth’s son gets to first base he doesn’t stop there. But he doesn’t go to second either. He runs out into the crowd and hugs everybody.”
The reporter continued, “It is what sports can be, children running and jumping and playing because nobody is keeping score, because nobody cares.”

It’s a perfect story for our theme this week: “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.”
“Take my hand” is a way of saying, “I see you. You are Real. And you matter.”
Presence does not distinguish. Or judge. Presence just is.
Meaning that presence makes space. For healing, and restoration, and grounding, recovery, and yes, celebration.
Because in the touch, we can be present.
In the touch, we create heart space.
In the touch, we are in the life-giving business.
In the touch, we are in the Grace business.

I hope each of us can hear that affirmation of Grace today.
“The baby was staring intently at other people, and as soon as he recognized a human face, no matter whose it was, he would respond with absolute delight. I realized that this is how God looks at us, staring into our face in order to be delighted, I suspect that only God, and well-loved infants, can see this way. Even when we try to run away from our troubles, as Jacob did, God will find us, and bless us, even when we feel most alone, unsure if we’ll survive the night. God will find a way to let us know that [God] is with us in this place, wherever we are, however far we think we’ve run.” Thank you, Kathleen Norris

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4 —

During a rock-climbing lesson, Dan Clark stops on the vertical incline, as if paralyzed.
He writes, “I could see an outcrop for my right foot, but no place where I could place my hands or left foot.”
Yes, he felt stuck. Hopeless perhaps.
The instructor, not far from Dan on the face of the incline, tells him, “Take the step.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Once you lift yourself up you may find something you can’t see from where you stand.”
“Well what happens if I don’t find anything?” Dan is incredulous.
“If you don’t find anything,” the instructor says calmly, “fall back on the harness, and try it again.”
Fall back… as in… let go, and let the harness catch, and hold you.
Let the harness give the permission, and freedom, to take a step.

That at any given moment, we have the power to say: This is not how the story is going to end.
Maybe, just maybe, we need to embrace that gift today.
Just like Dan Clark on the mountain, when you don’t give up, when you know you have a future (even if that future is only the next step), you become less reactive, less anxious, less blaming, more imaginative, and more responsible.
“Take the step.”
We all know the feeling. Whether we call it stuck, or hopeless.
We know we feel disconnected, whether triggered by the weight of disheartenment with life, or circumstances unfriendly, or grief all-encompassing.
It is real.
And it is easy to focus only there, on the hopeless part. Forgetting that because we are on this journey—this climb—together, we can lend a “helping hand”, and we can encourage one another to take the next step.
But what if it looks unnerving or overwhelming?
What’s our theme this week? “Take my hand, and we will find our way together.”
“I’ve got you.”
“Surely someone will reach out a hand
And show you a safe place to land
Be the hand of a hopeful stranger
Little scared but you’re strong enough
Be the light in the dark of this danger
‘Til the sun comes up”
Sara Bareilles, “Safe Place to Land”

A fire rages in a two-story house. A young boy’s head is visible leaning out a second-floor window. His voice is piercing and plaintive, “Daddy, help me! Daddy, where are you?”
Smoke (from first-floor-flames) billows from shattered ground floor windows, now obscuring visibility. From the window, the boy cannot see the ground below, and he is literally shaking with fright. The boy hears a familiar voice, as if coming from inside the great cloud of smoke. His father, shouts, implores, “Son, I am right here. I can hear you. I am right here on the ground beneath your window. I need to you to listen to me. Listen to my voice. I need you to jump. Now. Jump and I will catch you.”
“But Daddy, I can’t jump because I can’t see you.”
“That’s okay son. I will catch you, because I can still see you.”
Here’s the deal: the power of Grace allows us to give in to the moment.
Whatever it holds. To choose to receive, or walk, or “take a step”, or jump.
To choose to apologize, or forgive, or love, or set right, or grant mercy, or receive mercy.

“You are the God who sees me.” Hagar’s response to God, after her cry of desperation. (The Book of Genesis)

Prayer (poem) for our week…
Great Spirit God,
we give you thanks for another day on this earth.
We give you thanks for this day
to enjoy the compassionate goodness of you, our Creator.
We acknowledge with one mind
our respect and gratefulness to all the sacred cycle of life.
Bind us together in the circle of compassion
to embrace all living creatures and one another.
Ojibwe Evening Prayer

Photo… “Terry, Yesterday while distributing food, etc. to the homeless in Reno, they used to be in large encampments, but now it is illegal to be homeless, so they are scattered. I had just met four who were sleeping behind pillars for the freeway overpass. As I was walking back to the car, I saw this rock alongside the sidewalk. There were no other rocks in the area. Was it homeless art or a message? Blessings, Keep the light shinning.” Dave Jennings and Monica Armanino (Lake Tahoe)… Thank you Monica and Dave… 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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Take my hand

TerryHershey — Sun, 30 Aug 2026 22:56:46 +0000

There’s an old story of a child walking in a forest, surrounded by sun-dappled oak trees. He climbs through the brambles and plays in the fallen leaves, mesmerized by spiderwebs, and mossy rocks, until the moment he realizes he’s completely lost. He tries to find his way out, but each path seems to lead him deeper into the forest. As the sun begins to sink, he grows increasingly afraid, wondering if he’ll ever make it home. But just then, he sees another child approaching in the distance.
He excitedly cries out to her, “I’m so relieved to see you. I’m lost. Can you point me to the way out of here?”
“I wish I could,” she says. “I’m lost too. But take my hand—we’ll find our way through this forest together.”
(Attributed to the early nineteenth-century Rabbi Hayyim Halberstam of Zans)

We all know the feeling. Whether we call it lost, or untethered. We know we feel disconnected, whether triggered by the weight of disheartenment with life, or circumstances unfriendly, or grief all-encompassing.
It is real.
And it is easy to focus only there, on the lost part. Forgetting that we are on this journey together.
It is why every Sabbath Moment embraces Ram Dass’ reminder, “We’re all just walking each other home.”
And I’m grateful for those in my life who have said, “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.”

I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health.
I said, “There’s nothing that I can do for you that you can’t do for yourself.”
He said, “Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that that would help.”
So, I sat with him a while then I asked him how he felt.
He said, “I think I’m cured.”
(Thank you Conor Oberst)

So. Let us begin here. It is paradigm shift time. (We all carry with us paradigm eyeglasses, that shape the way we view, and frame life, and the world around us. Paradigm shift is the invitation to change those glasses.)
To change…
From seeing the world as competition, to embracing a world where community and camaraderie are real.
From seeing only scarcity, to embracing the gift of sufficiency.
From seeing only the requirement of a fix, to embracing the healing power of presence.

Of course, we wonder if we have what it takes. As if hand holding, and presence, is a gift given only to the special anointed few.
But what if…
It reminds me of Irvin Yalom’s story about a friend’s final days in her horrible fight with cancer, and the news that her surgeon informed her, “he had nothing more to offer.”
“What is wrong with doctors?” she said. “Why don’t they understand the importance of sheer presence? Why can’t they realize that the very moment they have nothing else to offer is the moment they are most needed?”
Presence does not distinguish.
Or judge.
Presence just is.
Meaning that presence makes space. For healing, and restoration, and grounding, and recovery.
And I do know this: presence is surely not easy in a world where we have to be “on.”
Or in a world that worships at the altar of the superlative.
Or in a world where ego wins.
Or in a world where we label and judge—based on race, or status in our culture and world.
Presence changes the way we define wealth. Now, we honor relationship, above gold and silver.
So. It’s about where we choose to invest. And give of ourselves.

Sometimes we need stories more than food… and this is one of my favorite go-to stories.
A little boy was having nightmares. The kind that require a momma’s reassurance. (Dads, from my own experience, are typically not wired for nightmare duty.) So, to his momma’s room the boy went, “Momma, momma, I’m having nightmares.”
“It’s okay honey,” she told him, “here’s what I want you to do. Go back to your room, kneel down by your bed, pray to Jesus and he’ll fix it.”
Back to his room, the boy knelt by his bed, prayed to Jesus, hopped back in bed, and… more nightmares. All mommas know this story. Back and forth to momma’s room, throughout the night.
On the sixth visit, “Momma, I know, I know, I’m going to go back to my room. I’m going to kneel down by my bed and pray to Jesus and he’ll fix it. But before I do that, can I just lay in bed with you and have you hold me?”
“Sure honey, why?”
“Because sometimes I need Jesus with skin on it.”
To that I say, Amen.
Spiritual rewiring—presence—enables us to see one another, with skin on it. As we train our hearts to see that we are all bound up in on another.
Rabbi Sharon Brous’ reminder, “That very human longing for connection—in our most intimate relationships, in community, with strangers, perhaps with God—is what I call the amen effect. It is a spiritual strategy, a sacred call to the faithful and the cynical, the believe and the atheist, perhaps especially to those alienated by religious certainties, but still yearning to find meaning in moments both sacred and mundane.”

Here’s the deal: The little boy knew the secret. Life is to be found in the embrace. In the presence of the other. In the touch, we can be present. In the touch, we honor the dignity in every human being. As our southern kin might say, “That’ll preach.” Yes… that’ll preach regardless of your faith or creed. That’ll preach even if you are not a member of any particular faith group. That’ll preach even if you don’t believe.
Because in the touch, we can be present.
In the touch, we create heart space.
In the touch, we’re in the mending business.
I write Sabbath Moment, because some weeks I need a hug. Not answers. A hug. And I know I am reluctant to ask. And I see so many people in our world who are famished in their spirit, undone by life’s calamities. They need to be seen and held.
And my friends, I am so grateful for every one of you. And so grateful for the hands you hold, and the hugs you give. It makes a difference.

We’re on September’s doorstep. The leaves are starting to turn here, on some of our deciduous trees. A reminder that it is about to be football season. And a shoutout to any of you who are cheering a team on. And from a Michigan boy, a shoutout to my friends near Ohio State, a football game heritage that began in 1897.
And we’re in the process of confirming a schedule for speaking events in 2027. If I can be of any help or benefit to your parish, church, school, company, or organization, please reach out to tdh@terryhershey.com.

Quote for our week…
“One reason we don’t have peace is that we have forgotten that we belong to one another.” Mother Teresa

Please invite a friend to join us with Sabbath Moment.
And join us for Sabbath Moment Daily Dose (Tuesday through Friday). Go to the Sign up, and choose Daily under The dropdown menu.

I am so very grateful that you are a part of Sabbath Moment. And grateful for the support that makes it possible. Please, pass Sabbath Moment on to friends. And invite them to join us. My email address tdh@terryhershey.com

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: Blackberry cobbler season still going strong here in western Washington. Or just a hand-full off the vine. This is on my morning walk just after a good rain shower, with some berries still ready to ripen next week… And thank you to all, I love your photos

POEMS AND PRAYER

Dear God,
We give thanks for places of simplicity and peace;
let us find such a place within ourselves.
We give thanks for places of refuge and beauty;
let us find such a place within ourselves.
We give thanks for places of nature’s truth and freedom,
of joy, inspiration and renewal,
places where all creatures may find acceptance and belonging.
Let us search for these places;
in the world, in ourselves and in others.
Let us restore them.
Let us strengthen and protect them and let us create them.
May we mend this outer world according
to the truth of our inner life
and may our souls be shaped and nourished
by nature’s eternal wisdom.
Amen.
Michael Leunig

Music for the Soul…
New–
Walking Each Other Home — Tonja Rose.

Daily Dose (August 25 – 28)

TerryHershey — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 23:25:25 +0000

TUESDAY AUGUST 25 —

I can tell you that it is easy to write—and preach—a homily on kindness.
Practicing kindness, well, that is another thing altogether.
This I know with deep gratitude: One of the gifts we can give one another is sharing stories about ordinary people, offering, sharing, and spilling the rainbow of kindness—and tenderness, and mercy, and grace. Stories that plant a seed in our hearts.
One of my favorite stories, is a song version written by Kris Kristofferson, “Here Comes that Rainbow Again”. Pull up a chair and join me…

The scene was a small roadside café
The waitress was sweeping the floor
Two truck drivers drinking their coffee
And two Okie kids by the door
“How much are them candies?” They asked her
“How much have you got?” She replied
“We’ve only a penny between us”
“Them’s two for a penny,” She lied.
And the daylight grew heavy with thunder
With the smell of rain on the wind
Ain’t it just like a human
Here comes that rainbow again

One truck driver called to the waitress
After the kids went outside
“Them candies ain’t two for a penny”
“So what’s it to you,” she replied
In silence they finished their coffee
And got up and nodded goodbye
She called, “Hey, you left too much money”
“So what’s it to you,” they replied
And the daylight grew heavy with thunder
With the smell of rain on the wind
Ain’t it just like a human
Here comes that rainbow again

Why “get in”? Because we’re in this together, and I have something to give. And trust me, it makes a difference. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Hide it under a bushel, No.”

And thank you, Kris Kristofferson, who wrote this story-song—which was inspired by the lunch counter scene in Chapter 15 of John Steinbeck’s Dust Bowl novel “Grapes of Wrath”.

And this week, please take a moment to say “thank you” to those in your life and world, who have made choices to spill the rainbow of kindness—in little gestures and smalls ways.

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 26 —

I love movies with stories that speak to the heart.
Have you seen “Just Mercy”? It is the story of young lawyer Bryan Stevenson and his history-making battle for justice.
After graduating from Harvard, Bryan had his pick of lucrative jobs. Instead, he heads to Alabama to defend those wrongly condemned or who were not afforded proper representation, with the support of local advocate Eva Ansley.
One of his first, and most incendiary, cases is that of Walter McMillian, who, in 1987, was sentenced to die for the notorious murder of an 18-year-old girl, despite a preponderance of evidence proving his innocence and the fact that the only testimony against him came from a criminal with a motive to lie.
In the years that follow, Bryan becomes embroiled in a labyrinth of legal and political maneuverings and overt and unabashed racism, as he fights for Walter, and others like him, with the odds-and the system-stacked against them.
There’s a great scene where Bryan says to his worried Mother, “You taught me to fight for the people that need help the most.”

And to John Powell, I am grateful for this: “There’s a South African word called Sawubona, which means, ‘I see you’. The word is also sometimes interpreted as the God in me, sees the God in you. Bridging is seeing the other person. So it doesn’t mean you agree with the person. Doesn’t mean you change your mind, or they change your mind. But you see their humanity, you see their value, and you’re resolutely willing to open up and just listen, empathetic listening, compassionate listening…
One approach is to try to persuade the person to come to your side. Another is to avoid the person. Bridging is neither of those. Bridging is saying, I want to connect with the other person. Bridging is saying, I’m curious. Bridging involves connecting at the heart level, as well as the head level. So it’s really being present with someone.”
Yes. It is better to light a candle.
It is better to build a bridge.

Or as our story on Monday invited us, “Get in”.
Because some stories are too heavy to carry alone.
Let us embrace the gift of Sawubona.

“Here’s to the bridge-builders, the hand-holders, the light-bringers, those extraordinary souls wrapped in ordinary lives who quietly weave threads of humanity into an inhumane world. They are the unsung heroes in a world at war with itself. They are the whisperers of hope that peace is possible. Look for them in this present darkness. Light your candle with their flame. And then go. Build bridges. Hold hands. Bring light to a dark and desperate world. Be the hero you are looking for. Peace is possible. It begins with us.” L.R. Knost

THURSDAY AUGUST 27 —

Our world lost a very bright light yesterday. Rest in Peace, Dolly Parton.
In a world where differences make walls and enemies, she had a unique ability to bring Americans together for good causes.
In a world where having “more” is a measure of power, her lifelong philanthropy was fueled by her reputation for kindness and generosity.
Generosity, heart, and light. An audacious, unexpected life.

Today, I chose my topic for the Los Angeles Religious Education Congress (April, 2027). Workshop title: “Build bridges. Hold hands. Spill light.”
We know what it is like to feel lost. Or untethered. And it is easy to focus only on the lost part. Forgetting that we are on this journey together. I am so grateful for those in my life who have said, “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.” It’s the little gifts my friends. To hug the hurt. Kiss the broken. Bandage the wounded. Befriend the lost. Stand up for the humiliated. Little gifts of compassion leave people better than we find them.
And I’ll give a shoutout to Dolly. Our world needs people who spill light.

Two stories come to mind.
“Why did you do all this for me?” Wilbur asked.
“I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”
“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”
EB White, “Charlotte’s Web”

The other story, is the parable for the lost sheep. “This shepherd had one hundred sheep. And one of them was lost. And the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go out and find the lost one. He brings him home.”
Too many know what it means to be disconnected, discounted, diminished, demeaned. Lost.
In the story, the shepherd doesn’t blame the lost one. Or give advice. Or admonish. Because to the shepherd, that sheep is not just a number, but a face, a name, and a story.
The shepherd knew that some stories are too heavy to carry alone. That every one of us at some time in our life will need the loving arms of justice, mercy, and unmerited grace.
And here’s the deal: some days we are the one lost. And some days, we are the hands and feet of the shepherd. Yes… Build bridges. Hold hands. Spill light.
Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?
People: I will, with God’s help. (The baptismal covenant in the Episcopal Church.)
Because some stories are too heavy to carry alone.

And my gratitude to John Pavlovitz, for these final words honoring Dolly.
“In the coming days, there will be countless, well-deserved tributes devoted to her seismic songwriting and singing career, her formidable business acumen, her indefatigable optimism, and her easy, infectious joy.
Dolly will be rightly eulogized for the effortless grace she moved through the world with, for the gentleness she extended to every person in her path, and for the humility she somehow managed to hold onto despite reaching near-sainthood status among fans, admirers, and peers alike.
Her life and career have and will provide an inexhaustible treasure trove of lessons for those of us who remain—and for those on the horizon of history who will not have had the great fortune to live here while she did.
She could have partnered with the legion of malevolent power-holders, motivated only by the insatiable allure of more. She could have exploited the influence she acquired to amass even greater fortune.
Instead, Dolly Parton spent her life giving her wealth away.”

FRIDAY AUGUST 28 —

The Sunday-school teacher asked her 10-year-old students if they would be willing to give one million dollars to missionary work, for children and families in need.
“Yes,” they all screamed in unison.
“Very good. Would you give one thousand dollars?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Would you give one dollar?”
The class responded, “Yes,” except for one young boy, who sat silent.
“Why didn’t you say yes?” the teacher asked.
“Because,” he stammered. “I have a dollar in my pocket.”
Napoleon reminded us, “Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to choose.” And because of that, the freedom “to choose” always works better in speeches, than it does in practice.

It’s been our theme this week. We can “believe”, or we can “Get in.”
But here’s the deal: I can relate to the little guy. I get it.
Because this story isn’t about money, but our freedom to choose.
And, once you’ve got “a dollar in your pocket,” there’s a parting of the ways in what we “believe”, and how we live.
Of course, I am still “free” to contribute, give, care for, risk, go out on a limb, let go, to live unshackled. But with my hand over the dollar in my pocket, I am stuck. And we all know the litany here (any of the reasons we find it difficult to remove our hand… any of the reasons that keep us stuck)—shame, need for perfection, fear of disappointment, “should,” need for certainty. Or, what if my dollar is not enough? After all, what will “they” think? (Did it ever occur to you that we’ve never actually met “them,” but they still control our lives? Go figure.)
For me, it boils down to this: For whatever reason, I am afraid to let who I am (and what I have) spill to the world around me.
In conversations these days, in a world feeling upside down, where there are indeed, hands to hold, I am asked, “But what choices do we have? What can I do?”
I can begin here: “I can care. And I can give the dollar I have.”
And the good news? If you take the dollar—our heart, our big-heartedness, our compassion, our impact—from your pocket, you open yourself to change.

Now in touch with my heart, I am available to… give, forgive, risk, fail, try, create, offer, feel, see, embrace wonder.
I am available to build-bridges, cry, laugh, play, grieve, mourn, fall-down, get-up-again, paint, write, and see poetry in the clouds.
I am available to lend a helping hand, hold a hand that needs it, and give in to the vulnerability of trusting another who pushes the wheelbarrow.

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…
Gardener God
Forgive us for the times we have kept our seeds in the packet
For the times we’ve been too scared to risk, too selfish to love, too embarrassed to try
Gardener God, have mercy on us
Forgive us for where we have let weeds grow in the soil of our lives
For the times we have forgotten to pray,
for the days when we don’t bother to listen,
for the moments when we neglect the stirring of your spirit
Gardener God, have mercy on us
Forgive us for when we have trampled on the seedlings of others
Through careless words or outright criticism,
through envy or feeling threatened,
through being insensitive or wrapped up in ourselves
Gardener God, have mercy on us
Forgive us for when we think it’s all down to us
When we forget that to grow we need the earth of our community,
The water of other people’s contribution,
The sunshine of your favour,
The nutrients that come through conversation and challenge
Gardener God, have mercy on us
Amen
(Thank you, Jonny Baker)

Photo… I love this photo. And it’s in the “stack” of photos that have been sent to me, where I have misplaced, or forgotten, the name of the person who sent it. Let’s call it the “welcome to my age” memory pile… This I do know… I am so very grateful for the photos you send. They make Sabbath Moment… 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

It begins with us

TerryHershey — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 01:52:18 +0000

In June 1859, Jean-François Gravelet (known as The Great Blondin) crossed Niagara Falls walking a tight rope. During his life, he repeated the feat several times, always with a different theatrical variation: blindfolded, in a sack, trundling a wheelbarrow, on stilts, carrying his manager, Harry Colcord, on his back.
Not surprisingly, Blondin’s crossings drew crowds. About to cross pushing a wheelbarrow with a sack of cement, he asked a reporter standing with crowd. “Do you believe I can do this?”
“Yes sir, after watching you, I believe you can do anything.”
“Do you believe that instead of a sack of cement, I could put a man in this wheelbarrow, and wheel him safely to the other side?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Blondin, I certainly believe it.”
“Good,” said Blondin, “Get in.”
I love the simplicity of the metaphor. Get in.
And I can imagine my response if I was the one asked. “Do you mind if I just watch?” “Is it okay if I just take photos?” Or, “Would you like me to write a homily about ‘getting in’?”

“Get in.”
This is very different than, “Do you believe?”
I grew up in a church that taught me to believe. And to recite my beliefs (to have a creed). And to challenge anyone who had incorrect beliefs. Or if not challenge, at least pity them. And then I grew up. And it turns out that holding such blameless beliefs turns out to be the easy route. And I can tell you that I have too often used my belief system as a shield, rather than an invitation.
Believers are easy to find.
Practicers, that’s a different story. Think of the parable of the Good Samaritan. Two men who were advocates of a devout creed, plainly passed the beggar—who needed help—by. And one man—the Samaritan—stopped to care for the beggar, a vivid reminder that practicing what you preach, is a metaphor for the invitation, “get in”.

Don’t get me wrong. Passing by is easy to do. Think of it as living in a “bubble”.
It keeps us from seeing, or knowing, or commitment. And bubbles are a good sedative. “I don’t need to know.” Or, “I’m not affected. It’s not my world.”
When I think of this invitation to “get in”, I think of Jesus readily and willingly being “in the midst”. Whenever there was need, he did not pass by, staying in his bubble.
And reading the New Testament, we often see Jesus “in the midst”.
I love that phrase. So, when you “get in,” get ready for the ride of your life.
When I get in, I am in touch with my heart. And I am available to… give, forgive, risk, fail, try, create, offer, feel, see, embrace wonder.
I am available to build-bridges, cry, laugh, play, grieve, mourn, fall-down, get-up-again, paint, write, and see poetry in the clouds.
I am available to lend a helping hand, hold a hand that needs it, and give in to the vulnerability of trusting another who pushes the wheelbarrow.

Why get in? Because we’re in this together, and I have something to give. And trust me, it makes a difference. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. Hide it under a bushel, No.”
If life is to be lived, and not merely managed, get in.
If life is to pour out from the heart, and not be solely analyzed from the head, get in.
If life is not just about answers, but about asking the right questions, get in.
It makes sense. You know Teddy Roosevelt’s, “in the arena, face marred with sweat and blood” and all that. But what does it mean, to get in? I know this for certain.
If my primary concern is security or well-being…
Or, if my primary concern is staying in the bubble to avoid anxiety and fear…
Or, if my primary concern is avoiding disappointing or aggravating someone, I will believe (and most likely recite my belief in a Creed), but seldom, get in the wheelbarrow.

As a young pastor, I would ask people to be involved with certain ministries—many having to do with real life trauma, supporting people and finding a place for healing and community and redemption. It’s messy work. And many, who found healing in these gatherings themselves, would answer, “I’d love to be involved, but I’m sorry I can’t. I’m not even remotely qualified.”
And my answer, “Good, then you’re perfect for the job.”
Get in.
And I think of the parable of the shepherd looking for the lost sheep. Skill sets are one thing. We can teach them. And procedures and protocols can be learned (and in too many cases in church, they can be happily unlearned).
But a whole heart, an honest awareness and admission of what it means to be a lost sheep, to know sorrow in your heart, and a willingness to set down the moniker of expert and to say, “Please let me carry you” is enough.
It’s easy to be unnerved by it all. For starters, the story of the “lost sheep” would make more sense if it had a wolf. Find an enemy and channel the energy of domination and the tactics of war. No wonder the tsunami of information distracts and overwhelms. And I react (taking sides before I try to listen and understand). The tsunami wins. It drowns my voice; which means I can’t hear the good news, the truth that I still have a role to play.
“To bring about change, you must not be afraid to take the first step. We will fail when we fail to try.” (Thank you Rosa Parks) We’re afraid to let “try” be our first step. And we’re afraid to let “fail” be our second step. And because of that, we never see the joy of finding lost sheep, and carrying them home.

Here’s the deal: when I am inundated with internal and external hubbub, I forget about the heart I can bring to this day. The touch I can give to people around me who are tussling with bleakness. The gift of welcome I can offer people who are left out and diminished. The calling I have (to be Tikkun Olam, repairer of the world) to bring pardon and hope and love.
Get in indeed.
My heart is wholly and unreservedly connected.
I realize that I can get in when I know that fear does not own me. In other words, when I know that I am loved, with nothing to prove and no one to impress.

I spent Saturday with my son Zach. I am so grateful for those days. And the little gifts. A sunny Seattle day, full of people, doing what they can, to savor and enjoy. Pike Place Market was brimming. Buskers serenaded us. One singing, “Hallelujah.” “Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord, That David played and it pleased the Lord.” I had to stop, and let it console my heart.
And then, a Seattle Mariner game. Which we won. Gratefully.

Quote for our week…
“Here’s to the bridge-builders, the hand-holders, the light-bringers, those extraordinary souls wrapped in ordinary lives who quietly weave threads of humanity into an inhumane world. They are the unsung heroes in a world at war with itself. They are the whisperers of hope that peace is possible. Look for them in this present darkness. Light your candle with their flame. And then go. Build bridges. Hold hands. Bring light to a dark and desperate world. Be the hero you are looking for. Peace is possible. It begins with us.” L.R. Knost

Please invite a friend to join us with Sabbath Moment.
And join us for Sabbath Moment Daily Dose (Tuesday through Friday). Go to the Sign up, and choose Daily under The dropdown menu.

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: As a Michigan boy, I loved apple season. And now I’m a resident of Washington State, the largest apple producer in the US. This tree is on my morning walk. I don’t know the variety, but yes, I did try one, and yes, I enjoyed that first crisp bite… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com

POEMS AND PRAYERS

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
Dawna Markova

Music for the Soul…
New–
Fix You — Coldplay. Sung by the One Voice Children’s Choir, and dedicated to every child who has lost their life too soon.

Daily Dose (August 18 – 21)

TerryHershey — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 23:08:05 +0000

TUESDAY AUGUST 18 —

Children—or, let us say, the child within us—remind us of what it means to be “tethered” to authenticity.
Did you see the movie “Shine”?
In the opening scenes, we first meet the middle-aged David Helfgott (played by acclaimed Australian stage actor Geoffrey Rush), babbling to himself incessantly and wandering in the rain, in a state of transition. Behind him is the isolated existence as a child piano prodigy whose emotional turmoil led to a nervous breakdown, and a series of stays in various mental institutions. Ahead of him is his eventual reconnection with the world around him, guided by both love and his virtuoso talent that has been long abandoned.
What we are witnessing, is the awakening of the artist.
In the movie (and in real life), David eventually moves toward that which gives life.
For me, the tragedy is that (in the name of love) David’s father (Peter) squeezes the artist out of the prodigy. But in truth, it doesn’t always require a pathological “love” to hide or extinguish the light.
In the movie rendition, there is a scene that stops my heart. David and his father are walking home after a competition. David has placed second.
(In his father’s eyes, anything other than first is a failure.)
The father is seething, and there is no hiding his disgust. David has lived his entire life absorbing his father’s pathology, doing his very best to make his Daddy happy. The father walks ahead, hurried, his spirit heavy. David follows.
On the sidewalk, in chalk, there is a hopscotch pattern. The camera follows from behind, and we see young David unconsciously, intuitively, childlike, hopping and skipping and jumping—the joy and the light (and the artistry) of his childhood still alive. And so wonderfully life-giving-infectious. I’m still smiling real big.

So, here’s the deal: The artist—the authentic voice, the authentic name, the authentic wardrobe—in David did not reside only in the talent, or prodigy, or genius, but in the spontaneity, vitality, innocence, passion, and delight.
In other words, he dressed in—yes, he honored—the “wardrobe”…
Yes. Let the child spill.

There is so much in our world that “untethers” us. There is so much, that makes us “un-remember” this revitalizing truth: that which tethers you, is the fuel that spills authenticity, wholeheartedness, and empathy, and compassion, into the world around you.
It makes the difference.
When my identity is hijacked by distraction, I cannot honor.
When I cannot honor, I lose sight of what is real and authentic. And the child within.

And yes, every one of us is afraid at times. Who knows all the reasons? But when it happens, we revert to a zero-sum view of the world. We believe that resources—including compassion, mercy, kindness, forgiveness, and generosity—are finite. We believe that life is short, and you get what you can. And if I don’t know you, you are my enemy… or at the very least, someone to be mistrusted.

This week, my friends, let us remember the wardrobe—Paul’s invitation in his letter to the Colossians, “So; chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”
Those bearings that unlock mercy and passion and grace… and who knows, maybe even the possibility for healing and peacemaking.

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 19 —

This week I am remembering another movie that did my heart good; “The Two Popes.”
We meet Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio (Jonathan Pryce) as he is preaching in a poverty-stricken area of Buenos Aires and then catch up with him in Vatican City in 2005 where 115 cardinals have gathered to elect a new Pope after the death of John Paul II. Anthony Hopkins plays Pope Benedict XVI.
The two churchmen could not be further apart in their theology and personal style.
Pope Benedict: “You talk about walls as if they are bad things. A house is built of walls. Strong walls.”
Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio: “Ah… Did Jesus build walls? His face is a face of mercy. The bigger the sinner, the warmer the welcome. Mercy is the dynamite that blows down walls.”
(There’s a good bit of social media kerfuffle about what is “accurate” and what is not. And the conversations between the two men are conjecture. Fair enough.)
But I know this: there is freeing power in the truth propelled by self-awareness and humility.
And I took heart in Jorge’s acknowledgement about decisions he made, that hurt people. Decisions that diminish better angels, decisions not good for the soul.
And this we know: We live in a world that could use a marinade of mercy. (Okay, confession time, I could use a marinade of mercy. And I know that the “wall” in my own life, is my pride.)

We preachers sure know what to do and say for other people. (And I’m guessing there’s a preacher in all of us.) This line from the movie floored me; “You must believe in the mercy you preach.”
Mercy (unmerited love) is the fuel (the fire) for transparency, as I no longer need to run from regret.
I own my neurosis and my failings. They do not own me. From that place, healing and reconciliation is possible. Mercy frees our heart to love and to live.
“What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness,” George Saunders confessed.
Never underestimate the power of kindness.
Beginning with kindness to yourself.

So. This week, my friends, let us remember the wardrobe—Paul’s invitation in his letter to the Colossians, “So; chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”

THURSDAY AUGUST 20 —

This week I am remembering movies that did my heart good. Movies—stories—that inspire and embolden me, to choose love and mercy, over hate and cynicism. You’ll want to watch, “Big Sonia.”

Sonia is unabashed, “If I reach one heart, I will accomplish something.”
In the movie, 91-year-old Sonia Warshawski is a Holocaust-surviving, public speaking, gefilte fish-cooking grandmother and great-grandmother, who runs the tailor shop (in Kansas City) she’s owned for more than 30 years.
The stories she tells about the Holocaust will chill you. But sporting her leopard print clothing, Big Sonia can be laugh-out-loud-funny.
This is a portrait of the power of love to triumph over bigotry, and the power of truth-telling to heal us all. And to inspire each of us to want what we already hold.
We see Sonia interact with family members, young students, and prisoners, and witness the spiritual impression that she makes.
“I want to reach their hearts and take out the hate,” Sonia says.
And to those of us listening, she adds, “Don’t close your eyes when something is not right.”
(Her tailor shop closed its doors in 2023. And Sonia celebrated her 100th birthday last year.)

The Chafetz Chaim (Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagin, leader in the Jewish world, 1838 – 1933) was asked about his impact and how he made a difference. He answered, “I set out to try to change the world, but I failed. So, I decided to scale back my efforts and only try to influence the Jewish community of Poland, but I failed there, too. So, I targeted the community in my hometown of Radin, but achieved no greater success. Then I gave all my effort to changing my own family, and failed at that as well. Finally, I decide to change myself, and that’s how I had such an impact on the Jewish world.”

Rabbi Ted Falcon, a good friend of Sabbath Moment, reminds us, “We seek to remember that blessing comes in meeting the authentic call of the moment with greater compassion. There are always inner voices that focus on what is wrong in ourselves, in others, and in our world. There are always opportunities to act unkindly. But each moment offers us the opportunity to step into our freedom with greater awareness. The Way of One is a Way of deep compassion, healing, and forgiveness. It’s a choice we are challenged to make again and again.”
That “authentic call of the moment” sounds like Big Sonia, doesn’t it? “If I reach one heart, I will accomplish something.”

These are life-giving stories during a week that we are remembering the “wardrobe”—Paul’s invitation in his letter to the Colossians, “So; chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”
Those bearings that unlock mercy and passion and grace… and who knows, maybe even the possibility for healing and peacemaking.
Or taking to heart the words of Big Sonia, “I will not hate.”

FRIDAY AUGUST 21 —

Let us continue to tell, and remember, and re-tell, stories that inspire and embolden, uplifting us to choose love and mercy, over hate and cynicism.
Even more so when the stories are merged with, and grounded in, music.
“Music,” the trailblazing composer Julia Perry wrote, “has a unifying effect on the peoples of the world, because they all understand and love it… And when they find themselves enjoying and loving the same music, they find themselves loving one another.”
We nod, but let’s pause here and realize that this is beyond a checkmark on an ideology test. Music is a part of our DNA, “woven into the very structure and sensorium of our bodies” (thank you, Maria Popova). As the great neurologist Oliver Sacks reminded us, “music can pierce the heart directly; it needs no mediation.”
I love this from Josephine “Jo” Phelps Fabian, “Through the invisible hands of music, the soul is touched and healed.”

On a June day in 1944, two weeks after D-Day, a few miles from the bloody shores of Omaha Beach, members of the 404th Fighter Group worked to carve an airstrip out of the Normandy countryside. Their efforts cost the lives of 28 Army engineers at the hands of the German snipers who persisted and fought after the D-Day battle. Most were located and captured or killed. One lone sniper still remained in the nighttime distance.
Back at the airstrip, Capt. Jack Tueller took out his trumpet. He’d used it on many a starlit night to entertain the men of the 404th. His commander told him, “Not tonight. I know your trumpet makes the most glorious sound, but with the sniper still out there, you will put us in harm’s way.”
In Tueller’s own words, “I thought to myself, that German sniper is as lonely and scared as I am. How can I stop him from firing? So, I played the German love song, ‘Lili Marleen,’ (made famous in the late ’30s by Marlene Dietrich, the famous German actress). And I wailed that trumpet over those apple orchards of Normandy. And he didn’t fire.”
The next morning, the military police approached Tueller to tell him they had a German prisoner on the beach who kept asking, “Who played that trumpet last night?”
Tueller describes the moment, “I grabbed my trumpet and went down to the beach. There was a 19-year-old German boy, scared and lonesome. He was dressed like a French peasant to cloak his role as a sniper. And, crying, he said, ‘I couldn’t fire because I thought of my fiancé. I thought of my mother and father. My role is finished.’”
“He stuck out his hand, and I shook the hand of the enemy,” Tueller said. “[But] he was no enemy, because music had soothed the savage beast.”

Yes, every one of us is afraid at times. Who knows all the reasons. But when it happens, we revert to a zero-sum view of the world. We believe that resources—including compassion, mercy, kindness, forgiveness and generosity—are finite. We believe that life is short, and you get what you can. And if I don’t know you, you are my enemy… or at the very least, someone to be mistrusted.
I love Tueller’s story because music unlocks mercy… and who knows, maybe even the possibility for healing.
And the walls of hostility came down.

So. In this churning and uncertain environment, where can we draw our identity, and our character, allowing us to unlock mercy?
This is from Paul’s Letter to the Colossians, “So; chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”

And a note for those of you who follow Sabbath Moment on Facebook. We are taking a sabbatical from social media, so please find every Sabbath Moment on our website terryhershey.com And please pass the word. Onward…

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…
Eternal Spirit, Earth-maker, Pain-bearer, Life-giver,
Source of all that is and that shall be,
Father and Mother of us all,
Loving God, in whom is heaven:
The hallowing of your name echo through the universe!
The way of your justice be followed by the peoples of the world!
Your heavenly will be done by all created beings!
Your commonwealth of peace and freedom
sustain our hope and come on earth.
With the bread we need for today, feed us.
In the hurts we absorb from one another, forgive us.
In times of temptation and test, strengthen us.
From trials too great to endure, spare us.
From the grip of all that is evil, free us.
For you reign in the glory of the power that is love,
now and forever.
Amen.
New Zealand Prayer Book

Photo… “Our Sago Palm in Tucson, AZ” Linda Stapleton… Thank you Linda… 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

Put on, wear Love

TerryHershey — Sun, 16 Aug 2026 22:54:58 +0000

A Nigerian woman, a physician at a teaching hospital in the United States, attended a Gordon MacDonald lecture. After, she approached Gordon, to offer kind words of affirmation. She introduced herself using an American name.
“If I may ask,” Gordon inquired, “what’s your African name?”
The woman pronounced her name, several syllables long, with a musical sound to it.
“And what does your name mean?” Gordon asked.
She answered, “It means ‘Child who takes the anger away.’”
When he inquired about its origin, she told him the story.
“My parents had been forbidden by their parents to marry. But they loved each other so much that they defied the family opinions and married anyway. For several years they were ostracized from both their families. Then my mother became pregnant with me. After my birth, and when the grandparents held me in their arms for the first time, the walls of hostility came down. I became the one who swept the anger away. And that’s the name my mother and father gave me.”

There are so many places (or triggers) in our world, where anger, resentment, bitterness, and distrust accumulate. And sadly, we ostracize even those close to us, without realizing what that does to our own identity.
And this I can tell you; I needed this story today.
There is so much in our world that “untethers” us. There is so much, that makes us “un-remember” this revitalizing truth: that which tethers you, is the fuel that spills authenticity, wholeheartedness, and empathy, and compassion, into the world around you.
Yes. It makes the difference.

Garrison Keillor once reflected on the church of his youth: “We had a surplus of scholars, and a deficit of peacemakers.”
I would argue, that is a ratio which needs to be reworked. Or maybe this story is more personal than that. Because the bottom line is that I would like to be known as a person who sweeps anger away. Being a reconciler sounds like a pretty good way to live.
Well, my friends, here’s the good news; every single one of us have been endowed and equipped, because every single one of us has been given the name, “peacemaker”.
Too good to be true? I can relate.
So, I settle for less. Because, “That can’t be me,” I tell myself.
As I said, I needed this story today.

Which begs the question; in this churning and uncertain environment, from where do we draw our identity, and our character?
This is from Paul’s Letter to the Colossians, “So; chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”
I like the paradigm shift. So, let us pause here.
We are not mandated to design, or create, or assemble, the wardrobe.
Only that we inhabit the wardrobe we’ve been given.
That we “live into” the name (wardrobe) we’ve been given.

What does it mean to live into, to embrace, to honor (which literally means, to “weigh heavy”), the name we’ve been given?
You see I was inculcated in a world that required willpower. To be whatever I should be, I needed to muster enough faith, or rectitude.
Which is fine, save for the fact that our identity or wellbeing is not dependent upon earning, or justifying. It’s about being true to who we are.
Which reminds me of one of my favorite images, from a magazine ad sponsored by the Humane Society, looking for homes for homeless pets. A photo of a puppy and kitten—looking up at you from the page—catches your eye and your heart. But it’s the affirmation on the top of the ad that sticks, “It’s who owns them that makes them important.”
Be true to who you are…
Yes… Child who takes the anger away.
Yes… Embrace this new life of love.
Yes… Dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you.

So. Here’s my question: What would happen if we lived as if these are true?
Can we hear that today?
I resonate with the Nigerian doctor’s story because I know about anger and its power. It can be like acid, corroding the heart and spirit. It’s not as if I even require an enemy. I lash out indiscriminately. It doesn’t mollify much, other than taking me away from my self.
Anger can find a home in the shape of sadness, or brokenness, or despair, or hopelessness, or loss of control. And we give in to anger because we are afraid, or we feel out of control. Because we live from fear, it’s no wonder we wish for control. We feel at the mercy of. So, our lives simply react to chaos.
Plato reminded us that, “What is honored will be cultivated.” I like the verb honor. It’s not about belief or cognitive assent.
How did the Nigerian Doctor honor the name her parents gave her?
She lived into it.
Yes, it begins here. It is about the choices we make.
And this I do know: When my identity is hijacked by distraction, I cannot honor.
When I am consumed by prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness, I cannot honor.
When I label or dismiss others, I cannot honor.
When anger consumes my energy and I overreact or wound, I cannot honor.
When I cannot honor, I lose sight of what is real, and authentic.

And yes, every one of us is afraid at times. Who knows all the reasons?
It’s just that when fear takes root, we revert to a zero-sum view of the world.
And fear makes us believe that resources—including compassion, mercy, kindness, forgiveness, and generosity—are finite.
We believe that life is short, and you get what you can. And if I don’t know you, you are my enemy… or at the very least, someone to be mistrusted.

This week, let us remember the wardrobe.
“Dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength and discipline. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.”
And the good news? You never know, how those garments (or bearings) will unlock mercy. And how, in small and gentle ways, they will allow us to spill gifts of peacemaking. And healing.

On Saturday, our regional library had their annual book sale. And let’s just say, “it was a full house”—spilling out onto tables on the sidewalks and walkways.
As a boy, I loved holding a book in my hands, devouring it. It anchored me. Took me to other lands, and eras, and in every case, invited me to look inside, to embrace the Terry I was bringing to the story, and the Terry I was recognizing in the story.
“Books can be windows into worlds previously unknown to the reader; they open like sliding glass doors to allow the reader inside. But books can also be mirrors. When books reflect back to us our own experiences, when scenes and sentences strike us as so true they are anchors mooring us to the text, it tells readers their lives and experiences are valued.” (Thank you, Rudine Sims Bishop)
And yes, we took home a couple of bags of books.
Enjoying reading one now, with a bowl of Blackberry Cobbler.

Quote for your week…
“I never believed that people come to my shows, to be told anything. But I do believe that they come to be reminded of things. To be reminded of who they are, at their most joyous, at their deepest, when life feels full. It’s a good place to get in touch with your heart and your spirit. To be amongst the crowd. And to be reminded of who we are and who we can be collectively. Music does those things pretty well sometimes, particularly these days, when some reminding of who we are and who we can be isn’t such a bad thing.” Bruce Springsteen

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: Bev Klopfenstein just spent time on the Island of Iona (Scotland), for a retreat. While you are there, it is exquisite every way you choose to look. And on one of the days, Bev captured this rainbow… Thank you Bev… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com

POEMS AND PRAYERS

When dread
When dread for the world grows heavy,
or despair throws its rough sack over your head,
ponder something beautiful.
Let terrible events fade to the backdrop,
a dark peripheral blur.
Look for life, even the lowest.
The impetuous tuft of grass in the sidewalk,
and how it keeps coming back, reaching for light,
spreading its arms with innocent joy.
The bug in the corner of your prison cell,
how, by grace, it finds food.
If it is possible here, it is also elsewhere.
Even under the boots of tragedy, goodness persists,
in a billion places across the earth.
Keep your eye on the star, not the darkness.
In the room, mourners beat the laundry of their grief.
Outside the window a pair of cardinals feed each other.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Music for the Soul…
New–
Let There Be Peace On Earth — Voices of Hope Children’s Choir

Daily Dose (August 11 – 14)

TerryHershey — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 22:42:27 +0000

TUESDAY AUGUST 11 —

“We live like ill-taught piano students. We are so afraid of the flub that will get us in dutch, we don’t hear the music, we only play the right notes.” Thank you, Robert Capon.
And in yesterday’s Sabbath Moment we met Ellen. Who made a tapestry for her church—from her heart. A tapestry rejected because the dimensions were “not quite correct,” according to the church committee.

And we took to heart Ellen’s poignant wisdom, “I’m going to be okay. Do you know why? Because I didn’t make the tapestry for them.”
Yes. “Tapestry making” is about living the moment—this present moment—wholehearted, and without any need for “approval”.
Ellen’s story is not about who “won” or “lost.” It is about being at home in your skin and living from your heart.

Which brings me to this life-giving story Dewitt Jones tells about visiting Marion Campbell, considered the finest weaver in all of Scotland. She lived in the Outer Hebrides. Jones visited to photograph Marion for The National Geographic. When she answered the door, she seemed surprised (no wonder considering that the Hebrides are a remote island chain, the whole string of 65 islands with fewer than 27,000 inhabitants. I expect she didn’t see a stranger very often.) Marion told Dewitt, “I’m sorry, but now I am taking care of my brother who is sick and near death.” Dewitt felt an understandable embarrassment.
“No wait,” she told him. “Give me an hour. I’ll join you then.”
After the hour, he found her at the loom. She talked about her creations, and stories about scraping lichen from rocks for dye. Dewitt took a few photos. Still nervous that he had interrupted Marion, he started to leave. “Oh no,” she told him. She escorted him into her dining room where she had put out biscuits and tea. Dewitt wondered if he was in the presence of a great sage, and waited for pearls of wisdom. “What do you think about when you weave?” he asked.
“I wonder if I’ll run out of thread,” she answered.
She must have seen the puzzlement on his face, and added, “When I weave, I weave.”
There it is.
When I read, I read.
When I celebrate, I celebrate.
When I pay attention, I pay attention.
Living the moment—this present moment—wholehearted.
Embracing the sacrament of the sacred present.

It seems that the nagging question, “But what if this—the life we chose, or the life we are living—is the wrong life?” Or, “What if I have the wrong dimensions for my tapestry?” are not that important after all.
Have I done bone-headed things with my life? To be sure.
Have I miscalculated and misused talent or opportunity? Assuredly.
Have I wrestled with depression and the weight of life gone awry? Yes, I have.
Does it benefit me to wish that I were elsewhere and otherwise? I don’t think so.
What I know for certain is that starting down that path of determining “right or wrong” life, assures the fact that we will avoid (and definitely miss) this life.

This week, let us hear the invitation—embrace the freedom to be awake and invested, in this life, in this moment… the very one we are living today.
As Dewitt Jones puts it, “To not only be the best in the world, but to be the best for the world.”
I love this. Not only is this the life to live…
In doing so, you bring your whole heart.
In doing so, you make a difference.
Thank you, to every one of you, for the difference you make. “This little light of mine…”

So… “Let us not darken the joy of resurrection,” Thomas Merton reminds us, “by remaining in captivity and darkness, but let us live as free men and women who have been called out of the darkness and into the light.”

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 12 —

“We live like ill-taught piano students. We are so afraid of the flub that will get us in dutch, we don’t hear the music, we only play the right notes.” Thank you, Robert Capon.
And if that’s our focus (playing the right notes), we are fixated and easily worried with the nagging question, “Are we there yet?”
(“Did we get enough points?” “Did we play enough right notes yet?”)

This is not so easily accomplished in a world that dotes on vicarious lives, where the mission of the article (including the ads—in the magazine I perused recently), was to make me feel in some way inadequate, or insufficient. (And whoever is responsible for this magazine, must be very good at what they do, because they accomplished their goal. Just sayin’)
Some years ago, on a visit to a friend’s house in Paso Robles, hanging on a wall with very remarkable art, I see a hand drawn crayon picture of a dragon (drawn “in the hand” of a young child). The dragon is pink and purple and lavender.
I really liked the dragon, and mentioned it to my host.
“My daughter did that drawing when she was very young,” the friend told me. “And her teacher was not pleased, and told her that she did it all wrong. Everyone knows that ‘dragons are not That Color!’”
“It hangs there today,” the mother tells me, “as a reminder to my daughter, to be one of a kind.”

One of a kind. Yes. Remember Mother Teresa’s reminder to a roomful of lepers, of how much God loved each one of them. She told them that they are “a gift to the rest of us.”
Interrupting her, an old leper raises his hand, and she calls on him. “Could you repeat that again?” he asks. “It did me good. So, would you mind; just saying it again.”
Yes please. Just say it again.
We easily forget, don’t we… the cathartic power of grace?

And on the days when public opinion pesters, I keep this Parker Palmer quote close by. “It is a strange gift, this birthright gift of self. Discovering vocation does not mean scrambling toward some prize just beyond my reach but accepting the treasure of true self I already possess. Vocation does not come from a voice ‘out there’ calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice ‘in here’ calling me to be the person I was born to be, fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God.”
And in my heart, I know that vocation is not just my job, or calling, but the mark I leave, and the place I take, in this world, by being “purple dragon” Terry.

It starts early, doesn’t it?
Don’t be different.
What will people think?
What makes you think you have an opinion?
Do you really feel that way?
That person is strange, isn’t he?
This I do know: Just like purple dragons, labels never help. They limit us and tempt us to compare ourselves to others with similar labels. Which exacerbates the temptation to play to public opinion. But here’s the deal: Playing to public opinion I too easily sacrifice; my emotions, my feelings, my passion, my gifts, my heart, and my humanity. Because there will always be some voice telling me that whoever I am today, is not enough.

True, living into this authentic—purple dragon—self is neither easy, nor managed by a checklist. But this much is certain: living into our authentic self begins with a whole heart.
I read this once, “she was reclaiming herself, alive in her own skin.” Yes, that’s it. At home in our own skin… Unabashed in a skin (a self) that feels, values, honors, esteems, loves, fears, desires, hopes for, believes in, and commits to. With nothing to earn or prove, because life isn’t a race or contest or beauty pageant.
At home in my skin, I have a self to give.
I can dance, and savor life.
I can choose to be an anchor and a listening ear.
I can be a hand to hold, and a hug to keep the heart alive.

“This is the categorical imperative of the Christian Faith: You shall lovingly accept the humanity entrusted to you. You shall accept yourself.” Johannes Metz

Speaking of purple, it’s the color on your fingertips while (and after) picking blackberries. Do you have them in your neck of the woods? Blackberry cobbler and pie is the perfect recipe for slowing down, and savoring the gift of today.

THURSDAY AUGUST 13 —

Did you see the movie “Benny and Joon”?
Johnny Deep plays Sam, a quirky and eccentric young man who spends time at the home of Benny and Joon (Benny the older brother who cares for his mentally challenged, and artistically brilliant, younger sister).
And this we know from the beginning of the movie; Sam is at home in his skin, at home with his “uniqueness”.
In one scene, in a local park, Sam begins to entertain Benny and Joon with a Buster Keatensque routine using his hat and cane. Soon, a crowd gathers, fully entertained and appreciative. Benny (skeptical of Sam up to this point) see’s Sam’s genius, and the unique treasure within.
“That was great,” he enthused. “Did you learn that in school?”
“No,” said Sam. “I was kicked out of school for that.”

“This is the categorical imperative of the Christian Faith: You shall lovingly accept the humanity entrusted to you. You shall accept yourself.” Johannes Metz

A great Rabbi died. He had been revered and loved by his congregation. After his death, it was decided that the Rabbi’s son, himself a Rabbi, would take his father’s place.
This pleased the congregation, for the son would be “just like his father”.
But after some time, there was surprise and grumbling. The son gave himself fully, heart and soul, to the synagogue, and began to make changes that displeased some of the people.
“You are not at all like your father,” they told him, obviously disappointed.
“Oh, but I am,” he replied. “For my father was one of a kind. He imitated no one. Neither do I.”
One of a kind.
You are able to give your self—your heart and your soul—when you lovingly accept the humanity entrusted to you.
What an invitation: the gift to be at home in my own skin.
Whole and undivided.
So, yes. And Amen.

Not easy to do in a world where our identity is adjudicated by measurements. You know, by what we “achieve”, or impressing the right audience (even when it’s an audience of one), even putting others down in order to “get ahead”.
I confess that this conversation, “Where do I tether my identity? How do I make a difference?” has been quite prescient and real for me of late.
In a recent conversation with someone I’d just met, who asked, “So, what do you do?”
“I travel and give talks about self-care,” I tell him, and then amend it, “But at my age—71—I’m slowing down, so I’m not sure who I am right now.” I tell him with a big smile, not sure if I was trying to be funny, or truthful.
So, I’ve talked about it with the geese, here in Port Ludlow, admiring the way they always seem at home in their skin (and feathers). I tell them I’ve always been triggered by the societal estimation that our identity is defined solely by what we do. Meaning, how we make money.
And they, gratefully, tell me that it’s paradigm shift time.
We need to change the questions.
Instead of, “What do you do, or what did you accomplish and achieve?”
Ask this, “Where, and in what ways, does your heart come alive?”
Taking to heart Frederick Buechner’s reminder, “Vocation is the place where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.”

FRIDAY AUGUST 14 —

“This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.”
In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tells the disciples, “You are the light of the world.”
And then adds, “Let your light shine.”
Let. As is, allow. As in, the light is already there.
Jesus never said, “Create the light.”
He never said, “Make the light.”
He never even said, “Be good at light shining.”
He simply told us to get out of the way, and let the light that is already there, spill.
So. Instead of light shining classes, let us give ourselves the gift of embracing the light that is alive and well inside… the light of compassion, kindness, empathy, inclusion, hope, and authenticity.
Granted, much of that light may be “under a bushel”, but it is still there, nonetheless. And this is the power: when we know that the light is here, now, we embrace (and are fueled by) the permission to be present. Yes.
Because when we don’t see (or miss seeing) because our light is “under a bushel”, we shut down or find ways to compensate. And we project strength through clout, or cynicism, or callousness.

“This is the categorical imperative of the Christian Faith: You shall lovingly accept the humanity entrusted to you. You shall accept yourself.” Thank you, Johannes Metz.
And let us add, you shall lovingly accept the light entrusted to you. “This little light of mine.”
Yes, that light may be obscured by tragedy and stress, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there, and cannot spill to the world around us. Yes. In this life.

At my age, it’s common to be asked about retirement (well, to be honest, first you’re asked about aches and pains), and whether or not I can afford to grow old. “What have you invested in?” I am asked.
Granted, my portfolio may be undistinguished, but I’ll save my worry for later. I have other investments in mind.
Today, I want to invest in being present and wholehearted.
Today, I want to invest in being unafraid.
Today, I want to invest in bringing the better angels of this self, to a world that needs people who care about making it a better place.
More than ever, I value being around people who live well in their own skin. Because they live unafraid.
And here’s the wonderful irony. Being fully present allows me to be present for others around me. You know, as in connected. As in face to face, eye to eye, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. Why? Because I have nothing to prove, no one to impress and no need to manipulate or denigrate anyone.
It’s about shining a light from the candle in our spirit. “This little light of mine…”
It’s about knowing that each day we are able to continue to weave the tapestry of our lives… with a purity of spirit, and intention.
And that my friends, makes a difference in our world, where fear, and discouragement, and pessimism, are real.
Yes. It makes a difference. And I know that, with deep gratitude, for those who have spilled light on my, and in my world. Thank you, my friends, for the light you spill.

And speaking of light, we couldn’t see the solar eclipse in our neck of the woods. But I saw lots of photos, and read accounts of people watching, and marveling (and yes, awestruck), from many parts of our world.
I loved this account. “That’s what happened yesterday in parts of Europe. Millions of people looked up to see the moon devour the sun, briefly turning the star that gives us life into a hazy glowing ring in the sky. Day suddenly turned to dark. The air cooled. Crowds cheered. Birds started shrieking. Then, just a couple of minutes later, everything returned to normal.
Eclipses are special because they’re rare. The United States, for instance, won’t see a coast-to-coast eclipse until 2045. As science reporter Katrina Miller put it:
‘It offers a primal sense of what it means to be human, through shared despair and delight under a celestial rebirth. We are all so consumed by our problems on the ground. Sometimes, we need a reason to look up.’” (Thank you, New York Times)

Yes. Sometimes, we need a reason to look up.

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…
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
Attribute to, His Holiness the Dalai Lama

Photo… “Hi Terry. I recently went to the Chicago Botanic Garden and took some random photos–sharing with you! Here’s a bumblebee buzzing around an Allium Millenium,” Ina Strickland… Thank you Ina… 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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