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

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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

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​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: 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
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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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New to both the town, and the church, Ellen wanted to be involved, to give of herself, to share her gifts. As it happened, the parish needed a new tapestry for one of the smaller chapels.
And as a seamstress, Ellen considered this a perfect opportunity.
She worked diligently, using colorful and delicate fabric, recreating a well-known rendition of Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Others who had seen it were effusive, affirming that what she had created was beautiful.
When the day for the unveiling arrives, Ellen presents her gift with an understandable sense of gratification and fulfillment. The answer from the church committee is unexpected and brief, “We can’t use this.”
And I was wondering, “Because the tapestry was inappropriate or distasteful?” The answer, “Neither”.
“The dimensions of the tapestry,” the committee tells her in a very measured tone, “are not quite correct.”

“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.

As Ellen tells me her story, I want to laugh out loud, until I realize that she is serious. And I can feel my exasperation with small-mindedness.
“You’re kidding,” I say. Then, “Ellen, I’m sorry. That must have felt crazy.”
“At first I was completely deflated,” she says. “But some time passed and then it occurred to me; I’m going to be okay. Do you know why? Because I didn’t make the tapestry for them.”
Thank you, Ellen, you did my heart good.

Yes, life can squeeze us.
Yes, people can be harsh, and without mercy.
Yes, public opinion can take the “air out of the room” of our heart.
Yes, the “systems” we regard, can be crippling.
And I can assure you that in her situation, I could have found a way to nurse a grudge. But here’s the deal: If we don’t learn Ellen’s lesson, in the end we become encumbered, because we will cede our identity and our power—which means that we give up our ability to choose, to create, and to be intentional.
We give up our ability to be generous, to be big-hearted, to forgive, and to change.
We give up our ability to make a difference—to let our light shine.

Back to our tendency to not hear “the music”, while nursing our fear of missing the right notes. Meaning, our fear becomes a taskmaster. And it hits me that the “tapestries” I create are no longer about what is in my heart, but about who I need to please, or impress, or even amaze.
“Never allow a person to tell you No
who doesn’t have the power to say Yes.”
​​​​​​​Thank you, Eleanor Roosevelt.

Ellen’s affirmation reminded me of something I heard this week, “I went to medical school to learn how to heal.”
Yes. Here is the power and necessity—and gift—of a paradigm shift. With “I choose”, we move from “success” by achievement, to “making a difference” by creating spaces for wellness, and healing.
In a world that squeezes us, it’s easy to “get lost”.
To no longer be—at home—in our own skin.
To, literally, give over our identity. We forget who we are. At our core.
In a national magazine, an ad for the Humane Society minced no words. Above an adorable puppy and kitten, the ad read, “It’s who owns them that makes them important.”
So, I wonder. Who or what owns us, who or what tells us that whatever we have done, or given, is “not enough?”

There have been times this year when I have been pushed, or pulled, toward fatigue, without being conscious of it. In those places, I know that I felt empty, in a place where it is easy to believe the whole world is colored by gloom.
And this I know: When we are given over to fear, we cannot rest, or absorb, or create, or take delight. And it is easy to forget Ellen’s poignant wisdom; that tapestry making is about living the moment—this moment—wholehearted, and without need for “approval”.
Here’s the other part of the story—what started as an obstacle (impediment or hindrance) literally becomes a place from which her world (and mine) is transformed.
Let’s face it: more often than not, we resist and even resent obstacles. We no longer see the tapestry, but only that which diminishes and belittles and shames. We can feel overwhelmed, and it is easy to be jaded. It is easy to quit. But what if beautiful tapestries are born in these very places where we are ready, literally, to give up?

Which takes my mind to jazz. Early in his career, Charlie Parker received the nickname of “Yardbird,” and then he became known as “Bird.”  My favorite Parker quote, “If it ain’t inside of you, it can’t come out of your horn.” Parker (like Dizzy Gillespie) was known for improvising long lines at blazing speed. Parker used a lot of flatted fifths, and jazz players used the word “bebop” to sing a flatted fifth, but Parker didn’t like to be put in a box. “Let’s not call it bebop,” he said. “Let’s just call it music.” Parker explained, “I realized that I could play what I heard inside me. That’s when I was born.”
Yes. That’s where the beautiful tapestry is made.

So where do we find this reservoir that gives us the courage, and strength, and spirit to move forward? I am certain of this; overcoming obstacles is not the goal. As if we must “defeat” someone or something.
Ellen’s story is not about who “won” or “lost.” It is about being at home in your skin and living from your heart.
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.

And if we wonder if we “are enough”?
Mother Teresa once told a roomful of lepers how much God loved 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?
The power to shine the light on shame and fear and paranoia.
To invite us to bear the beams of love.
To invite us to weave the tapestry from our heart
Here’s the deal: Today, let us remember who we are. And let that light spill.

August means that blackberry cobbler is on the menu this week. My Oh My. And I’ll be enjoying every bite, watching the hummers dance and whirl, relishing every taste from the salvia blooms in our garden.

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

Note: An update about Sabbath Moment. Some have connected with it on Facebook, but I will be taking a sabbatical from social media. Please know that Sabbath Moment is available through email, and here on my website. Please share it with friends.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​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: “Good morning Terry, We have returned to the PNW for our 5th year in Gig Harbor, WA. Our little friend welcomed us back. Even this little buzzing bee reminded us to stop and enjoy the beauty. Blessings,” Barbara Berry… Thank you Barbara…

POEM AND PRAYER

May the Lord Bless you and keep you.
May the Lord make his face to shine upon you
​​​​​​​and be gracious unto you.
May God give you grace not to sell yourselves short,
Grace to risk something big for something good,
Grace to remember that the world is now too dangerous for anything but truth, and too small for anything but love.
May God take your minds and think through them.
May God take your lips and speak through them.
May God take your hands and work through them.
May God take your hearts and set them on fire.
William Sloane Coffin
​​​​​​​

Music for the Soul…
New–
Belovedness — Sarah Kroger
​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

TUESDAY AUGUST 4 —
Music is one of those gifts that nudges and replenishes your heart. Often when you least expect it, washing over you with grace and healing. Especially life-giving when life feels hard.

Another of my favorite movies is August Rush.
I do love movies that are good for free-flowing tears, and healing for the heart. This one a reminder that “music is everywhere, all you have do is open yourself up, all you have to do is listen.”
The story of a musically gifted orphan who runs away from his orphanage and searches New York City for his birth parents. August says, “Sometimes the world tries to knock it (the music) out of you. But I believe in music the way that some people believe in fairy tales. I like to imagine that what I hear came from my mother and father. Maybe the notes I hear, are the same ones they heard, the night they met. Maybe that’s how they found each other. Maybe that’s how they’ll find me. I believe that once upon a time, long ago, they heard the music and followed it.”
But here’s the deal; in a world upside down, there are times when we can’t hear the music. Times when we can’t hear our song.

So, it’s story time. I’ve always loved this one. When a woman in a certain African tribe knows she is pregnant, she goes out into the wilderness to pray, and listen, until she hears the song of the child she bears.
This tribe recognizes that every soul has its own vibration, expressing its unique flavor and purpose.
Then the mother to be, teaches the song to the other members of the tribe.
The tribe sings the song to the child at their birth.
They sing when the child becomes an adolescent, when the adult is married, and at the time of parting and death.
But there is one other occasion when the villagers sing this song. If at any time during his (or her) life, the person causes suffering to another member of the tribe, they gather in a circle and set him (or her) in the center. They sing the song, to remind them not of the wrong done, but of their own beauty and potential. When a child loses the way, it is love, and not punishment, that brings the lost one home.
When we buy any label, or any script, we forget our song.
We forget that music (the gift of grace) unlocks the heart, and we are restored (take a step) to our self.
I cannot tell you your song. But I can tell you this: you have one.
Count on it. And if you sit still, you may hear it.
It is the song that reminds us we are beautiful, when we feel ugly.
It is the song that tells us we are whole, when we feel broken.
It is the song that gives us the power to dance, even when we feel shattered.
It is the song that allows us to take a step when we feel stuck, or shut down.
When someone asks me what I believe, it wouldn’t hurt to tell them, “I believe that once upon a time, long ago, they heard the music and followed it.”

My friends, I am so grateful we are on this journey together. And as I write this, I have music playing in the background. And yes, I’m singing along. Loudly, and gratefully.
“When you walk through a storm
Keep your chin up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark…
You’ll never walk alone.”

WEDNESDAY AUGUST 5 —

This morning I watched the funeral of Glen Hansard. He is the 56-year-old Oscar-winning Irish singer and songwriter, who died in a motorcycle crash in Dublin last week. The funeral was in St Patrick’s Cathedral, in Dublin. And many, many musicians and artists were in attendance.
And speaking of the healing power of music, yes indeed, the music, lifted us all. As Glen would have said, with a “desire to build bridges of understanding.”

It brought to mind another reminder of Pope Leo’s life-giving words, recently at the “Canticle for Peace” celebration. Speaking to the ABF Voices choir (made up of 164 children and young people from the Holy Land, Uganda and Italy), he encouraged them, “As you sang, did you notice how music drew all of us into a new experience—something greater than anything any one of us could have created alone? That is the experience of beauty. It opens up a new horizon and awakens within us the desire to move towards it.”
Yes, and Amen. Let us remember, “You’ll never walk alone.”

The healing—and life-giving—power of music to remind us we are not alone. And not at the mercy of. I often replay the story of a village in France. In 1942, the Nazis were actively and forcefully rounding up Jews in France. In the picturesque farming village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon (in southern France), Reformed Church minister Andre Trocme inspired an entire village to change lives. And, as it turns out, the world in which we live.
Each of the citizens of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon voluntarily risked their lives to hide Jews–in homes, on farms, and in public buildings; Jews who were being rounded up by the Nazi SS for shipment to the death camps. (It is said that there was not a single home in the village that did not shelter a Jewish family.) Le Chambon-sur-Lignon became known as the “City of Refuge.”
Whenever Nazi patrols searched the village, the Jews were sent, surreptitiously, out into the woodland countryside. One of the villagers recalled, “As soon as the soldiers left, we would go into the forest and sing a song. When they heard that song, the Jews knew it was safe to come home.”
Can you imagine the feeling when you heard the song?

This I do know: we feel it in our bodies before we have the right words for it.
It is estimated that as many as five thousand lives were saved—many given passage to Switzerland. One reason for this display of compassion? These French villagers were descendants from the persecuted Protestant Huguenots. Their own history of persecution connected them to the plight of the Jewish people hiding in their homes.
Perhaps that is true, I do not know. I only know that for whatever reason, the villagers chose to speak (yes, to “sing”) out. They chose compassion.
And the rest, well, the rest is history.
Three things about this story struck me.
One, the extraordinary power of compassion (and the courage to practice compassion in a world that places a premium on power and control).
Two, compassion is born in the soil of vulnerability, humility and the awareness that we are all—every single one of us—connected.
Three, the power of love and music to bring each and every one of us, home. Home: the place where we are given value, and love, and dignity, and from that place, value, love and dignity spill to the world around us.

Here’s the good news: our story doesn’t stop when we hear the song. We leave different than when we came in. Now we sing it to others.  The song gives us the power to change the paradigm (or narrative). And the song always invites people home to safety.
Songs for those afraid. And for those “in hiding”—emotional or physical. Songs for those who have an ability to be a safe place. And a place of healing—emotionally and physically—for those in need.
I cannot tell you what song will bring you out of hiding. But I can tell you this: you have one.
Count on it.
And if you sit still, you may hear it. Really.
It is the “song” that reminds us we are beautiful, when we feel ugly.
It is the song that embraces your dignity, when you are demeaned or battered.
It is the song that tells us we are whole, when we feel broken.
It is the song that gives us the power to literally give a damn (on those days when we feel done in), and to stand up to cruelty.
Whatever it is, the song brings people out of hiding, out of unease and out of fear.

THURSDAY AUGUST 6 —

I was appreciating another Ted Lasso episode, where Colin feels—because of his lifestyle—on the outside, in the sense of feeling judged. He feels excluded, and disregarded. And yes, alone.
Some of us know that feeling, for any number of reasons. And we find a corner—emotional or real—in which to hide.
Colin is certain that no one on the team cares. And to Colin, Ted says, “We don’t not care. We care very much. We care about who you are, and what you must’ve been going through. Yeah? But hey, from now on, you don’t have to go through it all by yourself.”
This speaks to my heart. As I wrote on Monday, this was a hard week for me. There were personal hurdles. And the news, yes. And many conversations (phone and email) about our world (and our place in it), and how it is easy to feel, or to be, quite literally, lost. And lost is not just a GPS malfunction. Too many know what it means to be disconnected, diminished, demeaned. That’s it isn’t it?
When we feel not just lost, but alone.

I do miss talking with my sheep congregation. And am so grateful for the memories—this one about feeling “lost” or alone.
On my walk, I stop at the fence. My congregation, the sheep, are reclining contentedly in the grass. “Well,” their look asked me. “Do you have a story this week or not?”
“It’s an old story,” I tell them. “It’s about a lost sheep.” And that seemed to perk them up. (But then, we preachers always see what we want to see.)
“This shepherd had one hundred sheep. And one of them was lost.” I stood silent a little while, wondering if the story would make them uncomfortable. “And the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go out and find the lost one. He brings him home.”
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 yes, the power of acceptance.
You see, here’s the deal: some days we are the one lost.
And some days, we are the hands and feet of the shepherd.

So. Back to Ted Lasso. The show features many episodes on “acceptance”—self acceptance, and acceptance from those around us—and how we can practice it.
Staying out of their way—in other words, avoiding all connection—may not be the best route.
Taking to heart, “You’ll never walk alone,” there may be times, when even though we feel isolated—yes, lost, emotionally or spiritually—we find the courage (it doesn’t take much) to know that others around us feel the same.
And we look for the lost sheep.
And consider our potential to be the hands of a shepherd.
“I hope that all of us, or none of us are judged by the actions of our weakest moments but rather by the strength we show when, or if, we are given a second chance.” (Ted Lasso)

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.)
And yes indeed, I am writing this with the music serenading me.
“Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never walk alone!
You’ll never walk alone.”
I am so grateful that music is one of those gifts that nudges and replenishes our heart. Often when we least expect it, washing over us with grace and healing. Especially life-giving when life feels hard.
Onward together, my friends.

FRIDAY AUGUST 7 —

Music is one of those gifts that nudges and replenishes your heart. Often when you least expect it, washing over you with grace and healing. Especially life-giving when life feels hard.
And today, I write, serenaded by Sara Bareilles and John Legend singing, “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”
(Thank you Sara Bareilles)

“Be the hand of a hopeful stranger” indeed.
Or, in Mr. Rogers’ words, “the helpers”.
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’
We live in a world in which we need to share responsibility. It’s easy to say, ‘It’s not my child, not my community, not my world, not my problem.’ Then there are those who see the need and respond. I consider those people my heroes.” Thank you, Mr. Rogers.

On a rainy Saturday night, in April 1945, a train pulled into Horni Briza’s train station. Stationmaster Antonin Pavlicek was appalled by the conditions of those on board. After prolonged arguments with the Nazi officer in charge of the train, Pavlicek managed to organize an astonishing humanitarian effort the next day by the local townspeople, who brought food, drink—and even baby clothes when they heard the cries of newborns—to the train wagons.
His first instinct, shock.
His second, kindness.
When Mr. Pavlicek saw how grateful the prisoners were for this small kindness and realized what terrible condition they were in, he had an idea. It has been by sheer chance that their train had stopped in Horni Briza but—as a devout Catholic—he wanted to do what was morally right. So, at 6:30 the following morning, Sunday, 22 April, instead of going to mass he paid a visit to Josef Zoubek, the director of the kaolin factory, and Antonin Wirth, the landlord of the Tovarni Hostinec, the local inn. He asked the two men how quickly they could prepare a large quantity of food to be given to the prisoners.
Of course, the SS Unterscharfuhrer was resistant, who saw “no point in feeding those destined to die.” After more negotiation, an agreement was struck that a canteen would be made available at the town’s expense to serve one hot meal to the half-starved women. The prisoner’s plight quickly spread.
Ten-year-old Jaroslav Lang said, “To begin with we didn’t even know there were prisoners on the train… we ran home to our mother and asked for some bread to give them. She was very afraid but still she gave us a little something.” Everyone was living on coupons at the time because of the shortages, but they gave up their own rations for those on the train. (Adapted from the book, “Born Survivors”, Wendy Holden)
The world tilts. And when it does, there are still brothers and sisters “to feed”—physically and emotionally.
Is this topic tense? Yes.
Complicated? Yes.
“Politicized”? Yes.
And yet, not one of those is big enough to keep us from being human and sources of compassion and justice. Because you never know. Next time, it could be me. It could be you.
“This part of your life is not about being a reporter,” the abbot once told Thomas Merton. “It’s about listening to your heart.”
“Vocation,” Merton wrote, “does not come from a voice ‘out there’ calling me to be something I am not. It comes from a voice ‘in here’ calling me to be the person I was born to be.”

“Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” (Jesus, in the Gospel of Matthew)

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​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…
Where words fail,
music speaks.
It speaks of the pain,
of the sorrow,
of the lost,
of the life we live.
It shares emotions.
It’s a way to connect,
to understand
what others feel.
Where words fail,
music speaks.
It tells the truth
whether you want it to or not.
Music shares the souls
of those we’re around,
of those in the world
that we’re living.
I wish to share
my music with you
So you can understand
the pain I feel,
so I can share my soul with you,
so you can understand
What I’m going through.
​​​​​​​© Lucy Rudman
Lucy Rudman. “Where Words Fail, Music Speaks.”
​​​​​​​Family Friend Poems, March 29, 2011

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… “Dear Terry, Awe is such a powerful word! I was in awe of this Water Lily and there beside it in the water was a little image of a Cross! An even more ‘Awe’ moment with God. Thank you for being you Terry,” Marguerite Gerontis… Thank you Marguerite… And thank you all for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

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Sometimes we need stories more than food to stay alive. And sometimes those stories are in the revitalizing form of music. As I write this, I’m listening—and yes, singing along—to a song that gives me hope.

“When you walk through a storm
Keep your chin up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark.
At the end of the storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet, silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind,
Walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never walk alone!
You’ll never walk alone.”
“You’ll Never Walk Alone” was originally composed by Rodgers and Hammerstein in 1945. And the version I’m listening to is from Gerry and the Pacemakers (1963).
And yes, it’s a sing along version. My Oh My.

Music is one of those gifts that nudges and replenishes your heart. Often when you least expect it, washing over you with grace and healing. Especially life-giving when life feels hard.
This was a hard week for me. There were personal hurdles. And the news, yes. And many conversations (phone and email) about our world (and our place in it), and how it is easy to feel, or to be, quite literally, lost. And lost is not just a GPS malfunction. Too many know what it means to be disconnected, diminished, demeaned. That’s it isn’t it? When we feel not just lost, but alone.

Did you see the “Canticle for Peace” celebration—a prayer meeting and concert for peace on Wednesday (July 29), where Pope Leo listened to an interfaith choir of 164 children at the lush gardens of the Vatican’s echo-village in the town of Castel Gandolfo.
In the words of Pope Leo XIV, “Like a stream leading to its source, music leads us to God.”
“‘Music can lead us beyond the threshold of mystery. Just as someone following a stream eventually reaches its source, the beauty of song can guide us towards God, satisfying the thirst for meaning and happiness that the world itself cannot quench.’
Recalling the ‘choirs of angels and saints’ described in Scripture, the Pope observed that they do not ‘literally sing all the time.’ Rather, their perfect harmony springs from their shared contemplation of God—a harmony that earthly music, too, can help us approach.
Organized by the Laudato si’ Higher Education Center in partnership with the Andrea Bocelli Foundation, represented by the renowned tenor himself, the event forms part of the celebrations marking the 800th anniversary of the death of St Francis of Assisi.
The Pope described the gathering as an occasion of ‘joy,’ accompanied by Andrea Bocelli and the ABF Voices choir, made up of 164 children and young people from the Holy Land, Uganda and Italy. United by their love of music, many of them also share lives marked by war, poverty and suffering.
Pope Leo noted that their ‘beautiful singing,’ together with the multilingual prayer offered at the end of the gathering, showed how music can unite different voices into a single harmony, where each person makes a unique contribution to the whole.
In this way, the choir becomes a symbol of harmony and cooperation.
Reflecting on the heavenly ‘choirs’ described in Scripture, the Pope said that their unity comes from finding in God ‘the fullness of happiness.’
He continued, ‘As you sang, did you notice how music drew all of us into a new experience—something greater than anything any one of us could have created alone? That is the experience of beauty. It opens up a new horizon and awakens within us the desire to move towards it.’”
(With gratitude to Edoardo Giribaldi, and the Vatican News)

And in an interview after the event, with NBC, a young woman from Israel—a 14-year-old member of the choir said this about the make-up of the choir from different countries, “We can’t find peace in our country. There’s war. Children are scared and they are dying… Teamwork is so important. If we worked on this project individually, we wouldn’t have been here today.”
Thank you. That’ll preach.
And I can hear Mr. Rogers’ voice, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world.”

I’m a big Ted Lasso fan. In the episode, “So Long, Farewell”, Richmond loses the final game of the season to heated rival West Ham, which meant also losing the Premier League title. In other words, a very big loss. And it hurts.
The team is in the locker room, downhearted.
And Ted talks to his team. “Yeah. Hey. Y’all played a heck of a game out there. We may not have won, but y’all definitely succeeded. I mean, you gave the champs 90 minutes of hell.
Zoreaux, where you at? That dude had more saves than a Baptist preacher. Give it up for Zoreaux. Yeah. That’s right.
What about Roy? Roy chased down his grandson. (Players chuckling) Stopped him from getting an easy one.
Now, look, this is a sad moment right here. For all of us. And there ain’t nothing I can say, standing in front of you right now, that can take that away.
But please do me this favor, will you?
Lift your heads up and look around this locker room. Yeah?
Look at everybody else in here. And I want you to be grateful that you’re going through this sad moment with all these other folks. Because I promise you, there is something worse out there than being sad, and that is being alone and being sad. Ain’t nobody in this room alone.”

Two invitations this week.
One, the reminder that we never walk alone.
“When you walk through a storm
Keep your chin up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark…
You’ll never walk alone.”
And two, the invitation to be a helper. The Talmud reminds us, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly now, love mercy now, walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

Welcome to August. Do we count down summer days? Or the days to school beginning—for our kids and grandkids?
Savor the days.
And an update about Sabbath Moment. Some have connected with it on Facebook, but I will be taking a sabbatical from social media. Please know that Sabbath Moment is available through email, and here on my website. Please share it with friends.

Quote for our week… “The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou

(Footnote “You’ll Never Walk Alone” © 1945, Copyright Renewed, Williamson Music Company (ASCAP) c/o Concord Music Publishing.)​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Today’s Photo Credit: “Hi Terry, I follow this flower gardener from Michigan who not only has great gardening info and tips but wonderful life advice (and she tucks in her faith so gently). This particular email from yesterday struck me as something you might be interested in, especially after I read your Sabbath moment message just now about the young man in a hurry.
‘Ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.’ (Dallas Willard)
The young man in your story, stopped hurrying, started pausing more, and his life changed. I continue to learn this lesson and reflect on the mistakes and messes I’ve made in the past…usually while hurrying. I’m also attaching an image of beauty I was fortunate to capture recently… Sunrise at Emerald Bay Lake Tahoe. Blessings always!” Madeleine Gallagher

POEM AND PRAYER

Healer of the Nations,
from the noise of war
and the drumbeat of vengeance,
give us undiminished determination
to wage peace.
Out of brokenness, violence, and destruction
let us plant seeds of hope.
Out of chaos, confusion, and hatred,
build bridges of love.
Out of distrust, disunity, and distance,
walk together in harmony.
Heal our divisions and make us whole.
Amen.
Rt. Rev. Deon Johnson​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Music for the Soul…
New–
You’ll Never Walk Alone — Gerry and The Pacemakers

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

On a few of my walks in Ireland, I would pass by congregates of sheep, with lots of new lambs. And I did my best to try to chat. Wondering if they would understand my accent.
“So. Is it okay to confess that some days I can’t focus,” I wonder aloud. “That, some days making sense of the world doesn’t work, and I just want to take a nap?”
“Not easy to admit, eh?” Their look tells me.
“No, it’s not.”
I’ve always wished I had control over the world, or at least some superpower, with a stunning costume of course. But I do not. (Have the control, or the costume.)
Gandalf’s reminder is apropos and worth heeding. We don’t choose the times we live in, but it’s often the case that the times choose us, to live out our faith, our resistance, and our healing. It is seldom, if ever, fun. Or easy.
Here’s the deal: When we believe that we are “at the mercy of”, we pretend we don’t have a choice, or are along for the ride. Which means that we no longer have the energy to give to (or care about, or invest in) those things that really matter.
We, literally, lose our bearings.
Living as if reality is determined only by circumstance, and we forget that…
We have agency.
We have the capacity to make choices about what matters.
We get to say how the story ends.

So. I needed a good story. To do my heart good. And I remember the movie, The Rider. Once a rising star of the rodeo circuit, Brady Jandreau is warned that his competition days are over after a tragic riding accident. Now Brady finds himself wondering what he has to live for, when he can no longer do what gave him a sense of purpose: to ride, and to compete.
His life forever changed.
Brady undertakes a search for new identity and tries to redefine his idea of what it means to be a man in the heartland of America. (And fitting to the time in which we live—the strong and tough and controlling men win.)
So, Bracy wondered, “What is left after macho is gone?”
In the movie, we watch his daily routines, his attempts to fit into “normal” society, his late-night hangouts with his friends and his frustrations at having to figure out his second act. (Notice that “normal” is always code for what life “should” be.)
As Brady is transformed, we watch the power of his relationship with Lane, a rodeo friend and “big brother” who was left incapacitated after a rodeo accident. And the grounding that flourishes from Brady’s empathetic and tender and vulnerable side.
As it turns out, even “tough guys” can be healers. And peacemakers.

Of course, we assume life proceeds better when we’re in control.
And then, control or not, “life happens”. Go figure. And you get hurt (or disappointed or disillusioned). “You just don’t think you’ll get hurt like that,” Brady says.
These are moments that reset emotional and spiritual gravity. Everything we believe feels up in the air. Because many of our beliefs are about things working smoothly, or in a particular way. And we wonder, is this who I want to be? Am I at the mercy of life’s conundrums, or the way others see me?
One lesson we take with us from Brady’s story: We need these encounters.
We benefit and grow from necessary periods of catharsis, and soul searching. Okay, maybe not to the extent of great pain. However, such moments do invite us to ask questions about things that truly matter.
Giving up our “dreams”—you know, about the way we think life “should” be—is not easy. But what if our dreams are not the only way to make the world a better place.

We live in a world where it is tempting to buy into an image (or role or model or persona), that carries with it certain values—to be powerful, to be impenetrable, to be bulletproof—but once given the opportunity to say “yes” or “no” to that image, we recognize that’s not who we are. And with blessing, there’s an experience in our life—a road to Damascus moment—where we can ask, “Is this who I am, and what I choose to honor?”
Where we see—and know—that as long as success is measured only by keeping score, or by being in control, it’s easy to lose track of most everything that makes us human and therefore, glad to be alive…
…small gestures of kindness.
…acts of grace–inclusion or community to someone left out, or someone on the fringes.
…extending a hand of healing (empathy, acceptance, sanctuary) to someone who hurts.
…finding and embracing your voice; knowing that silence in order to not ruffle feathers takes a toll we do not need. (“Sending love to everyone who is trying to rediscover their voice after life made them believe that silence was safer.” Thank you, Michell C. Clark)
…saying “No” to acts of narrow-mindedness and inequality and meanness.
…resting in moments of gratitude and reveling in the gifts of the senses and being present.
…sharing laughter, a smile, camaraderie and restoration; and dancing for joy.

When one younger friend told me about life’s conundrums, I asked (the question Brady asked, the question we ask), “So what’s next?”
She replied, “I’m just waiting for God to show me what he wants from me.”
Okay. But in the meantime, you know, until you have this life and self figured out (and straightened out), I have a suggestion: Live this day, with this self, without holding back. Today; savor, doubt, embrace, question, wrestle, give, risk, love, fall down, get up, accept your incomplete and fractured self, know that anything worth doing is worth doing badly, speak the truth from your whole heart, and whenever you can, lavish excessive compassion and mercy and healing and hope and second chances and grace and restoration and kindness on anyone who crosses your path. Who knows, we may love one another into existence.
I’m sure God won’t mind.
And let us carry this prayer into our week.
“Lead me from death to life, from falsehood to truth;
lead me from despair to hope, from fear to trust;
lead me from hate to love, from war to peace.
Let peace fill our heart, our world, our universe.”
(Universal Prayer for Peace, first publicly used July 1981, by Mother Teresa in St. James Anglican Church, London)

We’re on our way from Dublin to London. For a week of Rest and Renewal in Southern England. So very grateful for our pilgrimage time in Ireland, visiting sacred sites, both of us wearing the shoes we used to walk the Camino de Santiago. Leniently, on this journey, we only walked 105 miles. But every one of them, good for the heart.

Quote for our week…
“Your Yes to God demands your No to all injustice, to all evil, to all lies, to all oppression and violation of the weak and the poor, to all godlessness and mocking of the holy.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer (German Lutheran pastor, theologian, participant in the German resistance movement against Nazism)

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: “Hi Terry, I am loving reading your daily reflections because my husband and I are right behind you in Ireland! I love seeing your picture today of the Cliffs of Moher because we will be in that area in the next few days. Two days ago, we were in Kilkenny and visited Saint Canice’s Cathedral followed by a tour of the Rock of Cashel. Both so beautiful, and spiritual in their own unique ways. It has been delightful to open my phone to your reflections to see where you have been and where you’re going next! And I appreciate the consistent reminders to stay in the present moment and to stop and loook! It is actually pretty effortless to do that here. Blessings to you as you continue on your Irish Camino! Here are a couple of photos, one capturing the wild beauty experienced in this place along with the peaceful serenity of a spring lamb. Blessings,” Susan Eschenroeder…

POEMS AND PRAYERS

A Blessing
May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter
the quiet immensity of your own presence.
May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
May you receive great encouragement
when new frontiers beckon.
May you respond to the call of your gifts and find the
courage to follow its path.
May the flame of anger free you from falsity.
May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame
and may anxiety never linger about you.
May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.
May you take time to celebrate the quiet miracles
that seek no attention.
May you be consoled in the secret sympathy of your soul.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven
around the heart of wonder.​

Lord, make us instruments of your peace.
Help us to recognize the evil latent in a communication that does not build communion.
Help us to remove the venom from our judgements.
Help us to speak about others as our brothers and sisters.
You are faithful and trustworthy; may our words be seeds of goodness for the world:
where there is shouting, let us practice listening;
where there is confusion, let us inspire harmony;
where there is ambiguity, let us bring clarity;
where there is exclusion, let us offer solidarity;
where there is sensationalism, let us use sobriety;
where there is superficiality, let us raise real questions;
where there is prejudice, let us awaken trust;
where there is hostility, let us bring respect;
where there is falsehood, let us bring truth.
Amen.
Pope Francis
(Adapting St. Francis prayer, World Communications Day, January 24, 2018)

TUESDAY APRIL 28 —

Walking gives your mind time and space. To wander and mull and ponder. And evaluate, and then re-evaluate.
I’m walking (we’re doing about five miles per day), but gratefully my heart and spirit are “walking” too. That’s the gift of a pilgrimage. It invites (and allows) us to find or restore, or forgive or heal, or to forget or bury; or perhaps willingly, just to have the deck of our world shuffled.
That’s not easy to do when we are wedded to a “script”.
And I’ve had memories of my first Pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago revisit my mind as mementos—and keepsakes.

On one of my first visits touring the awe-inspiring Porto Cathedral—“born” in the 12th century, and rebuilt and renovated numerous times throughout the centuries, now an elegant mixture of architectural styles—a woman is vacuuming, between and under the pews. The Cathedral is full of visitors (tourists). And the sound, the noise, of the vacuum fills the air. I smile big, for this is the perfect metaphor. The gift of beauty, the gift of the sacred, the gift of being present, even in a world where interruption (clamor) is real, and not to be denied.
And I eavesdropped on a couple of tourists (eavesdropping is one of my spiritual gifts). A couple walking, looking at the guidebook on their phone, him saying to her, “We should figure out how to do this tour in the right order. I don’t think we’re doing this right.”
Yes, another big smile.
And I can really relate. After all, what should we do first or second or third?
And what if we’re going about this in the wrong order?
In my travel for work, people would often ask, “Did you have a successful trip?”
“I’m certain I did,” I tell them. Although truth be told, I don’t always know.

That memory comes back to me now on our Ireland sacred-site journey. And I’m very aware that there is some kind of pegboard in our heads where we hang our worth or value. The one about “success”. And it’s too easy to get worked up about finding the right peg. And I’ll tell you what; that peg board is hard to disregard and leave behind.
Here’s what I know: Life seems to ignore the script we have in our mind.
But this is also true: when that happens, we walk. We walk toward, or we walk away. Either way, we begin a journey—a pilgrimage to find or restore or forgive or heal, or to forget or bury; or perhaps, just to have the deck of our world shuffled.
And gratefully, a Pilgrimage-Camino walk is a good reminder.
Its wisdom calls me daily to pick up my pack and march on. To trust, find beauty, and to be vulnerable. To share pain, joy, and connection. To, with practice, patience (lots of patience), faith, and grace, continue walking.
So. Sometimes we need a different way to measure what really matters.
This brings to mind my mentor, Lew Smedes’ reminder, “Gratitude dances though the open windows of our hearts. We cannot force it. We cannot create it. And we can certainly close our windows to keep it out. But we can also keep them open and be ready for the joy when it comes.”
Living one open window at a time.
I once did a workshop where I asked the participants to describe life. One woman said, “Life is so… life is so… life is so… daily.”
Yes. She’s right. And that is the secret.
The miracle is that there need not be a miracle—just a slow drip of experience. Being mindful of small things; the ordinary is the hiding place for the holy.
Places where we are able to receive. And places from which we give: wholeheartedness, joy, grief, compassion, sorrow, kindness, grace, forgiveness, gladness. And until I understand that truth (until I take it to heart), I miss the point.
Or, in the words of William Kittredge, “Moments when nothing happened. What sweet nothing.”
In other words, we don’t run from the moment (even moments that unnerve and distress).
We don’t suffocate the moment with stuff (physical and mental).
We don’t sanitize the moment with platitudes.
We sit. We listen. We look. We taste. We smell. We see.
We look for the light of God in the most ordinary, and even the most dull, of contexts.
(I know that I preordain, when I hope or try to orchestrate, rather than just experience. I also know that whether it is, experience or relationship or liturgy or prayer or meditation or Camino, if you don’t bring it with you, you’re not going to find it there.)

On this pilgrimage, I am carrying Mary Oliver’s invitation with me, “Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.” This is what grows in the soil of gratitude.
The permission to unpack. To let go of the messages that cling, or that scroll through, unquestioned. Such as keeping pace, “Am I falling behind?” “Am I getting there on time?”
On this journey, I’m grateful for the moments every day, when I pause, and say, “Looook.”

I write this today in the Burren. Known as ‘An Boireann’ in Irish, which means ‘The rocky place’. Literally, another region of wonder, on the Wild Atlantic Way with endless vistas of ancient limestone—a landscape of beauty, mysticism, heritage, nature, healing energy and peace. Today, on our way to The Cliffs of Moher.
Thank you for being a part of Sabbath Moment. And I am grateful that we continue to walk one another home. 

WEDNESDAY APRIL 29 —

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Prayer (poem) for our week…
A Camino prayer
May I walk this day
in the realm of grace,
walking with You
my feet firmly on your earth-path,
my heart loving all as kindred,
my words and deeds alive with justice.
May I walk as blessing,
meeting blessing at every turn
in every challenge, blessing,
in all opposition, blessing,
in harm’s way, blessing.
May I walk each step in this moment of grace,
alert to hear You
and awake enough to say
a simple Yes.
Robert Corin Morris

​​​​​​​Photo… “Terry, My husband Steve just sent me this. He is off on a personal retreat and this was the sunrise this morning at Newark airport with NYC in the background. Wow there is beauty everywhere if we open our eyes! Sounds like you are having a great time in Ireland. My grandson’s name is Cashel. Need to take him to the Rock of Cashel some day. Was inspired by your blog. Thank you. Take Good Care” Beth Hayward… Thank you Beth… 

Walking the Camino de Santiago, I learned that the sooner you let go of your “script”, the better. And gratefully, you make space to be a pilgrim—learning, adapting, and welcoming the gifts of gratitude and pausing, and wonder and healing.
I write this on the Ring of Kerry—western coast of Ireland—an area steeped in history, with evidence of human settlement dating back to prehistoric times.
On our Ireland journey, the true magic lies not just in the sights, but in the stories that breathe life into the land. The legends are a bridge between past and present, and an invitation to the power of pause: slow down, listen, and connect. To the gift of wonder. And to those around you—knowing we are on this pilgrimage together.
In a conversation with a couple before driving the Ring of Kerry, he advised, “You’ll want to drive it slowly. Because you’ll need to get ready to point, a lot, and say, ‘Loook’.”
And I smiled big, remembering one of my favorite stories.

A woman stands at the window and stares. We are on the morning commuter ferry, from Vashon Island to Seattle. A snow-covered Mount Rainier dominates the panorama. It stands prominent, imperial in the dawn light (14,400 feet above sea level). (And it is true. Here in the Northwest, the first time you see Mount Rainier, you do a double take. Some Divine-sleight-of-hand. Where’d that mountain come from?)
The woman is wide-eyed, as if she is surprised by the mountain. As if she is seeing it for the first time. All of the other early morning commuters (and there are many) go about their business. Reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee. Paying bills. Talking with friends. Napping on benches.
“Looook,” she announces loudly, “we can see the mountain. Everybody looook!”
She has the demeanor of a person “not all there.” You know what I mean. She is clearly one of those people who “embarrass” us. (Or realistically, one of those people we choose to ignore.) As other commuters walk by, they (we) knowingly smile at one another and roll our eyes. She’s not normal, we tell one another in code.
“Looook,” she says again, pointing this time, almost reverential, “the mountain.”
I’ve seen the mountain a thousand times, but I figure, “What the heck.” So, I put down my book, and look. The rising sun has just crested the Cascade Mountain ridgeline. It looks as if it is sitting in a saddle between two peaks. The shaft of light from the sun glistens on the snow face of the Cascades, the color of a good English beer. It hits the Puget Sound, and dances across the water, now a golden pathway from the ferry to the sky. Mount Rainier, backlit and venerable in this morning light, appears etched, as if a great artist rendered it in charcoal or pen and ink. The water of the Puget Sound is gun-metal-grey, and calm.
To the south is Tacoma harbor, where a crescent moon hangs in what I can only describe as a melancholy blue sky.
I do not pick up my book again. I look. A morning vista as sacrament—a dose of grace; a brew, fortifying and settling.
“Looook,” the woman is talking again. “The mountain. Everyone looook, the mountain.”
To exit the ferry, we walk by the woman (still standing, still pointing, still talking), wondering, I suppose, what went wrong in her life, what finally snapped, and what made her leave her senses. How sad for her. We walk hurriedly, you know, in order to take care of those more important obligations awaiting us in our day. However. On this morning, the “crazy woman” is my sage. My seer, my rabbi, my priest, my pastor. She is my reminder. For whatever reason, she sees the day without the extra layers of defense. (Or if you’ll permit an impenitent play on words, she seizes the day, carpe diem.)
I tell this story whenever I can. And if you’ve heard me speak, chances are you’ve heard this story. And I never get tired of telling it, because it reminds me that I am grounded and refueled in the sacrament of the present moment.
And, whenever I tell it, I get gooseflesh. And that makes me smile real big. (Meaning the stuff I carry that weighs me down, is no longer quite so heavy.)
It’s not just that she looked. It’s that she lived the moment wholehearted. There is for her a very visceral engagement. She is, literally, all in.
This is what I would love to bottle and sell…
She didn’t need permission.
She didn’t need approval.
She didn’t need skepticism.
She didn’t need a motivation to impress.
She didn’t need evaluation or justification.
She needed simply this… “Looook how beautiful,” she says, “the mountain.”
She wasn’t speaking as a “tourist”, but as a “pilgrim”, absorbed in, and empowered by, the sacrament of the present moment.

These days, I’m grounded with Sister Joan Chittister’s wisdom. “We do not pray in order to escape the world around us. We pray with one eye on the world so that we can come to understand what is really being asked of us here and now, at times like this, as co-creators of the universe.”
One of the gifts on this Ireland pilgrimage is the stories about men and women throughout history, who did just that. The came to understand what was begin asked of them, in the present—often during a time of serious turmoil and unrest and chaos.

Heartened by our time walking Lough Leane in Killarney, County Kerry (in Irish it is Loch Léin, which means Lake of Learning, a nod to the 7th-century monastery founded on one of its islands, where Brian Boru himself was educated.) We found our way to Muckross Abbey—an Old Irish Monastery dating back to the beginnings of Christianity in Ireland. The first monastery reputed to have been built here by Saint Fionan sometime in the 6th century.
In all the abbeys we’ve visited, I’ve been heartened by the monks—who often lived in great isolation—their devotion and resilience a testament to the human spirit, inspiring respect and awe. Over 1000 years later, through stories and folklore, you can almost feel the monks’ presence, a reminder of faith and endurance.
And then driving the Ring toward the Kerry Cliffs. My Oh My. The cliffs stand over 1000 feet above the wild Atlantic and were formed in a desert environment 400 million years ago. (Out to the west stand the amazing Skellig Rocks one of only three UNESCO world heritage sites in Ireland.) And yes, I did point and say, “Loook!”
And if you’re in a bit of a hurry, the Ring of Kerry is not the place to drive. The Wild Atlantic Way leads over the Coomanaspig Pass. Both the ascent to the pass and the descent can be white knuckle adventurous—no matter from which side you approach.

One thing that did my heart good as I travelled around County Kerry was the number of signposts marked “Kerry Camino” or “Pilgrim Path”. The mystery was solved when I discovered the Church of St James in Dingle. This is said to be the place where medieval pilgrims would assemble before boarding boats to Coruna in Spain, from where they would walk to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela.
Buen Camino indeed.

BULLETIN BOARD

Today’s Photo Credit: My first view from the Kerry cliffs of Ireland. And yes, we walked and absorbed for quite some time… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them… send to tdh@terryhershey.com 

Yes, your gift makes a difference… Donation = Love…
Help make Sabbath Moment possible. I write SM because I want to live with a soft heart; to create a place for sanctuary, empathy, inclusion, compassion and kindness… a space where we are refueled to make a difference. SM remains free.

POEMS AND PRAYERS

Oh, Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds
and whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me! I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes
ever hold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made
and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me wise so that I may understand
the things you have taught my people.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.
Help me remain calm and strong in the
face of all that comes towards me.
Help me find compassion without being overwhelmed.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother or my sister,
but to fight my greatest enemy: myself.
Make me always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.
Translated by Lakota Sioux Chief Yellow Lark in 1887​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
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Music for the Soul…
New–
Sanctuary – Carrie Newcomer

TUESDAY APRIL 21 — There are two places we need to go often.
A place that heals you.
And a place that inspires you.
Both places embrace the permission (the invitation) to show up. To this life. To this day. To be here now. Because we know that we bring the gift of enough. To spill light where we can, in a world where darkness is real.
“My mantra this year has been the Hebrew words, Lev Basar, which means ‘a heart of flesh,’ from the biblical verse, ‘I will take from you a heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’” Thank you, Rabbi Dr. Ariel Burger.
Sometimes we wonder if we want that heart of flesh. It can be easily wounded. Or broken. And when that happens, we assume it implies limitation and weakness. And we wonder if we are “enough”.
It is then we need to hear Bryan Stevenson’s affirmation, “Our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing. Our shared vulnerability and imperfection nurtures and sustains our capacity for compassion. We have a choice. We can embrace our humanness, which means embracing our broken natures and the compassion that remains our best hope for healing.”

I’m grateful to have been recently introduced to the book, “Theo of Golden”.
“Theo, I appreciate that you’re such a sensitive man. You have a tender heart.”
“Not tender, Asher. Broken. My expertise in sadness is hard-earned. But I realize more and more that it is a gift. Living with sadness, accepting it, is easier than trying to pretend it isn’t there. It is another of life’s great mysteries that sadness and joy can coexist so compatibly with one another. In fact, I wonder if, on this side of heaven, either one can be complete without the other.”
“You don’t strike me as a sad man, Theo. If you are, you’re good at disguising it.”
As if to prove the truth of Asher’s observation, Theo grinned. The resident sparkle in his eyes for to the surface. Gleamed.
“Thank you. I hope it’s true. There is no virtue in advertising one’s sadness. But there is no wisdom in denying it either. And there is the beautiful possibility that great love can grow out of sadness if it is well-tended. Sadness can make us bitter or wise. We get to choose.”
I embrace two truths here. One is the gift of seeing and embracing the beauty inside, even in our brokenness.
And two, the affirmation to see that beauty in one another, with the affirmation that we are indeed connected, and on this journey—yes pilgrimage—together.
I loved reading this, from Crazy Horse (renowned Oglala Lakota leader), “I salute the light within your eyes where the whole universe dwells. For when you are at that center within you and I am in that place within me, we shall be one.”
On the pilgrimage each one of us walks, we are fueled by our inherent value. Those places of beauty, creativity, resilience, imagination, courage and humor. And kindness. Those places of healing. And places of inspiration.

Today, a life-giving day (for healing and inspiration) around Glendalough, Ireland, absorbing the history and gifts from the life and inspiration—and pilgrimage—of St. Kevin, at the remains of Glendalough Monestary. “The monastery at Glendalough was founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century. Kevin (or Chaoimhin – the fair-begotten) was born in 498 into a noble family living in what is now West Wicklow. He studied for the priesthood in Cill na Manach (Kilnamanagh) and after being ordained set out to find his calling.
Kevin came to Glendalough to follow his dream which was to find God in solitude and prayer. He chose to live by the shore of the upper lake, taking for his hermitage an artificial cave on the south side of the lake about 30 feet above the water which was originally a Bronze Age tomb. Kevin lived the life of a hermit in his cave for seven years. The legends and stories handed down to us highlight his significant personal qualities. Primary among these was his love of nature and deep respect for all created things. It seems he had an extraordinary closeness to nature and found his companions in the animals and birds around him. Legend also tells us he lived a very simple life, wearing only animal skins, sleeping on stones and eating very sparingly. Kevin soon became known as a holy man and others came to Glendalough to seek his advice, to be healed and to follow his way of life. Gradually, small monastic communities were established, including a walled settlement near the lakeshore now called Reefert Church. Kevin’s fame as a teacher and holy man spread far and wide. Over time, the monastic settlement at Glendalough grew to become one of the great spiritual centres of Christianity in Ireland, flourishing for a thousand years after St. Kevin’s death. Kevin’s story is often referred to as a journey from solitude to community.” (Thank you, Glendalough Hermitage Center)

WEDNESDAY APRIL 22 —

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​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… Some of the remains of Glendalough Monastery, featuring the tower. The monastery at Glendalough, Ireland was founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century. The tower had many uses such as beacons to guide pilgrims from afar, storehouses, lookouts and places of refuge in times of attack. They were also used as bell towers. Their Irish name is Cloig-theach meaning bell-tower…