When I say: God of vision, Please respond:…guide us toward bold, faithful living. Be with us in courage and hope, as we do the work of your kin-dom here on earth.
—–
O God whose vision is far greater than all human scheming, We need your guidance and wisdom in this time.
We can find ourselves lost in the ways of human scheming… Lost in the sometimes convincing lies of scarcity and fear of other and our own self-sufficiency. Lost in the forces that promote violence and meanness and lack of care for our planet and the ways we are connected to everything.
Break through, Oh…God of vision, People: …guide us toward bold, faithful living. Be with us in courage and hope, as we do the work of your kin-dom here on earth.
The stories we have of you and your people throughout the ages hold so much, O God. Some contradicts, some doesn’t make sense to us now. But again and again, we see you reminding your people, and reminding us, that the ways of the world are not the ways of your kin-dom.
We hear the commands to love you, to love ourselves, and to love others. To care for the least of these, the ones in need, the ones cast out from society because society (the ones in scripture and our own) has not made space to care for all.
You challenge and overturn the ideas of power and strength, you lift up community care and laying down our lives (or letting ourselves be made uncomfortable) on the behalf of others without any expectations of returns on our investments.
It’s beautiful, God, the imaginings of this better world where all have what they need, where communities care for one another rather than focusing on individual needs and wants, where praise and love and worship of you inspires living that cares for creation and for all.
But the living in and working towards that world feels nearly impossible sometimes. We need you to rattle open the shutters of our own sight lines; break the patterns of this human world that are deeply routed within us; remind us of who we are and for what we were made and of your constant presence especially in things that feel impossible.
Leader: God of vision, People: …guide us toward bold, faithful living. Be with us in courage and hope, as we do the work of your kin-dom here on earth.
Inspire us, God, with the beauty of our communities when we take the time to pay attention and be present.
Strengthen us for the work of doing the seemingly impossible: Of staying soft and compassionate in a world that touts hardness and lack of care. Of welcome and inclusion and embracing the other when the world wants us to be fearful and violent and demeaning towards those deemed as “other.” Of being aware of our values and the facets of our faith and living them out in our lives in our word and action, when the world would rather us be unaware and complacent.
We need, you…God of vision, People: …guide us toward bold, faithful living. Be with us in courage and hope, as we do the work of your kin-dom here on earth.
We need you. We need your vision of the kin-dom of God painted across our imaginations, inspiring us daily to be the people you made us to be, to do the work you call us to do, to love and care and thrive and to take steps to build a world where all can be part of that thriving.
When I say: When we face the unknown, Oh God, and take that first step… Please respond:…remind us that you are with us and will be with us throughout our journey.
—–
God, it is said that you are the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end…that you were there before galaxies swirled before the sky separated from the waters, before all that we know came into existence. That you hold future pathways within your hands, that you know us and the choices we will make, even if they are the wrong ones. That you will be present long after our final breath in these earthly bodies.
God, that understanding of you is so expansive and yet, it is also said that you know us, fully, before we are born. You know the number of hairs on our heads, our innermost thoughts and feelings…that you are in our very hearts acting as guide and companion and parent and friend all rolled in one.
But God, both of those understandings of you are beyond our full comprehension. We are limited in our knowing, in our seeing, in our understanding, in our loving. When we hold onto the past we can get lost in the sadness and grief of what was or used to be. When we try to force the future and shape it in the ways we desire, we can find ourselves anxious and afraid to move.
We are creatures made for the present, without guarantees of anything beyond. But you, in your infinite ways, allow yourself to fit with us here. You stand beside us, walk with us, journey with us in the limited-ness of our lives.
When we face the unknown, Oh God, and take that first step… …Remind us that you are with us and will be with us throughout our journey.
In the moments of great joy. In the moments of grief and loss. In the moments when we feel lost or stuck. In moments when we feel we don’t belong. In moments when we receive hard news. In moments of tenderness and love. In moments of rage and disappointment. In moments of risk and laying all our cards on the table. In moments of despair and loneliness. In moments we forget. In moments when we feel we are not enough, or not good enough. In moments we believe we are too much. In the moments we doubt. In the moments we think we know for certain. In moments we hold onto and revisit. In the first moment and the first inhale. In the last moment and our final exhale.
In all our moments, sacred and profound, monotonous and dull, hopeful and not, You are there with us, ready to move with us into the next moment.
When we face the unknown, Oh God, and take that first step… …Remind us that you are with us and will be with us throughout our journey.
God, you also bring us together as families, communities, communities of faith so that we may travel the journey in all its twists and turns, together. Today we recognize the moments of those in our communities, ones of grief, loss, sadness, illness, alongside moments of celebration and joy. We lift up these fellow travelers in our hearts, either by naming them out loud or in silence.
…
God, we are not alone. Remind us of the community that gathers with us, the people who cheer us on, and your steadfast presence, as we step into each and every moment, of this life and whatever is beyond.
When we face the unknown, Oh God, and take that first step… …Remind us that you are with us and will be with us throughout our journey.
My first birthday after divorce (Aug 2, 2023), I started a new birthday tradition of taking myself out to breakfast, alone. I didn’t intend to, but I ended up in the hotel restaurant by myself with a book, filled up with joy after an incredible General Assembly that included so many hugs and conversations and even a bit of flirting in my newly-divorced single state.
It was quiet, peaceful, lovely. A transition point between the joy of being around so many people I love and shifting into time with my parents and kiddo before heading back to Washington, where half my time at home is spent alone. (I’m most always a half joy/half sadness kind of person, lol. 🤷🏼♀️)
I guess in order for it to be really to be a tradition, it has to happen multiple times…the next year (Aug 2, 2024), breakfast was with my love (the results of the flirting at GA the prior year ☺️) and we shared biscuits and cheesecake and went for a long walk along my favorite place, one of the prettiest stretches of rocky beach near Tacoma. True to form, it was part celebration and part sadness because we had to say goodbye that day, too, as he had to head back home where his kiddos live. Luckily, I had some dear friends who took me out for karaoke that night, so the scale was tipped towards joy.
This year, I’m coming off a week at a lake with my love and part of his family, and again, my heart is so full and grateful and uncertain that all this happiness is to be believed. This last week held moments that will be sacred for me, even if I don’t end up being part of this family. Fun and joy and depth and family and the night before my birthday, we gathered around a homemade apple pie….I was given a bag of number candles to pick out my age and ended up, with help from the youngest, at 123 (I’m looking great for my age!)…and they sang “happy birthday” and I’m pretty impressed with myself that I didn’t cry at the feelings bubbling inside. Family, belonging, laughter, love…things I wasn’t sure existed this side of divorce.
The next day, my actual birthday (Aug 2, 2025), was the goodbye day. But surprisingly, I didn’t feel a whole lot of the sadness. Maybe because of a grumpy car ride with kids forced to squish in the back while I sat up front. Maybe because the unprompted hugs that surprised and touched me. Maybe because it’s not so long before I go to visit. Maybe because I’m just so grateful that these possibilities still exist for my life. Maybe because I keep pinching myself to believe that the happiness is real, and mine, and I don’t have to grasp on tight in fear that it’s going to go away.
(Even though it might, after all there are no guarantees, I’ve learned (and am still learning). But I’m just so dang grateful, it feels too big for the small bits of sadness and grief to have much of a foothold.)
…And maybe also because I also treated myself to a Cinnabon cinnamon roll and, to my surprise, they were warm out of the oven and freshly iced.
Today, the day after getting back to my empty apartment, I took myself out for breakfast. My desire for these birthday breakfasts tends toward a place where my waiter will come refill my coffee cup, which somehow signals to my brain that I can relax and be, read and enjoy. This morning, I noticed they had fresh berries with whipped cream on the menu and it sounded good, so I added them to my order. I didn’t need the whipped cream, I thought, so I thought about asking to just leave that off, but then I forgot when the waiter took my order.
Y’all. It was fresh whipped cream and it came with the berries first, so I had some with my coffee and was potentially melting with happiness in my little corner table at The Original Pancake House. Not too sweet, but so very good, particularly with the fruit beside it.
I’m an enneagram 4, through and through, but I crave joy. And this season of my life, though there are very hard moments and the world seems to be going in the opposite direction and there’s so much else happening at the same time…this season of joy is so delicious.
So I savored that whipped cream and berry plate in little bites as I waited for the rest of my breakfast. I sipped my coffee and read my book and basked in the happiness. If I look closely, there are tinges of sadness at the edges, (long-distance love, uncertainty, not the home I wanted, far away from family) but it’s also so sweet right now. And I want to savor it all.
I have some delicious leftovers to look forward to. And some delicious life things to look forward to, whether they actually come or not, no matter how long they might take.
May my 38th (really the 39th because age numbers are weird) be filled with the moments of savoring the present moment. Holding the memories that are special but also being willing to jump out in fear when I feel the risk may be worth it.
If they aren’t, at least the story probably will be. Also, I think I’m going to add fresh whipping cream into my grocery store list… As my beloved Mary Oliver reminds me: “Joy isn’t meant to be a crumb.”
My early life was mostly filled with church and music.
From singing hymns in church every Sunday — I had two church home congregations for the first 9ish years of my life because my parents had separate churches! — singing in church choirs (note: more church!), school choirs, civic choirs, and at home (with my mom playing show tunes and, yes, more church music). And, while I was adamant that I would never go into ministry (why sign up for even more church!?!?), I did think a life without music would be unimaginable.
I dreamed a dream… a silent dream of a land not far away. Where no birds sang, no steeples rang, and teardrops fell like rain.
The way the music expresses the lyrics is just so incredible (listen after “teardrops fell like rain!”). I’ve definitely been in this kind of sad, silent space at different points in my life. Fun fact: I used this piece as the Act 1 finale in my music senior capstone at GW (Douglass Anne: the Musical!) to express the grief in discovering I had profound hearing loss and would need to wear hearing aids for the rest of my life…I thought it fit both the grief and the fear of silence!!
But I’ve also experienced this in figuring out the path of my life:
– in moving from musical theatre to (shock of all shocks!) ministry,
-in my last ministry search and call process (the dating app part of matching church and minister) where I discovered again and again that many of the churches who were interested in me and my leadership weren’t interested (or “ready”) for a queer pastor, even a married one with a cute kiddo!
-in navigating life and single-parenting after divorce, talk about living where it felt like no birds sang and teardrops fell like rain!
But it keeps going:
I dreamed a dream, a silent dream of a land so filled with pride that every song, both weak and strong, withered and died.
I dreamed a dream…
This is a different kind of grief. Perhaps one for your country that seems to be moving in very much the wrong direction? Perhaps one where those in power continue to prioritize their own wealth and power over the health and wellbeing of all those people they lead? Maybe one where pride — and here we’re talking the “Rome first (and only)” kind of pride that builds golden idols, I mean statues, and puts their face on coins and the like #MakeRomeGreatAgain #HailCeasarBaby…NOT the kind of Pride that we celebrate in June that seeks to embrace all those who have been pushed aside or left out or told their voices don’t matter and to ensure people know they are loved and worthy — takes up all the energy in the newsroom and it’s hard to find the joy and love and hope and community around us.
No alleluia, not one hosanna, no song of love, no lullabye. And no choir sang to change the world. No pipers played, no dancers twirled. I dreamed a dream…a silent dream.
You know we’re at a desperate place when the arts get silenced or their funding revoked, when it becomes dangerous to speak truth to power, to speak a word of love and hope, to call things out when they are wrong because it’s puts a target on your back. It feels like we’re at this point sometimes, doesn’t it? We need the alleluias and the hosannas, the songs of love and lullabies, the choirs and musicians and dancers and artists who dream better worlds for us and give us visions of what could be. We need the truth and the hope, the prophets and the artists. Especially now.
But then! *music change*
Awake! Awake!… Awake! Awake!… (Soli deo gloria.) Awake! Awake!
Awake, awake, my soul, and sing! The time for praise has come. The silence of the night has passed; a new day has begun.
Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Wherever emptiness is found, let there be joy and glorious sound!
Over and over and over, this moment comes, if we can hold on long enough. If we can wait out the silence and the grief and the heartbreak. It’s the moment you’ve made it through the sea that you didn’t know would part in order to make a path for your escape; it’s the act of forgiveness that you feel as your brother’s arms come around you in a hug rather than a death blow; it’s the moment food gets multiplied for a community to gather and eat together; it’s the moment your feet are washed and your body anointed with oil and you are called “beloved”; it’s the friend you thought you’d lost forever who shows up and invites you to break bread together; it’s the gift of fire and passion and Spirit to confirm that there is a new thing happening in this place and you get to be part of it; it’s the slow piecing together of life that’s really actually kind of beautiful, even with the sad and lonely bits; it’s the new relationship after heartbreak that makes you feel like you need to pinch yourself to believe it’s real; it’s the making do with the path in front of you until you look around and realize that maybe this *was* the path all along.
Twelve years ago, I gathered with friends and family, with three church communities, and took my ordination vows, had hands laid upon me blessing me into ministry, sang songs that are so incredibly meaningful to me and the path that I felt called to…to the faithful doing that I still feel called to. “The Awakening” was the prelude for my ordination service, which launched into “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore You” as the opening hymn.
Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Let all our voices join as one to praise the Giver of the song!
Awake! Awake! Let music live! Let music live! Let music live!
Twelve years later, my ministry looks very different from what I thought it would. But more and more, I feel a sense of (re)assurance that this path is a good one, though the twists and turns at times were through some challenging places, some silent places, some lonely places. And I know there are still twists ahead that I cannot see, that will make me feel every bit as lost as the ones that have come before. But I know that I am not alone in this journey.
The Giver of the Song is alive and well in my soul. The ministry of serving churches to which I was called has morphed from serving one congregation at a time to now serving a couple handfuls all at once, plus a few non-profits who work alongside churches and others. My work helps churches continue to do vital ministry in their communities and I think that is fulfilling the call that I felt, even before I was willing to admit it (because remember I was NEVER EVER going to be a minister!)…and I’m still figuring it out. I’ve learned to never say “never” when God is involved.
This morning, I celebrated Pentecost online with my love’s church and heard a good word on how small acts of faith, persistence, love, and action can build into God’s purpose for the world, if we will embrace and work at it daily. Then I attended in-person with my church here in Washington where I was the song leader and got to help the congregation sing some of the fun Pentecost hymns that inspire and uplift and make you want to dance. My church, First Christian Church in Puyallup, WA, is decorated not only in the reds/oranges/golds of Pentecost, but also the rainbows of Pride month. This congregation is Open & Affirming and is actively living that out in ways that have healed my heart over the last 2.5 years, and continues to give me hope in a world that feels more and more like the first part of “The Awakening.” We heard a good word on how all of us are needed in the creation and celebration of God’s something new, radical love meant to be shared by all. How much we need communities like these, church or otherwise, to remind us of the goodness and laughter and joy that exists in community and relationships, even with all the hardness in the world.
So today I celebrated my 12th ordination anniversary with church and music and Pride and love and so much joy. Seems like a fitting celebration of my call to ministry, which, I believe, is similar to my passion for music: It doesn’t end, it just continues with me, as a companion on the journey. For all my life, may music and my ministry call continue to sing and to join with others in praising the Giver of the Song of Life.
If you’ve made it this far, I’m sure you, too, are someone who has had an impact on my life. I’m so very grateful to have met so many incredible people along this particular pathway of life, friends and mentors and people I look up to and those who pray for me and love me and have listened to me preach or sing and those who have shared meals and laughter and tears! Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
Let music never die in me! Forever let my spirit sing! Let all our voices join as one to praise the Giver of the song!
Awake! Awake! Let music live! Let music live! Let music live!
Newly ordained, June 8, 2013
*(The others are “O Magnum Mysterium” by Morten Lauridsen and “The Lord Bless You and Keep You” by John Rutter – Thank you, Mrs. Sletto and Des Moines Children’s Chorus, Iowa Youth Chorus, and Heartland Youth Chorus!!)
When I say: Oh, God remind us that you are love… Please respond:…and love can change the world.
—–
God of gay bars, and drag queens, and parties; God of moments brimming with possibilities, and of ordinary moments, and boring ones, and ones that seem to be weighed down by heartache.
God of those who find themselves in uncertain territory, with bodies and minds that change, of those with family and community that have shifted, of those experiencing political upheaval or threat, of those whose homes don’t feel like home anymore.
God of those with no other place to go, of those who hope for a better life for their children, for themselves.
God, you are present with us all this day, wherever we are. Whoever we are. Whatever our circumstances.
Oh, God remind us that you are love… …and love can change the world.
God, today we pray for those who are in the greatest need of love. Those who have been abused or neglected, those who feel alone and isolated, those who can’t find their footing or see possibilities of hope for the future.
But we also pray for those who may not think they are lacking anything. Those whose hearts have hardened so that they can no longer recognize your presence or the importance of love and hope.
We pray for the ones who have been bullied and become bullies. The ones who had to be tough and have lost touch with their own softness and gentleness. Those who cling to hard power thinking that as long as it seems they are winning, they are.
You, Oh God, tell us to love our enemies, but it’s hard sometimes to recognize the power love has, especially when love doesn’t always seem to balance the scales. It’s hard to have faith in gentleness, mercy, kindness, and humility against the hardness of the world, hardness that seems to push us to toughen up ourselves, sandpapering over our own hurts and fears and anxieties.
Oh, God remind us that you are love… …and love can change the world.
Help us, Oh God, to remember the efficacy of your love.
Love that moves mountains and turns tides and changes hearts. Love that points to what is good, not just for one side or the other but for all.
Love that continues on, in spite of everything. Love that never ends, never runs out, never leaves us alone in our mess but is actively seeking to build alongside us.
Your love builds bridges and reaches out with hands ready to welcome someone in who has felt alone or been neglected. To make space for wells of sadness and hurt. To offer tenderness to the toughened up, to show care to the merciless.
Your love offers warmth and softness, alongside encouragement and challenge to remove all barriers that divide us, all things that keep us separate from one another and keep us separate from the wholeness of ourselves.
Oh, God remind us that you are love… …and love can change the world.
May all we do be in love. May all we do be with you.
When I say: God bless us… Please respond: …with vision to see your kin-dom potential, compassion to care for all, and courage to live out our faith in word and action.
—–
God, We gather again, this day, As an uncertain people, Your uncertain people.
Here to give worship and praise, Here to sing and pray as community, Here to remind ourselves of your presence with bread and cup, Here to lay our fears and frustrations, Lamentations and celebrations, Hopes and deep despair, Before you.
Here to pray for those in our community and around the world in need of your care.
God bless us… With vision to see your kin-dom potential, compassion to care for all, and courage to live out our faith in word and action.
God, there are many days that leave us baffled by how much there is to do in order to make this world more like yours, earth like it is in heaven. There seems to be no end to how far greed and pride and love of power and fear of difference will take some, will take us, father from your kin-dom. Farther from you. Farther from justice and mercy and kindness, father from humble journeying with you.
God bless us… With vision to see your kindom potential, compassion to care for all, and courage to live out our faith in word and action.
Oh God, you have given us stories and examples of your love and presence and persistance in making ways in the wilderness, of subverting the power of human empires, of lifting up the weak and the powerless and of caring for the least of these, of healing the sick and welcoming the outcast, of flipping over tables in protest of those who would take advantage and abuse systems of power, of calling out those who would condemn others without examining their own hearts.
May we walk in the paths you make as we figure out our way in this wilderness and as we seek to make your Kindom our reality
God bless us… With vision to see your kindom potential, compassion to care for all, and courage to live out our faith in word and action.
Chorus is from Aly Halpert’s song “Loosen” (video below)
—–
Loosen, loosen, baby, You don’t have to carry the weight of the world in your muscles and bones, Let go, let go, let go (3x)
God, It is heavy right now. The burdens we find ourselves carrying, that we hear about others carrying, that we see or hear on the news, both in this country and around the world: grief, despair, loneliness, fear, overwhelm, death, heartbreak… they sit in our hearts and on our shoulders and in our lungs.
They make us tired and sad and give us a sense of paralysis, that there is nothing we can do.
Help us shake off the human-made burdens so that we can see them for what they are. So that we can gain perspective, so we can find the hope. It may be dim, it may require work that we really would prefer not to do, it might require trust in ourselves and others when trust is hard to come by, but hope is there – for you are there, Oh God.
You are our hope and our redeemer, and you call us to be part of your kin-dom, to be people of your justice, truth, compassion, and love.
You remind us: Loosen, loosen, baby, You don’t have to carry the weight of the world in your muscles and bones, Let go, let go, let go (3x)
It is not easy to let go, God. In fact it seems that now is a time to hold on even tighter, to clench our jaw and squeeze our grip and bear down in the tension that we feel inside of us.
But you call us to more than constriction.
You call us to openness, to community, to caring for stranger and neighbor, for widow and orphan and refugee. You call us to be citizens of your world first, your empire alone, your body alongside a diverse group of others with different gifts and experiences.
You call us to the work of joy, of peace, of justice, of love. And we cannot do that work when we are holding our breath in fear, when we are making ourselves smaller, when we are only keeping our eyes on what we consider ours.
Help us, Oh God, to let go. To trust in you. To remember that we are not alone. We are not alone.
Loosen, loosen, baby, You don’t have to carry the weight of the world in your muscles and bones, Let go, let go, let go (3x)
When I say: God whose love is steadfast… Please respond: …Guide us forward.
—–
God of oceans, you know the churning waves, the rocking ship, the feeling of being overboard, overwhelmed by the seeming vastness of water and sky and waves crashing over us, again and again.
You who can calm waters, still storms, offer peace: calm the waters raging within our hearts and minds and bodies and world.
Set us upright; even if we remain waterlogged and far from shore.
Fill us with your spirit, your breath that expands and fills and renews life. Let us breathe deep in you, Oh God.
Clear our eyes, keep our aheads above the waters, so that we can see you.
God whose love is steadfast, Guide us forward.
Guide us forward, even into watery chaotic realms.
Remind us that you, through your prophet, Amos, called for justice rolling down like waters and righteousness like a an ever-flowing stream.
Remind us that it is you who quenches thirst with water from impossible places. You who gives hope and life, even when death seems certain, by making paths through watery chaos and dry desert.
Remind us that it is you who created life and water and all of creation, who makes something out of seemingly nothing, creates goodness out of what seems entirely void of goodness.
Help us, in the times when this feels like a watery grave, to find the strength and courage and faith in you to hold on. To push towards those waters of justice and righteousness. To act on the things within our control, even if it’s just how we react and act and respond.
God whose love is steadfast, Guide us forward.
Help us, oh God, to be merciful and loving, even when it seems counter to the status quo, especially when it seems counter to the status quo.
Give us hearts filled with compassion and care, not just for all those beside us in the waters, but for all.
You who give hope where there is none, who offers community when we feel absolutely alone, who casts vision and creates new beginnings when all we see is void and endings, Help us to transform these waters of chaos into waters of new birth. May we be co-creators in your kin-dom come, here on earth, within us and around us.
For the last few months, I’ve described myself as having these big pieces of life, none of which fit together in this season, and probably won’t for a while.
I’ve felt disjointed, disappointed because nothing, including myself, felt whole.
This morning, as I colored with my 6 year old at church, I was reminded of something I used to draw when I was an elementary school kid and had extra school work time to fill (which it seemed there was a lot of some years).
Over and over and over again, I would draw lines intersecting across the page, making random shapes, and then one by one, I would fill them in, one color appearing across the page, and then another, until the whole page was filled with varying sections of color.
Today, while coloring, it occurred to me that thisis my life. Not separate pieces of life that don’t fit together, but pieces of life in alternating hues, that don’t fit together how I thought they would, that don’t form whole sections of color. Instead, my life feels subdivided.
On the best days, I’m green and Bum, though I don’t always feel like I’m doing the best at being a solo parent. Most days, green sits beside purple, work that I’m proud of but that also takes a lot of time and energy. On some wonderful days, I’m varying shades of red, pink when I get to share time with my love virtually, and a deeper red on those chances to be in person together. I’m working to build the blue that is my community, dear friends who are scattered far from here, but I’m trying to figure out how to build connections in this place, too. The teal that is my family of origin that I wish could be alongside everything more.
It’s taking me longer than I would like to grieve that the pieces of my life are broken up so much. I’m so very grateful for all these pieces, they bring me joy and love and hope. And it’s not what I anticipated my life would look like. I thought green and purple and red would be together, colors swirled. I thought blue and teal would not feel so far away. I thought life was full of colors that joined and created pictures of holiday gatherings, and tucking kids into bed, and not spending so much time alone in my apartment.
But maybe my stained glass life can be just as beautiful. I know pieces are still shifting and will continue to shift, new ones will be added in, some may change shape and size and location, some may come alongside one another in ways I’ve not experienced yet, maybe I will be dazzled.
But for now, I know there is goodness in the midst, even when I grieve the brokenness. And I am holding on to that as much as I can. I will try to let the light hit all the pieces, mixed up and scattered as they are, and live in the reflection of its rainbows.
I was worried this year, because I didn’t have a poem to write for you for your birthday.
Though every year is a little bit better, there are struggles in the midst, too, and I worried it meant I wasn’t doing a good enough job of being your mother, that I didn’t have a birthday poem
But this year I did remember the birthday banners – the felt rainbow ones I made for your first birthday – and I put them up on the wall above the tv and on your bed.
I’ve just taken them down but then I remembered the Thankful Turkey which is now on the wall by your seat at our very small table, so we can add the things we’re thankful for as the month goes by.
I’d change a lot of things, my little love, but I wouldn’t change you for anything in the world
I’m not perfect, I’m sad a lot of the time, You’ve watched my tears on more than one occasion, asking me what’s wrong. And I can’t tell you everything, but you know what big feelings feel like, my sweet child who has cried multiple times because the bath bomb you got for your birthday is gone after one use.
It’s hard losing things we love. It’s hard knowing we’ll lose things we love, even in the best of circumstances.
But this year we had Birthday Banners, and I made you a Darth Vader costume for Halloween, and we’re going to have a Thankful Turkey, and we’ll decorate our apartment for Christmas (another new apartment to figure out how to decorate).
And we’ll make it through, with some tears, absolutely, but also laughter and joy and hope and cuddles and snuggling on the couch to watch tv and kisses and adventures and time to be with one another and new opportunities to be family together.
BroadwayMDiva 