I just wrote this song over the past couple of days. I’m pretty sure I stole the chords and the melody from another song in the podcast. Oops. I was looking for some hope in these days and a friend mentioned Julian of Norwich, so of course I went back to her glorious visions and remembered “all will be well, all will be well, all will be well.” Now she survived the plague, so she saw some stuff. This wasn’t a light statement for her. Somehow she held all the trouble and the pain alongside joy and hope. She moved through the suffering to the heart of God. She wasn’t avoiding the reality of her days — I feel like she dove down into it with abandon and there she found freedom and connection. She found a love that held all these these things together. So I just started singing those words, all will be well, over and over again and it helped it start to sink down in my soul. Eventually this song happened. Here’s all will be well.

Here's a blessing to take with you:

As you go,

may the uncertainty of these days

not weigh you down

or leave you in despair.

May the seedling possibilities

before you not entangle you

or leave you in fear of choosing

this way or that,

but may you find a lightness

as you release the outcomes

and the final form of the future

and embrace the holy Now.

May grace rise up

as you see again

an economy of love,

not fettered to this dust,

that shares each moment’s grace

with abandon.

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Here’s a song I wrote to say thanks to my congregation on my ordination. I wrote it last week—the lyrics basically came out start to finish while I was walking one morning. That hasn’t happened for a while. I made a few edits, and it took a while to find the melody, but it was a pretty quick process. Sunday reminded me what matters most is simply presence. Grace shows up when we're chatting in the hallway or having coffee or telling stories. And somehow my digressions and my faltering words and my awkward moments fell into grace. Somehow they were translated by love.

Here’s a blessing to take with you:

As you go, may you take the hand

of your Divine Mother

who guides you in gentleness and peace.

May you trust in her wisdom.

May you feel her joy at your presence.

And may the armor of your heart

fall away

as you are fully-known—

that you might live openhearted,

part of this great company

of grace.

Go in peace.

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This song has been in my head a lot recently. I wrote it more than a decade ago. I remember sitting on the back porch in our first house, looking up at the rich blue of late evening while it got too dark to see. It was a darkness that wasn’t dark. It was like a sea of blue coating everything around—dying the whole world some translucent indigo. I suppose our vision is always colored in some way. Perhaps seeing the blueness of our endings is a good way to see.

Here’s a blessing to take with you this week:

May you find that

your brokenness is no shame,

your weakness is no burden,

your uncertainty is not a lack,

and your heartache is not unnoticed,

for you are beloved.

May you know that love

that does not overlook,

but looks deeply,

that does not seek perfection

except to perfectly love,

and that welcomes you

into this glorious mystery.

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