It was a Sunday in my town.
It was a time for hugs and handshakes.
It was a table for vats of coffee, for buttery, church-lady baked pastries.
It was a tightening of guitar strings, a warming up of voices, a tempo check and a song change.
It was a sanctuary.
It was a Sunday in my town.
It was a moment for quietness and reflection
It was a morning for harmonies melding into song-streams stealing out across the field.
It was a hearing with the heart, an opening of the soul’s doors, a lighting of the spark of the Divine.
It was a sanctuary.
It was a Sunday in another town.
It was a laugh and a making of plans with friends who felt like family.
It was a lady rocking other women’s babies so mammas could sit in stillness for a moment.
It was a waiting for the passing of the cup, a rustling of a parchment page, a settling of the spirit.
It was a sanctuary.
It would not be just another Sunday in that town.
It would be a shattering of plans and futures.
It would be a silencing of heartbeats and a stillness of breath.
It would be an ending of innocence, a quietness louder than imagined, a stepping through the veil.
It would not be a sanctuary.
But there will come another Sunday in each of us.
There will be a rising of hope.
There will be a resurrection of dreams.
There will be a life that outlives the grave.
It will be a sanctuary of hearts and souls like we have never glimpsed.
May we make Sunday in our hearts,
May we gather with those we love, and with those we must choose to love.
May we grieve with those who ache, holding their sorrows as our own.
May we begin a crossing over the chasms, over the hatred, over the lies that say we are different.
May we be a sanctuary for another; may we be Sunday, bringing a candle of light to our small corner today.
