I prayed my gratitude.

That is a sentence that Wendell
Berry wrote. It is on page 252 of Jayber
Crow. Jayber is struggling with what
prayer is. So this morning as another
Monday of Gratitude is here again,
I prayed and thought about gratitude.
Pray it.

The weekend was busy. New baby coming
to a dear friend's son and his wife. I am
thankful for this first grandchild to be born
this summer and my friend becoming a
grandma! No one knows the baby's sex or
the names picked out. That family likes
surprises! Times of celebration mean
a baby shower. This one was for both
the dad and mom to be. I liked that!


All the choirs led worship last night at our
church. I realized if choirs don't exist that
hymns will probably not be written , esp.
for choirs. Revivals came in the beginning
of the last 3 centuries and hymn writing
flowed out to strengthen and bring praises
unto the Lord for worship. I am so thankful
for good music. Could be humming some
from last night as the fragrance lingers!

One year ago our oldest married ( yesterday).
I am so thankful for them. He takes the last
CPA exam tomorrow and needs to pass!
( pray if you read this today! thanks!)

"I prayed that terrible prayer: 'Thy Will
Be Done.' Having so prayed , I prayed for
strength. That seemed reasonable and right
enough. As did praying for forgiveness and
the grace to forgive. I prayed unreasonably,
foolishly, hopelessly, that everybody in
Port William might be blessed and happy--
the ones I loved and the ones I did not.
I prayed for gratitude."
from Jayber Crow

A good thing to pray for!
Practice it today.
It was Pentacost Sunday yesterday.
I am thankful for the Holy Spirit,
teaching and bringing light unto
my path:

From Luci Shaw's Angles of Light


If we understood everything we wouldn't
be baffled. But mystery lives; somehow
without witchcraft or chicanery

we collect sounds and colors in a skyward
dish, like fruit in a bowl, and channel them
into verisimilitude--faces talking at us

from the tube's glass eye. Hallways of fog
enfold us in enigma. And then, the marvel of
window glass--how can anything be

hard enough to stop the hand and
hold its smudge while letting through this
soft light? The one wheat kernel that

breeds a thousand--a miracle of
loaves over and over again.
The stars, invisible in the blind day

revealed, thick as pollen, by the absence
of light. A billion spiky grass blades that melt
into a perfectly flat horizon. The Holy Ghost

waking me in my bedroom, drenching my
dry heart with fluid syllables, breathing
flesh into the fetal bones of this poem.