On this Memorial Day......'Good Morning'

In Remembrance

This Memorial Day, we remember and honor with heartfelt gratitude each and every man and woman in Service, here and abroad, past and present. Still we know at the same time many people are living midst losses and tragedy caused by natural disasters and human hands. In this resourceful country, we have so much to be thankful for. Still, we also bare the wounds of towns destroyed by tornadoes, lives senselessly lost or taken, unemployment, and struggling families. 

Yet it is in the midst of these paradoxes that God, our Creator, speaks to us saying, 'Come to Me, just as You are and I will help make you whole.  Come together….Join hands……Come together in peace, as you work, as you pray.  Hear your heart beat…...Strengthen your faith…..Learn…. and Listen. I am with you and I will help make you whole.'  

This Memorial Day weekend, as you honor all who have and do serve the freedoms we so enjoy, you are encouraged to spend some time with the God of Mercy, the One who walks with you and I, 365 days a year, who lives in the midst of victories and tragedies……who calls to us saying, 'Come to Me, and I will help make you whole.'  

You’re encouraged to read and reflect on the words of this beloved poem, below, by Maya Angelou. Aside from her being one of my favorite artists, she has witnessed meeting God time and again within the paradoxes of her own life. 

Today, as I give thanks for all who have and do put their lives on the line for ‘just freedom and safety’, I pray that the wounds within our own country and around the globe will be healed by our coming together, in peace, in faith, with compassionate hands, in the heart of the merciful God who lives in the midst of our very presence. And with true Hope, I say to you, 'Good Morning.'  

Shalom, Susan

On The Pulse Of The Morning

by Maya Angelou.

A Rock, a River, a Tree
Hosts to species long since departed, marked the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens of their sojourn here
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than the angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness, have lain too long face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today, You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world, a River sings a beautiful song,
It says, come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country, delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside, if you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs the Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the Rock were one before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The River sang and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to the singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew. the African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, the Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, the privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They all hear the speaking of the Tree.

They hear the first and last of every Tree speak to humankind today.
Come to me, here, beside the River. Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on traveler, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of other seekers -- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.                                                                                                                     

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am that Tree planted by the River, which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours -- your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need for this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon This Day breaking for you.

Give birth again to the Dream.

Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most Private need.
Sculpt it into the image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.

Each new hour holds new chances for new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever to fear, yoked eternally to brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine dayYou may have the courage

To look up and out and upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.