We Gather Together

“We gather together …

. . . as we have year after year. With gratitude for all that's been given to us -  our health, our families, friends, and food enough for all - we gather together to give you thanks.

“We gather together …

. . . With children whose feet now touch the floor, whose bibs have given way to napkins, sippy cups to glasses of wine. No longer squirming to play outside, they sit content and speak about life. For who they were, and who they are, we gather together to give you thanks.

“We gather together …

. . . With an empty chair at the table. Without that laugh, those stories, the emptiness at the table matches the emptiness in our hearts.  Still, we reach across the void to the hand that completes the circle. We gather together to give you thanks for those who were once with us, and who, by some wonderous and mysterious way, are with us still.

“We gather together …

. . . fully aware we're not a Rockwell painting. Challenges at work, struggles with money, disagreements within families, and distance from friends are not to be left from the table. Even in these, you are there and we're not alone. For that, we gather together to give you thanks.

“We gather together …

 . . . While the world spins in uncontrollable directions. Wars tire us, terrorists frighten us, and yet we feel safe holding the hands of those we love. For the gift of life, for the gift of these lives, we gather together to give you thanks.

“We gather together …

 . . .  and maybe it's that simple fact that leave us most grateful of all. To be given the gift of not walking through life alone, to have others we can love and by whom we can be loved, is perhaps the greatest gift of all. For that, we gather together to give you thanks.

What's in your Bible?

A current advertising campaign asks: “What’s in your wallet?” Recently, I thought of an interesting twist: “What’s in your Bible?”

The idea came as I visited my mother who spoke of a special note she received from a beloved nephew. “I’ll should show it to you,” she said, as she went over and picked up her Bible. Placed between the pages were countless notes and pictures. Clearly, these were the things that mattered to her most.

At first, I wondered if any of the notes I had written her were stored there, then if the placement was significant . . . What was stored beside the lilies of the field? The 23rd psalm? Book of Job? In the end, however, it was just the fact that she stored treasured things in the pages of her Bible that moved me most. I couldn’t help but wonder what I would put in the pages of mine?

The diplomas I worked so hard to receive wouldn’t be there. The few awards or citations that have come my way wouldn’t make the cut either. Job offers, or subsequent W-2’s, would be left outside as well.

For me, the hand-drawn birth announcements for each of my children would be tucked inside, probably near psalm 139.  The note my father wrote me to say how proud he was of me (after he saw how disappointed I was not to win a graduation award) would be stored near the father’s greeting of the prodigal son. And the letter I received from my Goddaughter while sitting in a 28-day rehab program would be folded beside the hope of having life, and having it more abundantly.

Bibles, while thick, have limited pages. We would have to select carefully, you and I, but my hunch is the exercise would remind us what really matters.

“What’s in your Bible?” 

The symphony

“It is finished,” said the composer.

After years of work, his symphony was complete, and it was his magnum opus, the work that would define him. As he assembled the sheets of music, it was as if they contained a piece of him, which, of course, they did. To listen to the symphony was to listen to his very heart, soul, and voice.

Because music is to be played (and listened to) he looked for a worthy conductor who, in turn, found musicians to make a complete orchestra. Watching as the musicians entered the music hall for the first rehearsal, the composer sat off to the side. His heart leapt as his piece began to come to life. In places, the tempo was quicker than he had imagined, in other places slower. Unexpected instruments were used, and there was even a crescendo he never intended.

In the end, it was his piece he heard, but in another it wasn't. The shape was more pronounced, the tone more subtle, and emotion more powerful. Now, the piece belonged not only to him, but also to the conductor, musicians, and, eventually, all who heard it.

“It works,” he thought to himself at the end of its inaugural performance. “My music has become our music, which, I suppose, was always the point.”

Amen.