A Coronasvirus Sermon: When Nobody Knows About the Future

photo by Nik Anderson / flikr

We find ourselves in a strange time. Most churches locked their doors for weeks on end. We have been wearing masks. Or should. Not getting too close—or shouldn’t.  Why we can’t even have a funeral or a wedding and invite everybody. Folks in nursing homes can’t even see their relatives. Same for hospitals. School teachers trying to teach via computer. Many of us confined to our homes and running each other crazy. Over 20,000 without jobs. Over 120,000 of our brothers and sisters dead. 

We are told that this virus may come back with a vengeance by October. But nobody knows. That’s the point—nobody really knows. It seems like our settled world has changed overnight. We can’t go anywhere without wondering if we will catch it. 

And the murder of a black man by a policeman before our very eyes and then another and another and another. And the eruption of protesters around the world. Millions it seems. Not to speak of the looters gone crazy.

photo by Russ Allison Loar / flikr

Now I don’t want to add to the TV newscasters who drone on and on and on. That’s not why you came here. But the point is: Nobody knows. Will school open? Will the Tigers play? Will we have to close the churches or the schools again? Will we or our families be touched by this pandemic. But nobody knows.

And so I sat in my office this week trying to figure out what to say today. Something all of us might take home with us and put on our tables and give us enough nourishment to keep us going. Is there any word from the Lord in this strange time?

History helps me some. 75 million died of the pandemic in Europe and Asia in the 14th century. And this was not the end. Over six million Jews killed in Germany And many of their survivors would tell us this was not the end. Bombs fell on England in World War II for 57 consecutive days and nights. Over 2 million children were sent far away into the country by their parents to keep them safe. The children were separated from their parents for a whole year. And that, terrible though it was, was not the end.

And guess what? Despite the hell of those days—they survived. They were different as were all of our folk that lived during the Depression and other hard times. And this has been true of all the terrible things that have happened since God placed a man and a woman in a Garden and said it was good and safe. And then the story adds: there was also a snake.

And so one of the things I fall back on is that there have been other times—-many times in our history —when we thought the lights had gone out forever. One of the things I have hung onto is that hopeful song that came out of England in the Second World War. Listen.  

  

“There’ll be birds over 

The white cliffs of Dover 

Tomorrow, just to wait and see

There’ll be love and laughter 

And peace ever after.

Tomorrow, when the world is free.

The shepherd will tend his sheep

The valley will bloom again.

And Jimmy will go to sleep

In his own little room again.

There’ll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover

Tomorrow, just to wait and see. “

So folks like you I am trying to find a bucketful of hope in our time. Or maybe just a thimbleful.

One preacher said that he always turned to the Psalms when things in his life were bad. And so I opened the Book to the Psalms. Sprinkled on almost every page is that wonderful promise: “The steadfast love of God will be with us forever.” And it’s true for them and for us all.

I teach a Grief Group a couple of times a year in Clemson. And they come staggering in. They lost

photo by Larie Shaull / flikr

husbands and wives. They lost children in car wrecks and drugs and suicide. They said goodbye to brothers and sisters and friends. It was like an amputation—life will never be the same. But over and over I tell them—and remind myself: “The steadfast love of God will be with us forever.” And it’s true for them and and all of us too.

But my text today comes from Psalm 33.18-22. “Truly the eye of the Lord is on those that fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love, to deliver their soul from death, and to keep them alive in famine.”

And that’s my sermon. Maybe we can go home—but not yet. We can all be kept alive in this time of our famine. If you run your finger down to the 20th verse of that same Psalm we read:

“Our soul; waits for the Lord; he is our help and shield. Our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.”

Four points here for us all. Don’t panic we won’t be here all day.

Our soul waits on the Lord. Wait. Who wants to wait? Most of us want everything instantly. Breaking News flashes continually on the TV. And so we have a crisis—and an hour from now we have another crisis and another hour another crisis. But it isn ’t over. The Psalmist says wait. That’s the real breaking news. W-A-I-T.

Alex Haley tells that when he was a little boy he would sit at the kitchen table and cry. Things were tough for black folks back then in Harriman, Tennessee, especially kids in school. But his grandmother who could scarcely read for write put her arms around him and said: “Alex, we don’t know when Jesus will come back—but he will always come on time.”

Mr. Haley went on to write Roots which was not only a best seller but a television series and a movie. He moved people everywhere. I guess he learned that his Grandmother was right: Jesus will always come on time. He still will. Wait.

The Psalmist is next: “Our heart was glad in him.” If there is an absence of patience today—we also have a deficit in joy. That’s our second word. Joy.

Sounds like a foolish word token mention today. This was not written by someone who buried his head in the sand. Read the newspapers, the TV drones on and on and on every day—complaints about everything. Every thing. That’s us folks. 

Towards the end of his life Paul wrote from prison to the church at Philippi.  He did not know if the Romans would kill him our not. He uses the word joy sixteen times. Over and over he wrote it: “Rejoice.” “Rejoice.” “Rejoice.” We don’t find much joy today.

In the middle of the depression when folks everywhere were having a hard time a Black church in  Chicago had a panel of speakers. The church was  packed. And when the old atheist-lawyer Clarence Darrow came to the platform he looked out on a sea of faces. Money and jobs were scarce. The plight of those black folks was terrible. And Darrow took advantage of the situation. He summed up his remarks by saying: “And yet you sing! No one can sing like you do! What do you have to sing about?” And an old black woman stood up and yelled out “We got Jesus to sing about!” And the crowd went wild. Darrow was stopped in his tracks. He was face to face with a faith that was real and right and true He just shook his head and sat down. Rejoice. Even in terrible times.

This next word is “Trust in his holy name.” The Bible spends a lot of time on this word: trust. The word means there is something you can count on. During the World War there was a play on Broadway. It was about a group of soldiers mostly young—going off to combat. They did not know what their future would hold. They didn’t know if they would come back or not. And someone began to play a piano. Most of them knew the tune. “Leaning on the everlasting arms.” And a soldiers began to sing and then another and another until they had all crowded around that piano singing their hearts out: “What have I to dread, what have I to fear, safe and secure from all alarms, leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” They were young and scared and just did not know. But they hung on, as best they could to trust: “Leaning on the everlasting arms.” Trust.

Just one more word. Listen: “Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.” Hope is this last word. Maybe it is the best word: “H-O-P-E.

photo by Michael Brace / flikr

Years ago we were in England and my wife and I decided to visit Coventry Cathedral in the English town of Coventry. Most of the church had been destroyed by German bombs that fell on the town and church one night in 1940. The cathedral had been built in the 1400’s. But the community and the church decided to rebuilt their church. But the members decided to leave the bombed out ruins as a reminder of what evil could do. So they consecrated the new church right next to the old ruins in May 1962. As a reminder of the power of faith and reconciliation. Life could go on despite the fact that 500 of their citizens died and 2,300 of their homes had been destroyed.

And so when we leave and maybe put on our masks or be confined to home or just wonder what will happen let us remember the Psalm. Wait. Be glad. Trust. Hope. We really can lean on the Everlasting arms. That’s a pretty good word on Father’s day and for use all. 

photo by SoulRider.222 / flikr

A Father's Day Memory

(That's my tree to the left of the house.)

This Father’s Day memory takes me back to a small village in Georgia. Cotton-mill town. Eighty one years ago—could it really have been that long? Yes, eighth-one years ago I came howling into the world one frosty October morning. Born at home in a tiny four-room house across from the mill. They had been married for years hoping maybe a baby might come. Never did. And then, surprise of surprises my Mother was pregnant. 

Finally the baby came. For them, it was almost a holy moment—because they had given up all hope. And yet there in the bed cradled in her arms was the baby. It was a time when proud Papas passed out cigars to friends and strangers. “Got a boy,” he said. “Got a boy.” Outside that little house he marked the occasion by planting a little tree. Just a tiny sprig—yet kneeling in his proudness he hoped the little branch would one day become a tree. 

He nursed that seedling as if it was his child. He would wander out in the morning before work, kneel down and look. On the hot parched Georgia days he would take a bucket filled with water and baptize the tiny green sprig. 

Miraculously the small thing grew and grew. It was an unlikely spot—beside our house, next to a store—across from the mill. Yet—somehow it flourished. I went back there last year and drove down the street where the mill houses are now crumbling. The mill had burned and only a shell remains. The little house is still there miraculously. Someone painted it green. And to the left side of the little porch stands a tree. It must be say, fifteen or twenty feet tall. It has survived hard winters, tornadoes and hot-hot summers. Mistletoe has attacked its branches—yet it still lives. It has endured the years when so much around the tree has disappeared. 

My Father and I had a love-hate relationship. Near-deaf he could not hear me—and I got tired of yelling. We never got along too much. And yet this man who never really had a vacation—never owned a car—only worked and worked and worked. He brought his pitiable pay-check home week after week. He paid our bills and kept the lights on. The little boat called our family had rocky days and yet he stayed. He did what he could. 

For a long time his anger and frustrations made me furious. I would pull away and turn my back. I don’t ever remember if I ever really celebrated his birthday or a Father’s Day. When he died I had a hard grief. It lasted for a long time. I kept thinking: I never really knew him. 

Several years ago a road-show came to South Carolina. It was a play about mill people. It talked about the tiny pleasures they found after long days in the mill. They laughed and danced and loved their hard lives. And as I sat there watching that story unfold—I saw my parents as I had never seen them before. Young, in love, full of promise and dreams. 

Through the years the marriage unraveled and yet they stayed and raised their boys and did what they could. And sitting in that darkened theatre watching the mill story being told—I saw a side of them I had never seen. And I remember wiping away the tears.

Father’s Day is a hard time for many of us. Kids are abandoned or abused or just ignored. There are too-many dead-beat Dads. But despite my own winding father-journey this day I tip my hat and offer a thanks. Once upon a time my Father, on the week of my birth, knelt down and planted a tree—and it stands to this day. 

Maybe there is a parable here for many of us. He did what he could. He loved in his own way. And every Father’s Day I remember a tree and a time when somebody celebrated my birth was laughter and great joy. Maybe there is no greater gift than that.

(I words this piece abut my Father in June, 2017. This day stitrs that memory all over again. Remember your own Father today and every day.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Pentecost is Far from Over

photo by Romanus_too / flikr

Pentecost Sunday is over. It’s time to put away the symbols of the coming of the spirit. Whether it be fire or a group of people representing various nations reading every other Acts 2 verse in some foreign language. Some of us wondered what to do with all those balloons we were to pump full of helium and have the congregation lift them toward the skies. Pentecost, the birthday of the church was strange yesterday. Nobody there—well, many places. Pews empty—mostly. Nobody to blow the candles out. Who ever heard of a birthday party via video.  And for those who decided to risk it the Ushers wore masks, like bandits, nobody joined hands and sang “There’s a sweet, sweet, spirit in this place…” Why we couldn’t even hug or pass the peace or sing triumphantly.  We were supposed to sit six feet apart and use those sanitizer bottles after the offering plates passed our way. What spirit…what place?

photo by Luke Jones / flikr

This Pentecost was set in a strange frame. Many of the old folks still confined to homes after two months. Not even able to visit our sick in hospitals or nursing homes. Immediate family only at grave-sites. And across the land our dead have reached over 100,000 and the end is not yet. What few places we ventured out to they take our temperatures with a strange-looking gizmo. 

The TV reports riots and protests are starting all over the country. Most of us could hardly bare to look at that terrible scene in Minneapolis as a policeman put his knee or foot on George Floyd’s neck for 8 minutes until he died with three other policemen were standing there just looking. By morning there were protests and riots in 48 of our states. We put our hand over our mouths, whispering: “My God, what a terrible time.”

And Pentecost came. Appears to be a very poor joke. Hungry children. Foreclosures everywhere. Many of those angry ones in the streets had little to lose. Their jobs were gone. Many had little or no health insurance and the future looked bleak indeed. Small wonder so much rage out there. This powder key was bound to have gone off.

Should we have post phoned Pentecost like we did so many graduations,  sporting events, school openings and weddings. Maybe pencil in the middle September or October as an alternate Pentecost.

Maybe the backdrop of yesterday’s Pentecost was no mistake. That first day when the believers were all together in one room. The Scriptures do not say why. Maybe they were scared out of their wits. Or trying to understand that strange word: Resurrection. Or just knocked off their feet. That day the wind blew and the fire fell and people heard in their own languages and they left there dizzy and hopeful. Jesus was right. He really did send his spirit—his comforter to be with them forever. And they left there to write down the story over and over. They met in little homes to talk about what had happened. Like a wild fire this gos-pel—this good news spread.

The world of course thought they were nuts. For on that Pentecost Sunday crosses lined the roads of those who did not obey Rome and its Emperor. Disciple after disciple were martyred. The Jews—God’s chosen people—were still subjugated to Rome. If they did not say: Caesar is Lord—well, they would find a noose around their necks or nails in their hands.  The official government policy tried to Hellenize all those Jews—give up their weird faith and stranger customs. Their taxes kept going up as their hungry children cried into the night and there was no safety net for anybody. They would be imprisoned if they were lucky to still be alive. They only had to give their loyalty to Rome and Caesar and Herod and Pilate. Was that so much to ask?

But Pentecost came and the backdrop of whatever hurt or injustice or pain or crushed hope there were—they told this story about that day when they least expected that promise of Jesus came true. And it kept them going. Despite it all. And that All covered wars and plagues and injustice after injustice and slavery and cruelty and poverty and governments not of the people or by the people or for the people. They stumbled away from those graves of their children and other loved ones. They suffered pain of all sorts. Yet they kept telling the Pentecost story.

photo by Anthony Quintano / flikr

The Comforter would come. He would heal their broken hearts. He would convict them of their wrongs. He would stand by them through whatever came. And he would be with therm forever. That Spirit would never cover them with security blankets because they believed in Jesus. Neither would it make everything right and fair and free. But this Spirit was their teacher reminding them that in this faith there is almost more than meets the eye. 

Outside our settled little communities safe and secure the nation and world still convulses. Fires burn too much away. There will be other deaths. My granddaughter said she looked out her window in Greenville to see a filling station-grocery store windows smashed, looted and everything taken away and left in embers. 

I remember someone writing about one of the Editors at The New Yorker Magazine years ago. Someone gave him this tribute: “He kept going like a bullet-torn battle flag and nobody captured his colors and nobody silenced his drums.” It really is the story of the Christian church—and maybe all faiths. That power, unseen—yet real that kept them going. And us too, I hope.

It’s dark out there today folks. I don’t know where all this is going. But the light will come. And another day it will be dark again. But nobody, but nobody need capture our colors and nobody need silence our drums. Not because we are tough or strong or smart or from good stock or was

just born into the right family. But something much more powerful.The spirit—the Holy Spirit that came and that comes. To be with us all forever. Forever. FOREVER.

photo by Nancy Gowler: "Laying out letters for Pentecost" /flikr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

My Brother...the Virus...and all our Griefs

One year ago yesterday my brother died. My baby brother—79 years old. I have on my desk two pictures of him. In one photo his back is to me, he is staring at the ocean which he loved. The other picture in the corner is Gene when he was vital and very much alive. Just almost a year ago he did income tax for about 500 people. He was sick when he did this. Did not feel good and had lost a lot of weight. Getting through each day was hard. Yet he left his fingerprints over 500 IRS forms. Weeks later he put away his pen, closed down his computer went to the hospital and died just one year ago.

Someone has said that losing a brother or sister is largely ignored by most people. But not the grievers. Brothers or sisters. Just knowing I can’t pick up the phone and call him is a great sadness.  And saying goodbye takes a long time. And a year is not long enough for the healing to work its way out.

But if his death had occurred this year—this May. My mourning and all those who loved him would be far different today. There would no goodbyes for family members surrounding him as he slipped away into the mystery. The coronavirus changed it all. We couldn’t even go into the hospital. Many, many could even see their loved ones in Hospice. This virus has left too much unfinished business. There would have been a small grave service for just a sprinkling of family. There would have been no hugs or tears together or sharing “I remember…” stories. So after the funeral we would once again move our separate ways. Wearing masks—or should. Standing six feet away from others—even those we love the most. This loss would be different. 

photo courtesy of www.vperemen.com

Just ask those 5.7 million who have contracted this virus around the globe. Or their loved ones. 357,254 of these did not recover. We have lost 101,217 in our country. We mourn their passing whether we know them or not.  

 I remember the first time I visited the 9/11 Memorial. One room was filled with pictures of so many lost that terrible day in New York. I did not know a single one of them personally—yet they all had names and dreams and family members and children and parents and friends. I was overwhelmed to see all those faces caught in that 9/11 net that came from all over the world to our country.

And so as I ponder our over 101,000 dead I have the same feeling I had that day in New York. I knew not a single one of these that had died personally. Yet like 9/11 they were somebody’s child or mate or loved one or friend or neighbor or companion at work. That day I thought of all the firefighters that climbed shaking stairs to save somebody but never came back. And today I think of all the brave soldiers—doctors, nurses, aides —scientists and gravediggers who have done what

photo by Andrew Dallos / flikr

needed to be done. They did what they could and yet so many were lost.

This virus has changed it all. Working at home for months—if we were lucky to have a job. All those living hand to mouth whose jobs are gone and will not come back. All those kids and their parents hoping the bus will come and bring food they could not afford to buy. And all those brave ones in grocery or pharmacy stores that work at great risk.

But I weep over all those who, night after night, are afraid that they will be evicted and all their meagre possession dragged out to some street. And the jobless—millions of people—some working two-three jobs and now their work has vanished. What are they to do?

What are we to do? Not only with the personal losses from other times that quietly come back yet again as if these we lost had just left us. And what are we to do with all those on TV Hour after hour and day after day reminding us that we not only have lost but we keep losing. 

After 9/11 for a brief time we came together, a band of brothers and sisters knowing we were in this together. Knowing that somehow we would make it through. And we did—for better or for worse.

But this terrible loss that touches everything and everybody has driven us apart. Spitting on Chinese that walk our streets. Social media run amuck with the ugliest and the craziest of rants. Death threats abound.The Tweeters charging some of the best and brightest of us all with murder or hatred so deep it is scary. Some carrying AK47’s into Courthouses and malls and trying in their own sad way to defend or hold back or just protect their little turfs. This loss has divided us even further than we were. Of course some grief works its way out as anger and rage. Name-calling and distrust of one another can be found in almost any town or county. This strange distrust of those who know something. Fake everything.  Where we are going and where will we wind up?  

I think of those cities in Europe that we have visited. They lost almost everything in the Second World War. Ruins everywhere. Death piled up on top of death. Economy in disarray. Yet they carted away the rubble, they rebuilt and they moved on even though they would carry their scars as long as they lived.

Grief is a scar. We are all the walking wounded whether we had buried anyone or not. Willy Nelson sang, in his plaintive way, “It’s not what you get over—it’s what you go through.”

And we must slosh through this. We must be kind, hard as that may be some days. We must sit in stillness and wipe away tears not knowing where they come from. Yes, it all seems like utter helplessness. But it isn’t. 

We will get through this with all its scary complications. And we will be different. I tell my grief groups that losing someone we love is like an amputation. That’s the way I feel about my brother who died a year ago.  And this is really how we all feel—amputated from so much and so many.

The whatever is out there is not over. It may come raging back—we hope not. But whatever happens we must do what we can for ourselves, for all those we love—and for the nation and the world itself.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Memorial Day 2020--Remembering Time

  

(This is my favorite Memorial Day story. I have told this story many times and written about it in several newspapers.  I share it once again because it has so much to say to us all.)

As this Memorial Day approaches I remember a powerful scene that expresses what I feel about this day. It comes from a book by the Kentucky writer, Bobbie Ann Mason. The book is called In Country and told a Memorial Day story in very human terms. The central figure in the story was Sam who lived in this tiny town in western Kentucky. Sam was conceived while her Daddy was home on leave but died in Vietnam before Sam was born. All her life she heard stories about her Daddy, Dwayne and tales about the in Southeast Asia. Emmett, a good friend of the family was also in that war and kept telling Sam about her Daddy and what a hard time it was. He told about many soldiers he knew who never came home. He also told her about all the Vietnam veterans who were on the streets or were crippled in mind or body. Sam took it all in and kept fantasizing about a Daddy she wished she had known.

Emmett decided one day that it would be a good thing to take Sam and her grandmother, Mamaw to see the Vietnam Memorial. He wanted them to see her father’s name on the monument.  So one morning they got in Sam’s old car and drove to Washington. It took a long time. Mamaw brought a geranium to leave at the Memorial.  Finally they got to Washington, fought the traffic, and found the sign which read: Viet Nam Veterans Memorial and an arrow pointing the way. Parking was a real problem but they found a spot on a side street. They got out of the car and helped Mamaw up the path to see the Memorial.

And there it was. A black slab that just looked like it emerged from the ground. It was massive and held the names of the 58,000 men and women who had died in Vietnam.  That huge black slab was nothing like they thought. Name after name really told the story of those that had died in the war. People were everywhere. All ages. Some were kneeling and touching the Wall. Some brought notes and flowers. An old vet dressed in army fatigues held his hand over his mouth as he scanned the names. A woman wiped her face with a handkerchief. 

Emmett, Sam and Mamaw found the directory that told where all the names were. They finally found Dwayne’s name and the direction to where his name was. They found the section where the name was to be but there were so many names. They keep looking and way up high they saw the name: Dwayne E. Hughes. They just stood there looking up. Emmett took the Geranium from MaMaw and knelt down and placed it at the base of the granite panel. Mamaw said, “Oh, I wish I could touch it.” So Sam rescued a ladder from some workmen nearby, opened it. Slowly they helped Mamaw up rung after rung. She found the name of her grandson. Ever so slowly she reached up and touches his name. The old woman ran her hand over his name etched in granite. She didn’t say a word. After a long time she said, “Hep me down.” 

Then it was Sam’s turn. She climbed up and touched the name of the Daddy she never knew. When she backed down the ladder Mamaw clutched her arm and said, “Coming up on this wall of a sudden and seeing how black it was, it was so awful, but then I came down in it and saw that white carnation blooming out of that crack and it gave me hope. It made me know he’s watching over us.”

This ought to be a day for memories. Remembering all those that have died for us and for this country. Remembering all the brave soldiers of all the professions who have worked and dreamed and labored and lived and loved. Remembering all these brave heroes who have risked their lives in hospitals and nursing home--nurses, doctors, aides during our epidemic. All those who delivered food for those in need, all those who reached out in multitudinous ways. We would be different people were it not for some soldier, some teacher, some Mamaw—some person whose name is not inscribed on anybody’s wall—but it etched on the wall of our hearts. None of them died in vain. Take a few moments and remember all the fallen. And all the heroes who really do make this country great. It is touching time—running our memories over the names and the faces of all those who have made a difference in our lives. And in our country.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Hopeful Words in a Hard Time

photo by Indraneel Biswas / flikr

Frederick Buechner writes that if St. Paul was writing today he would not say: Faith, Hope, Love but the greatest of these is love. Buechner says in this strange time if Paul was writing today he would say: Faith, Hope, Love--but the greatest of these is Hope.  

Seems to me that with everything is disarray we could all use a bucketful of hope. Well, maybe even just a third of a bucket. Even though things are beginning to open up many of us are not sure at all. Especially we golden agers (but a mite tarnished) still sorta under house arrest except for a few trips to the grocery store, etc. But not much etc. 

Once in another hard time John Updike wrote: "Fear is the mood. People are bringing the shutters down from their attics and putting them back on their windows. Fences are appearing where children used to stray freely from back yard to back yard...Locksmiths are working overtime. Once we parked our cars with the keys dangling from the dashboards, and a dog could sleep undisturbed in the middle of the street. No more. Fear reigns."

I don 't know if he was referring to the depression in the thirties, the Second World War when there were gold stars in many sad windows. It could have beem when so many were scared of the Atomic Bomb when we hid under our desks at school or blacked out our windows, or maybe even built bomb shelters. And many of us had nightmares of the dreaded Hitler. Maybe Updike thought of the Viet Nam war and that sad sculpture in Washing reminding us of over 50,000 dead. He could have had in mind the dreaded PTSD or the AIDS crisis. Or the opiod epidemic. Or September 11th or Afganistan. Maybe he thought of his Mother and Father's death and a friend's miscarriage and Grief piled on top of Grief. If he was here today he would know that fear walks down most of our streets or the wailing of more than 90,000 of our brothers and sisters dead many much, much too soon.

And in every terrible time we somehow made it though. And we will this time if we don't kill each other off first. Forgetting our past we still need a bucket of hope.

And this is why I sat down one day and calligraphed this piece. I remembered troubled churches, friends I had lost or the AIDS funerals I had--or just grief over someone or something that took the stars out of their skies. Dostoyevsky said it. That marvelous Russian writer who must have written in a very dark time. I give his words to myself and to you hoping may that feathered bird of hope just might sing again to me and to us all.

Not just God bless America but God bless us all. All. ALL.

--Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com

If you think this virus is a hoax...

If you think this virus is a hoax you need to listen to my granddaughter-first-year-nurse, Libby. She works at a hospital in Spartanburg (SC). She has worked on the floor where coronavirus patients fight for their lives. Even with all the protection she and all the other medical people wear to ward off the virus--it is still very scary.

Let's stay safe, listen to the experts and pray for one another.  I can understand people desperate to get back to work but life triumphs economy. We really don't know how our future will work out--but we must stick together. This is not the time for name-calling, ugliness--ignoring the advice of those medical and scientific folk who really know. Like it or not we are all in this together.  Jesus said the greatest command we have is to love. We cannot forget this.

Patrick Overton in The Learning Tree is worth remembering:

"When we walk to the edge of all the light we have

and take that a step into the darkness of the unknown,

we must believe that one of two things will happen--

There will be something for us to stand on,

Or, we will be taught how to fly."

God bless us all.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com