Aw Heck, if you've heard this already, skip it...

but if not,


it is almost as funny as the old Salman Rushdie joke about the Buddha....

Monster Truck Church Advertisement

My own personal round up:

Howard, my ill friend, is out of intensive care. I went to visit him on Saturday, driving the hour to Boston on a hot and hazy day. He looked terrible, but my friend Michelle says it is a vast improvement. I think there is good news in that the infection has not spread to his bloodstream, which was the big fear. But he is still in rough shape and the pneumonia doesn't seem to be improving. Your continued prayers are appreciated.


I am claustrophobic, so Boston is now, officially, a drag. The Big Dig has resulted in a completely subterranean highway system. Route 93 snakes under the city, with exits oddly branching off like tunnels to nowhere. You can't really see anything until you have emerged, and even then, the closeness of the buildings, especially around Mass General, leave you wondering where on earth you are. To make matters worse, the parking garages are all underground too. So, in order to park, I drove down 4 levels into the earth and had to take an elevator to the surface. I was so wigged out by the time I got to Howard's room, I was bordering on panic. But when I got to his room I collected myself, donned a gown and latex gloves and managed to stay for a couple of hours. I read him a book about God creating the world through the letters of the Hebrew Aleph bet. And held his hand while he slept.

On the way out of the garage, in my best robotic post-apocolyptic voice, I kept repeating to myself "please keep to the left. There is no exit. Do not stop. Please keep to the left. There is no exit. Do not stop..." I was in a sci fi dream of bloody sputum and bisque colored concrete walls, windows that overlooked smoke stacks and yellow hospital gowns. I crashed when I got home.

In other news, my parents left for Newfoundland on Friday morning. I had a kitchen tools gig on Thursday night, so I didn't get to hang out with them much before they left. I was sorry that we didn't get to spend more time together. I keep wondering if there will ever be a time when we get to just relax and hang out. The long distance thing sucks. It is just that simple. Nguyen and the kids and I went for a walk in the beautiful Audobon wildlife sanctuary in Seekonk, Mass today and I just kept wishing that my parents could see it. Of course, now they have a dog and wouldn't be allowed to bring him, so they wouldn't want to go there anyway. But it IS beautiful. We heard bullfrogs in the little pond and saw all kinds of birds and insects. Watched a chipmunk stuffing it's cheeks with maple seeds. And I am dying to get a field guide to wild flowers because I find new ones every time we walk.

And finally, Nguyen opened the pool today. It is an odd phenomenon that in our neighborhood, most of the houses have above-ground pools in the yard. Ours came with the house when we bought it and for all these years, we have had a love-hate relationship with it. Love it when it is hot, hate the expense and upkeep. We have NEVER gotten the thing open before the end of June before. But this year, Nguyen was determined to open it on the classic pool opening day: Memorial day. And sure enough, the kids are out there right now, swimming happily in frigid water. Our neighbors haven't opened theirs yet. We are worried that our promptness somehow signifies the end of the world as we know it: rabbits and dogs living together, highways built under the cities, the Nguyens have the pool open before July....

you fill in the rest.

Belated Friday Five

Five things I believe:

1. God.

2. I am a happier person for having Jesus in my life.

3. My kids are smarter, funnier and more beautiful than any person could possibly deserve.

4. Marriage really is a sacrament.

5. It is past my bed time.

a friendship undone

There was a boat-load of gay men.

It was the 4th of July, 1983. My friend Ron had borrowed his parent's little sailboat and was having a fireworks viewing party in Newport harbor. I was the only girl among 20 men.

When I first saw JP, I thought he was a wicked dork. He was wearing a pair of overalls and a straw hat. He was thin and short and spoke with a raspy, high pitched voice. (The result, I later learned, of damaged vocal cords and too many ciggerettes.)

But in the launch on the way back to the dock, we started chatting and realized that we had a few things in common. I was a HUGE Japanophile, having read every modern Japanese novel I could get my hands on... from Tanizaki to Kawabata to the grand daddy of them all: Mishima's Tetrology. JP hadn't read much Japanese literature, but he HAD lived there for awhile, while he was in the Navy. We both loved sashimi and futons and green tea. Plus, he was of Swiss descent and so am I. He had a great honking Swiss nose that reminded me of my grandfather's. He spoke 5 languages and was brilliant. And was the funniest person I ever met.

We became inseparable. My then-boyfriend was jealous, but I didn't care. JP and I would go out dancing until 2am and then find our way to the local all-night donut shop and drink coffee and talk non-stop and chain smoke ciggerettes until dawn. I would wander home and crash until sometime that night when we would get back together for another go round. He became my best friend.

That summer was the only time we lived in the same state. At the end of it, he moved back to upstate New York. I went to college in Providence, later to Hawaii to study Japanese for a semester, then back to RI. JP began an long series of moves, from Binghamton to San Fransisco, to LA, to New York again. We would rendezvous in various cities around the country for intense weekends of catching up. I flew to San Francisco a couple of times. I visited him at his sister's in Poughkeepsie. He stayed with Nguyen and I when we lived in Kansas City, stopping off during one of his many cross-country drives. In 1994, after the Rwanda genocide, we met in New York City for the Gay Pride parade. We stayed in the Paramount Hotel, ate udon noodles and went on the march... two of us in the midst of a million people. I remember thinking that it had to be a least a partial healing after the destruction of a million deaths. A million people, full of love, gathered together, in the streets of New York.

A couple times, JP came to RI to visit. He was here when Nguyen and I got married. He came to meet my first son. He would stop by on his way to the Cape. We knew each other so well we could talk simultaneously and still understand exactly what the other was saying. We would laugh so hard I'd pee my pants. I fell in love with his lovers, his dad, his sister, his nieces and nephew. I would chat on the phone with his mom for hours because she, too, had the gift of gab. We got into funny adventures and scrapes, like the time we had to walk dozens of blocks on a cold New York city night to pick up JPs car from the pound on 11th Avenue after it was towed. Or the time we danced all night in a dive called The Dive. Or loudly and embarrassingly practiced our Spanish swears with an Uruguayan friend in an Argentinian restaurant. (Who knew the word "shell" had such naughty overtones?) The waiters actually blushed.

But we grew apart.

It is the truth that when you have kids, things shift. Life and death both seem to bring about a change in perspective. I began to feel like we didn't have anything in common anymore. It became clear that we had a very different view of the world. As I was feeling increasingly at home in the world, and with God, JP was getting increasingly edgy. He seemed paranoid, sometimes. He always seemed to feel like he had to manipulate a situation in order not to be hurt by it. He trusted God less and less. This was ironic considering that the one blow-out we ever had was because he was a Catholic, and at the time, I couldn't understand how you could be intelligent and religious at the same time. (I was 18 at that point. Boy has that come back to bite me in the ass!) So as I was growing closer to God he seemed to be drifting further off center.

Finally, one spring, JP asked me to lie to a potential employer when he used me as a reference. He wanted me to say that he hadn't worked for several months because he had cared for his ailing mother. But it was a lie. His mom was fine. He had been unemployed because he was fired from his last job. That was pretty much the point when I decided that we were just too far apart in our world view to be friends any more.

For months, I struggled with whether to tell him. I cringed when I heard his voice on the phone. I avoided calling him. I grieved. I told myself that we had grown apart and that that was ok. The truth is that the one thing we always had a hard time with in our relationship was being honest when we were upset about something. We kept the difficult stuff to ourselves. We hid our darkness from each other. So, when I finally called him to tell him how I felt, it must have come as a huge shock. I told him that I wanted a break from our friendship. That I needed space. He was angry. He felt judged. (Perhaps I was judging him.) We exchanged a couple more letters as follow-up to our phone call, but it was over. And though I have tried to get in touch a few times over the years, I haven't heard from him since.

At this point, I realize that being a friend to someone means being there for them during the hard times in their lives. I honestly don't know what was going on for JP at that point. I was too caught up in raising a toddler. I never really took the time time find out. I just decided that the relationship wasn't working for ME and that was that.

Now I know that I betrayed him. I know that if it happened again, I would try to handle it differently. I hope I would be a better friend.

I pray that someday he will know that no matter what, I love him. I pray that he has found peace and love. Is he happy? In love? At peace? I pray for all those things for him.

And most of all, I want him to know I am sorry.

I am sorry.

Word of the day

Bloviate


I came across this word in the letters to the editor in the Providence Journal this morning and had never seen it before. As a word hound, I immediately ran to my cheap-ass American Heritage Collegiate dictionary and it was nowhere to be found.

Since the OED is in boxes in the attic, I jumped online (thank God for the internet) and found that it was slang. Hence it's exclusion from the AH 2nd College Edition. (Will somebody PLEASE get me the American Heritage 4th edition for Christmas?!?!)

The writer of the letter in the Projo was asking someone critical of the Bush administration to stop bloviating if they don't know what they are talking about. The writer was from Texas. How they ended up published in a Rhode Island newspaper, I don't know. Maybe it was because they used a fancy word that would send us bloviating New Englanders to the dictionary.

Laconic I ain't.

Granting forgiveness

Emmett, 5, has been a handful lately. He has been stubborn and ornery and uncooperative. He has been fighting with his brother and refusing to help out around the house. We think it is a phase of establishing independence, but it has been a trial for all of us sometimes. Yesterday, I told him that he was behaving badly and that if he didn't stop he would go to his room without dinner. He stopped.

But later, during dinner, he said

"Mom, I feel sad."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I have been acting bad. I feel sad about it."

My parents, who were eating with us, just about dropped their forks.

"Emmett, you can apologize, and I will forgive you. That is what we do. We forgive each other. Don't feel sad about it anymore. You are forgiven."

Later, out of earshot of everyone else, I whispered, "Emmett, God forgives you, too. He loves you no matter what."

"I know."

This morning at breakfast, Emmett told me that he had two more things to tell me. He lied about how much candy he had at Halloween. Twice. (Because he wanted some of his brother's candy.)

"Are you sorry?" "yes."

"Did you apologize to Noah?" "yes."

"Then you are forgiven for that, too."

"Thanks."

At which point I reminded him about the Lord's prayer, and the part about forgiving each other, just like God forgives us.

I believe my son has just made his first confession...

two weeks before his baptism.

"Prayer is a waste of time." She sniffed.

There is something about the acoustics of this particular Indian restaurant that makes it almost impossible not to hear the details of the conversations going on around you. Perhaps it is the octagonal shape of the room. Or the wooden floors and glass walls. Whatever the case, it seems that Nguyen and I are always seated next to extremely loud conversations, and try as I might, I can't not listen.

She is a teacher at a Catholic High School in Providence. The same high school my niece attends.

And she is planning to use the Da Vinci Code for a text book next semester. And announced to her father and boyfriend (who never got a word in edgewise...) that none of her students would end up practicing Catholics.


"Prayer takes up valuable class time when they could be learning something important."


What could possibly be more important than prayer, I wonder?

Check, please...

Coffee hour

I was warned: Don't volunteer for anything. Keep your head low. If someone asks, say no.

But I did it. I signed up to host coffee hour this Sunday. It'll be the first time at my new church.

Coffee hour at Grace church is a LOT easier than it was at Bell Street. It mostly involves standing behind the table and handing people cups o' joe. I think I can manage that. Oh, and I have to bring cream and cookies. But they reimburse you for it! It's not a big deal!

Uh, and I accidentally agreed to be a lector in June.

But that is it. I swear. I promise. I won't sign up to do anything else. Really. I know how this works from past experience. You agree to do coffee hour and suddenly find yourself chair person for the membership committee. And a worship assistant. And on the committee on ministry. And facilitating exercises at a leadership retreat. And oh, did I mention teaching sunday school? And doing 2 or 3 lay-led services every year. And redecorating the robing room. And sorting things for the yard sale. And no, I don't want to run the annual canvas this year, but I'll go ahead and organize the annual canvas dinner because, well, because I am just so darned good at organizing. (NOT).

Step back from the clip board. Walk away slowly. Keep your head low and for pete's sake, don't volunteer to do anything... You've been warned.

Of dogs, hawks, chicken and mangoes

Last night my brother had his first photo show opening. It came in the midst of a chaotic week for him. He is balls-to-the-wall at work. One of his elderly dogs had two seizures on Saturday... and seems to have had a stroke, as she is having trouble walking. He is in the midst of extremes: busy-ness, nervousness, grief.

My job for the show was to make appetizers. I am now uniquely qualified to do this since I am the Kitchen tools chick. After being stuck in traffic for an hour, I showed up with still warm chicken curry with mango chutney dip, hot artichoke and spinach dip and a Kalamata olive spread that involved copious amounts of cream cheese and finely diced red pepper. I had a padded brief case stuffed with my platters and woven trays and even had little porcelain handled spreaders with which to slap the aforementioned goo onto bagel crisps or apple wedges.

The show was held in the gallery of the Mathewson Street Methodist church, which is a downtown church that also runs a weekly soup kitchen. Appropriately, they didn't invite us to bring wine, as quite a few of the expected guests would be homeless alcoholics. We served, instead, apple juice and seltzer. My step-mother brought caviar and Italian tuna and potato dip. My mother brought Portuguese cheeses and grapes. My brother wondered whether anyone would actually go into the gallery with all that food on the tables just outside the door.

It was a huge success. My mother, who knows half of RI, invited all her friends and aquaintances and dozens of them showed up. Jake sold quite a few prints. The photos looked fantastic in the space and were extremely beautiful.

And yes, quite a few of the soup kitchen folks stopped by and helped themselves to the dips and fruits and breads and juice. One guy even took a 'to go' plate laden with a pile of food. He wanted to buy a print of one of Jake's photos... offered him the $1.75 he had in his pocket for it. Once it became clear that what he wanted was a xerox of the photo, my brother agreed to make one for him, free of charge.

Later we learned that the friendly drunk in question had served twenty years in prison for rape and murder.

I had a moment of horror when I realized that he had been playing with my children.

On the wall of the church was a print of Fritz Eichenberg's "Christ of the Bread Line." According to the minister's wife, Eichenberg made the image for the Matthewson Street church because he had been involved in their soup kitchen. I prayed for the drunk murderer when I was saying my prayers last night. And prayed for my friend Howard, who is now in the ICU at a Boston hospital... and who was friends with Eichenberg. Prayed for my brother as he faces the loss of his dog and the start of his career as a professional photographer...

Beloved,

It is all connected together somehow. Each thread of our lives entwines in some way to all the other threads. We don't see the connections most of the time. We see only what is right in front of us.

Help us trust in the threads, even when they aren't apparent.

My secret dream...

is to be a priest.

I once saw an image of a bunch of young seminarians in Italy walking down the street with the black robes flapping in the breeze, and thought to myself, I want to be that.

I saw a picture in the paper, once, of Catholic priests getting ordained, lying flat out on the floor of the sanctuary

and thought to myself,

I want to be that.

But the strange part is that I don't want to be a woman priest.

I am a woman. A mom. A wife. A student of Jesus. A disciple.

I am not a priest.

But I can dream.

prayers

My friend Howard is gravely ill, in the critical care unit of a local hospital. He has requested no phone calls or visitors. At this point I probably couldn't visit him anyway, since I am not blood kin.

But we are kin, of a sorts. I have known Howard since I was a child. He is a longtime friend of my parents. Later, he became a regular at my friend Michelle's parties. We have been meeting there, many times a year, for something like 15 years. For the birthdays of her children. Christmas. Summer barbeques. Year in year out the same folks congregate, sharing homemade food and inexpensive wine and good conversations. Oddly, we rarely meet outside those circumstances. I didn't get to Howard's recent retirement show. I have never been to his home. We have never met for lunch or a drink. But nonetheless, we count each other as friends.

I ask for your prayers for him.

Mini Dunk

After much prayerful consideration, I have decided to be conditionally (re)baptised on Pentecost. My children are being baptised that morning, and I feel drawn to join them.

It is not that I question the efficacy of The Big Dunk. Not at all. I believe I truly was reborn on that day. And I believe that is the basic gist of baptism.

But on that day, the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit were not spoken. It was a Unitarian baptism, performed by my dear Unitarian minister. And more and more, I am coming to feel that I want to be baptised in the name of my Beloved, once and for ever.

It is tricky, though, with an existing baptism... because I also feel that a single shot is all anyone really needs.

So there is this excellent loophole called a conditional baptism. I suspect it is more often used for people on their death bed, when a priest giving last rites has no clue if the person in question is baptised or not. It goes something like this: 'If you are not already baptised, I baptise you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit..."

It is a bit clunky, but covers all the theological bases.

Another, wonderful, aspect of getting (re)baptised in the Episcopal church is that my kids and I get to have sponsors. These are people who will pray for us, guide us on our Christian paths.... help us when we need it. My kids are going to be sponsored by two of my husband's siblings... both of whom are Catholics, but who have agreed to step in for this. My mother, too, will sponser them. And my sponsor is going to be Fr. P, which seems absolutely correct in every possible way. It is he who has guided me so patiently thus far on this path.

I may ask another friend to sponsor me as well. She, too, has played a role in my spiritual journey. And she is a chick, which might come in handy sometimes!

Truro

My grandmother and grandfather had a house in Truro, on Cape Cod. It was a beach house, about 40 yards from the beach. We grew up going there in the off season because they rented it out for the summer when they were in Canada.

Several years ago, my dad and aunt were given the house. Dad sold his half to his sister and after several more years, she sold the place outright. (It was a grueling decision, I know. Logistically it made sense, since she lives in New Jersey. It was tough for my brother and I who loved it and live about 1 1/2 hours away. But we couldn't afford it then and couldn't now.)

When my grandmother died a couple of years ago, we made a pilgrimage to the house in Canada to close it before it sold. We scattered some of her ashes. My dad carved an inscription in a huge rock by the boat house. It rained and snowed (in May!) for four days straight. We were there with no heat, huddling around a tiny pot bellied stove in the living room. Cleaning out drawers and closets and cupboards. Hauling out trash and treasures and pieces of our history. And the day after we left, my father and aunt went to the lawyers and signed away the island that had been in our family since the 1930s. We were crushed. And as we had no more access to the place, we really had no where to 'visit' a grave site.

But over the many years that my grandparents owned the house in Truro, they were very close friends with their neighbors, the Heiberg's. And the Heiberg's had a little plot in the cemetary in Truro, where they are now buried. And the plot had a little extra room, so their children offered to let us set a stone there for Granny and Grandpa.

Over the winter, my dad carved a beautiful slate headstone for them. It had an image of a loon taking flight on one side and a gorgeous moon snail on the other.

For the last few days, we gathered on the Cape to set the stone, place the remaining, combined, ashes of my grandmother and grandfather, and spend time together as a family in the place where, for years, we gathered.

We rented a couple of beach cottages for two nights, and despite the grey weather, had a great time. In two, tiny beach cottages, we stuffed 7 adults, two young boys, three dogs and a rabbit. It felt a little like Noah's Ark. Fortunately, the rain was gentle and intermittent (unlike RI, where it was, apparently, torrential and constant.) On Thursday afternoon, after drinking a toast in my Grandparent's honor, we went to the beach near their old house for a picnic. And sure enough, the sun broke through the clouds, the sky cleared and there was a gorgeous breeze off the water.

For awhile, I went and sat alone near the shore, listening to the waves lapping against the sand, smelling the grass and seaweed and ocean. Hearing only the vague mumble of the conversation of our picnic party. I lay on my back and held my scarf over my face to protect it from the sun.

I thought of God.

I felt grateful.


Helen Ritchie Hegnauer
1911-2003

Albert Henry Hegnauer
1900-1973

Rest in peace, you two. I'll see you again on the other side.

Things I love about attending a Christian church #37

Sometimes I catch my kids singing the Eucharistic prayer that our priest sings each Sunday:

By him and with him and in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and glory is yours almighty Father, now and forever. Amen.

squid vicious

If I had half a brain, I would have brought a camera. What a funny sight, all these Asians lined up on the bridge to Goat Island in Newport, casting bright pink jigs into the sea and pulling up dozens and dozens of squid.

The squid run once a year in Newport. In Asian circles, the news spreads like wildfire. Vietnamese, Chinese, Cambodians, Koreans show up from miles and miles away... some come from New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachussetts. They line their beat up, fancy, new and 0ld cars and vans along Newport's swanky boulevards and walk to the bridge to drop their line in and haul out nature's bounty.

When I was a kid, the squid run was basically ignored. Even though I grew up only a few blocks from where the run takes place, I never heard of anyone fishing for squid. We had mackeral runs which would capture folks attention in those days. No one ate squid when I was a child. And there were no Asian immigrants yet.

Tonight was spectacular. The evening was warm and breezy. We took the kids for dinner at Yesterday's first, then walked down to the bridge and retrieved our fishing gear from the parked car. We found a spot on the concrete sea wall and started casting our jigs amoung the hundreds of others.

Emmett (5) taught me how, as this was my first time. Cast it out, let it sink... don't reel it in too fast. Let it sit on the bottom and give it a little yank every now and then to attract the squid. We probably caught about a dozen in an hour. Nowhere near as many as the pros next to us, who had them by the bucket.

Squid make a strange sucking noise when they come out of the water. They spray you with sea water and ink as they drop into the bucket. They shift from a beautiful spotted brown color to a very dead looking gray within minutes.

And when steamed with ginger and garlic sauce, they make a pretty good snack.

RevGal Friday Five: A Very Merry Unbirthday

Birthdays:

1. Favorite birthday cake/ice cream/dessert

Chocolate reins supreme. Deep, dark, bittersweet in the form of some kind of gooey cake. Second would be my step mother's incredible carrot cake... which I happened to have a slice of last night since it was my dad's birthday!

2. Surprise Parties -- have you ever given or received one?

When I turned 30, I asked my friends to throw a surprise party for me! It was a huge bash. In a way, I really was suprised because my brother decorated my house with helium balloons and streamers. And silly string. Remnants of which can still be found, on occasion, 11 years later.

3. Favorite birthday present

For my 40th Birthday, my friend Tracy gave me a gorgeous silver cross which I wear a lot.

4. What do you think of those candles that won't blow out?

Love 'em when they are for someone else, LOL!

5. Best. birthday. ever.

It was a little early, but the best birthday I ever had was my first son's birth. (He was born 1/1/97... and my bday is 1/11. ) I celebrated my actual birthday with no sleep, sore boobs and a bunch of stitches where people shouldn't have stitches. And it was the most joyful birthday ever. (I can't even remember a THING about it! But I remember being very happy!)

deconsecration

How does this work, I wonder? I just got off the phone with my kitchen gadget hostess/new church friend and she told me that on Pentecost, they are deconsecrating her church. In my mind, I imagine taking the crosses and other religious symbols, stripping the altar (like on Maundy Thursday) and maybe sending up some incense. I can't imagine what that will be like for the people who have been going to that church for years, for a lifetime. Some of the parishoners are from families who have been members for generations.

Deconsecrating.

On Pentecost.

Beloved,

Please comfort your children in their pain and loss. They seek you. They know you in one another. They listen for you in their choir and their pulpit, at coffee hour and bible study. I pray that they find peace in the midst of their sadness. I pray that they see your face in places they don't expect it...


The altars may be stripped,
the bibles taken away,
but God,
you are now and will always be
present in that church,

and everywhere.

Oh, and one more thing-

If you are reading this, Fr. P, and want tomorrow's lunch menu to be a suprise, click off now!

I am really looking forward to lunch with Fr. P tomorrow. I feel a little out of synch with my daily practice and somehow feel that doing a post-Easter wrap up is going to do me good. Plus I am making fancy wrap sandwiches with turkey, bacon, avocado and banana peppers. Yum.

See below for the few other things.

a few things:

• My dad turns 66 tomorrow. For years he never really aged, but now he is beginning to actually look like he is in his 60s. But heck, 60 is the new 30, right? So, does that mean 70 is the new 40? (Does that make me 71 somehow?)
• Bunnies smell like timothy. And they are soft to hug.
• My brother is having his first show opening on May 18. To see his nature photography, go to his website.
  
• My hairdresser's teenage daughter is expecting a baby. I shared with my hairdresser that I will be starting to teach teen childbirth classes at the local Care Net chapter and we both were amazed (not really) at the timing. I hope her daughter chooses to join the class. (I got my haircut last night. The books for the class came in the mail today.)
• I have been listening to our local evangelical radio station lately and feel more and more that the term conservative and christian don't fit together comfortably. Christian is Christian, isn't it? If you are a disciple of Jesus and are willing to let God run the show, it seems like politics doesn't have a role in that process. At. All. I resonate with a lot of stuff on that radio station and someday will call them up and let them know that by constantly harping on the politics, they might be alienating perfectly fanatical Jesus freaks like me, who happen to be pretty liberal on the political scale. Can't I be both?
• I did reiki on a client today and spent the whole hour chatting with Jesus in my head. I love that.

Beloved,

Sanctify me. Help me dig into all the corners of my life and expose them to your love and your light. Help me open my heart to shine that light forth in all that I do. Sanctify me.