During last Sunday’s pageant service, I wept.
I wept before the service began as I scanned the small in-person crowd and the larger Zoom one, random memories and images of years past flashing through my mind.
I wept as I began speaking to welcome everyone—we had overcome myriad challenges to get to that moment, and it was such a relief!
I wept as the pageant players appeared on stage—tears of laughter as The Star arrived.
I wept in speaking joys and sorrows, as we celebrated so much love and grief and hope and loss.
I wept as we sang Silent Night, room dim and (electric) candles illuminated.
I wept as I recited the words of Howard Thurman, such a humble and timeless reminder about the ongoing “work” of Christmas.
And I’ve wept a lot since Sunday, too—in a tense (but beautifully resolved) conversation with a family member; with frustration over political obstructions; in sadness as I read news and personal stories about how this phase of the Covid-19 pandemic is disrupting long-awaited reunions and much-beloved Christmas Eve rituals; with worry for the well-being of our children’s educators and our healthcare workers; with sober joy as members of our Buy Nothing group have responded with generosity to a single mother who asked for help.
I love these tears. I am not distressed by them. They are tears of laughter, of exhaustion, of worry, of grief, and of a deep and wondrous sense of awe about the extraordinary and ordinary ways that we are a community together.
And I cherish all that these tears represent—the memories, the stories, the wisdom, the people (you) that I love and cherish so much.
Bless you, UUCC. I love you.
Thank you for your encouragement and support as the paid staff enjoys a much-needed break next week. I hope you also enjoy some restorative time in the coming days. I’ll see you in the new year.