I can still see them. My grandmother’s hands. I remember the shape of them, the humour in them as they moved when she told a story. The capable deft gentleness with which they approached pie dough. The quiet kindness they granted when they rested on mine. The eventual complete stillness of them was the one thing that made me understand she wasn’t there anymore as I saw them folded together, resting on her lilac dress covering what remained at her funeral.  Hands reveal our true character, the one part of us we get to take with us, as much as does our face.
Maybe more.


When I hear the communal refrain we share, “Our eyes look to the Lord,” a familiar desire surges in me to lift my eyes to His face. The very idea of His face melts me. I yearn for those times when I gaze at Him and He gazes at me. This sight has saved me, carried me, called me, changed me. I become both undone and put back together at the same time. A death of one kind and life of another. “My heart says of You, ‘Seek His face.’ Your face, Lord, I will seek.” (Psalm 27:8)  Aside from this, I don’t even know who I am.


But between our gathered voices, the cantor calls. This time in response I raise my gaze, and rest it on His hands. They are as beautiful as His face. The only thing in heaven made by humanity — the marks they bear. If seeing His face let me know who I am, then seeing His hands lets me see what to do. In seeing His face, He is my Father, my Abba, and love pours into me beyond measure. In seeing His hands, He is my King, my Master, and as I follow His hands, love can pour out of me beyond my measure, carrying His love to others that His gaze is on.


O my Abba, O my Master.
O my Father, O my King.
We have had enough. We need Your mercy, so we look to Your hands.
Mercy. Your steadfast love.
Your steadfast love on us.
Your steadfast love in us.
Your steadfast love through us.
Help us to be as a handmaid, as the Handmaid.
Let Your love come through our Yes.


In Jesus’ name, Amen.




Noreen Smith

There are many ways to walk with the Lord. It always amazes me that while the human condition is universal, the paths we take can be so incredibly different. 

In the last while I have found myself on some paths I wouldn’t have chosen. If I could change them, I would. I have begged the Lord for a change in direction or to send a miracle that would make the road easier.

Some that are farther along in their life’s path are probably not surprised to hear that God hasn’t changed my way. He is allowing said journey, and there is something He is doing with it. There have been inklings and inspirations of what is possible, and there is potential for great good. 

But, I would still rather not go. In fact, I’ve been fighting Him the whole way.

I wonder if Ezekiel felt similarly. Listen to where God is sending him — to a rebellious nation, impudent and stubborn, having transgressed against God. Not only that, but Ezekiel is to proclaim the Lord to these people, whether they hear or refuse to hear.

In other words, there are no guarantees that Ezekiel’s difficult journey will yield fruit.

God knows he can’t make it alone. But God knows why he should go, whether Ezekiel does or not. So He gives Ezekiel a powerful vision of Himself (Ezekiel 1). Imbued by His Glory, Ezekiel is literally picked up, entered into by God and set on the path. Finally, God feeds him a scroll of lamentations, which falls like honey in his mouth (Ezekiel 3). Now, Ezekiel can take his first step. Then the next step. And the next. He is walking; he is on the journey to the place he mightn’t have gone — for God and with God. 

Ezekiel will go on to proclaim God to the people. It will be difficult. In response to God's presence with him, most may recoil or even attack. But some may respond to a glimmer of hope and redemption in an unexpected and challenging place, perhaps not the least of which is Ezekiel himself. 

We don’t always get to choose our paths. We certainly have no idea how people will react to us along our journey, and we can’t guarantee the outcomes we would like. But we can choose how we walk and Who we walk with. Leaning in, God can touch both pilgrim and observer on the path unchosen.

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God, pick me up and set me on my feet so that I may take the next step. May You be glorified on my journey.




​Michelynne Gomez
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How many times in my life have I moved through it as though I were already dead? I’ve stumbled through activities, putting one foot in front of the other, trudging along and going through the motions. Doing things out of obligation instead of love, and while I may have a smile on my face, deep inside I’m feeling hollow. Surrounded by crowds of people yet feeling completely alone. Feelings of despair can overwhelm me, and I can think my way right into giving up on people or situations. I have felt dead inside, and at times, I have been.


I recall a specific time in my life when this happened. I had thought I was doing everything right. I believed I was a good wife, mother, employee, sister, and friend. I was busy with parish ministries, and it seemed like every moment that I wasn’t working, my calendar was filled with commitments and people, and I was surrounded by people and activity. And then a crisis happened, and suddenly my world became very small. I couldn’t bring myself to trudge along through the activities because I couldn’t even put a smile on my face and pretend. I was completely shattered and broken, and in my humanness, I felt deserted by those who had previously been crowded into my life. I felt abandoned, humiliated, alone and defeated. I felt dead. A few people came around in the beginning and cried with me, but mostly people avoided me because they didn’t know what to say or how to react.


And then Jesus crossed in the boat to the other side of the river where I sat, feeling all alone. I truly thought that I shouldn’t bother Him. Who was I to think I could ask Him to help heal this situation? He showed up in human form, in the person of a loving woman who saw my pain without knowing the details and gifted me with a crucifix. She prayed with me and told me there was nothing too big for Him, and that I should take everything to the foot of that cross. She told me that when I couldn’t go to Jesus, all I had to say was, “Jesus, come get me”.


Slowly, my ears opened, and my heart softened. I became willing to think that the crisis was actually a gift, and that maybe it was even a gift to share with others. I hung that crucifix in my kitchen and started to put one foot in front of the other again. I leaned into Him and His plan, and began to obey as He said, “Little girl, get up!” While it wasn’t immediate, I soon began to walk around with purpose again, and that crisis became a pruning, which resulted in a beautiful, holy, flowering plant, nourished with love for all to see as a witness to His healing power.


I have learned that the Lord will cross any chasm to come get me if I but ask. I have learned that I can call on Him any time of the night or day and He will come get me, taking what was dead and making it even more fully alive. I just have to believe.




Sandy Graves

For the past six weeks, I have worked as a student on an in-patient mental health and addictions unit, and I am learning to find a “fair balance” between my “present abundance” and others’ needs. There have been times in my life when I have had serious struggles with my mental health. By God’s grace, years of fruitful therapeutic relationships, and hard work in personal reflection and growth, I am currently in a healthy place. This is so important now that I am serving patients as a therapist, often accompanying them during painful and distressing times.

My role requires me to practice and grow in patient-centeredness — focusing on the identified needs of others, based on what they communicate to me directly and indirectly, in order to help people achieve functional goals in daily life to promote health and wellness. In training, I was encouraged to intentionally “use myself” as a therapeutic tool, because who I am and how I show up in interactions can promote healing. This is beautiful and risky, and the practice cannot be coerced. I need to be mindful how I might overextend myself, burn out, or become overly invested, and I must be aware that if I am not generous enough with my gift of self, I can come across as cold, uncaring, and distant. I am discovering how “worth it” the risk is though, as I witness how patients develop trust and choose to dedicate themselves to engaging in treatment.

There are similar dynamics in other relationships, and in this reading we hear St. Paul’s appeal to the Church in Corinth to choose to give of themselves generously for the benefit of others — also seeking balance and not forcing the gift. They are encouraged to give out of their abundance to help provide for the church in Macedonia, who are in poverty and need, while also considering their community’s well-being. We can sometimes be tempted to hold onto riches from a place of self-preservation — even when we have more than enough — due to fear. But there is no room for fear in Love, who calls us to become a sincere gift of self.

This does not mean giving to the point of self-destruction, but, rather, it means first fully receiving all that God has for us and then surrendering it back in abandonment and trust. The Holy Spirit may invite us to make incredible sacrifices for love, but always in ways that promote our oneness with Him — and as we learn to choose unifying actions, we also discover God’s infinite abundance. Through Christ’s gift of self, we have access to all the fullness of the Father’s love.

And this is our mission: to lead others to the Source, to God’s unfathomably perfect and abundant love. Let us accept it with generous and joyful hearts, with hope that others will be prepared to heal and to receive Him.




Kendra L.