Though I am small, my God, my all, you work great things in me.

My roommate and I just watched Fern Gully.  Once I got passed the epic cartoon mullets, circa 1992, I realized how terrifying that movie is.  Granted, it does all work out in the end, but the looming monster of steamy pollution sludge is scary and the humans cutting down the forest is scarier.
 

The main story line focuses on Crysta, reminding her that she and the rest of the fairies are what make the earth grow.  I can't help but to think of the Creation story, saying that humans are to have dominion over all the earth.  Fern Gully shows dominion by force, with Zack and the other humans cutting down the trees marked with a red X.  It also shows dominion by love and care as the fairies create new life and nourish the earth around them. 

I'm a sucker for the "Canticle of the Turning," which we sang last week in chapel.  My favorite line is, "Though I am small, my God, my all, you work great things in me."  Standing at 5'11", I'm not exactly short.  I am small though, like Crysta, trusting in God to work through me, teaching me how to care for the earth and all of God's creation.

Dear God,
Thank you for the trees.

Thank you for the soil.

Thank you for the plants.

Thank you for the animals.

Thank you for us humans.

Thank you for water, soil, wind, fire.
Amen.

Grace

Grace is certainly amazing. It the reason I chose to be Christian and a Lutheran. The heart and soul of the gospel. The greatest gift I've ever been given. The reason I believe God is bigger than all things.

But this week, I found myself resentful of several people around me. I was angry to the point of tears and no amount of foot stomping or door slamming would satisfy. I wanted to scream. Why did these people not see how hard I was working? How hard I am trying? How difficult it is to be who I am today?

This rage came on the heels of two difficult conversations. In the first, I was told I belonged to a generation of entitlement and needed to work on humility and gratitude (especially since I was training to be a pastor). In the second, I was reprimanded for not socializing with those I didn't know during the meal. I broke down. I found myself craving a little grace.

Wouldn't grace enable them to go gentle on me? Understand my story better? Forgive? And yet, as the waves of anger started to subside and I swallowed my pride and embraced these people who had hurt me, I wondered why I felt so free. I wonder now if my anger filled up all the space where grace would have gone.

Grace is funny like that, isn't it? Letting us hurt and rage and then flowing in and washing it all away? Does anyone fully understand it?

Vulnerability and Chaos

As seminarians we learn not only theology, the history of the church, the importance of liturgy but also the care of our flock. Pastors are the safety in the storm that their parishioners will run to in a crisis, in sadness, in confusion and need direction and comfort. Yet, who do we run to when there is a crisis? How do we handle the chaos in our own lives, or from that does the Creator give us those experiences that we are able to fully minister to others?

Wednesday, I experienced "the scare" that all parents unfortunately go through. My son went outside, and as I was in the kitchen for a few moments, I did not hear him. I went out onto the back porch, then down three flights of stairs, searching and calling. Our back gate of the courtyard was ajar and the silence was almost one of torture. My heart was racing as I sat on the floor of my apartment, uttering a primal scream and the fear; the questions seemed to weigh as if heavy stone. Where was my son?

I am thankful for my daughter who ran back outside and found her brother sheepishly peering out from behind a neighbor whose sons he had been playing with and forgotten to inform his mother. In moments as these, I am reminded that regardless of the collars we will don and the stoles placed over us we are still fragile , vulnerable children of God.

“Great Creator, you cradle us close to you as your children and guard us from harm. Guide us in those same loving ways to watch over those who are helpless, hurting or alone. Continue to send your angels to protect children everywhere, whether they are going to school, to play out in the parks or right in their courtyard. In your Blessed, Eternal name, Amen."

Declan Sullivan

Like Meredith on Sunday, I too was looking forward this week to writing about the most spectacular gridiron event of the year. But Luther Bowl will have to wait until next week. Unfortunately, I also feel the need to instead write about a tragedy. For the last two days, Declan Sullivan has been on my mind quite a bit. In case you haven’t heard, he was the Notre Dame student who was killed in a tragic accident yesterday at Notre Dame’s football practice. No, he wasn’t a player. He was a videographer taping the practice from a hydraulic platform that extends 40 to 50 feet in the air, higher than the top of a goal post.

All I keep thinking is that this should not have happened. Instruction manuals for most models of this type of hydraulic lifts warn they should not be used in winds higher than 25 mph. If you were in Chicago yesterday, you experienced the same kinds of winds they had in South Bend – consistently over 50 mph. The previous day the football team practiced indoors because of similar winds. Yesterday they moved outside, which is fine – but apparently no one thought to leave the videographers relatively grounded for the day. Sullivan reportedly posted on his Twitter shortly before the accident: “Holy ----. Holy ----. This is terrifying.”

At Carmel Catholic High School outside Chicago in Mundelein, Sullivan played football and was an honor student heavily involved in the music program. In interviews by the Chicago Tribune, he was described by those who knew him as “very intelligent” and someone who would “always brighten your day.” In addition to working video for the football team, he wrote “lively music reviews” for the student newspaper at Notre Dame.

Gracious God, be with all those involved at Notre Dame, and especially comfort those afflicted with burdens of responsibility. Hold the Sullivan family in your love. In this time of grief may they find peace and hope through your son Jesus Christ. Amen.

Books for a Liminal Time

Reading Week may have ended, but the reading hasn’t. Don’t think I’m complaining, though. For one thing, few things are more attractive during a windpocalypse like the one currently blowing through Chicago than a cup of coffee and a book. For another, this week’s lineup is a particularly good one.

On the agenda: Accompany Them With Singing: The Christian Funeral by Tom Long, Power in the Blood? The Cross in the African American Experience by JoAnne Terrell, Breathing Space: A Spiritual Journey in the South Bronx by Heidi Neumark, and This Odd and Wondrous Calling: The Public and Private Lives of Two Ministers by Lillian Daniel and Martin Copenhaver.

At the moment, I’m particularly enjoying the opening chapters of Daniel and Copenhaver’s vocational memoir. I looked forward to it, having already judged the book by its pitch-perfect cover, but I had not expected to be quite so moved by the depth of reflection within. It’s a treasure to read.

And in some ways, it’s exactly the right sort of book for this senior year of seminary, nine months of classes oddly stuck between internship and first call. It’s a strange time. Most of the time it feels like having one foot in seminary and one foot out – except that the one foot out is dangling because it doesn’t quite have a place to land yet.

Thanks be to God, then, for books like This Odd and Wondrous Calling, and for classmates and colleagues to discuss it with. Liminality has its blessings, after all.

The Lark in my Heartbeat

This week I did two rather unrelated self-care activities. I went to a retreat about Benedictine spirituality and a Josh Ritter concert. On the retreat we talked about the importance of taking Sabbath time. One of the presenters shared one of her practices for introducing moments of Sabbath into her day. She has a CD of chants she plays in her office. When her favorite song comes on she stops what she is doing to devote her attention to listening to the song. For two minutes she takes time to breathe and re-center herself on God.

It seemed like a simple practice so I decided to give it a try. Only problem is I don’t have any chant music. Nor did I think I would like listening to a CD of chanting all the time. But I can listen to quite a bit of Josh Ritter. So I tried it using “Lark” off of Josh Ritter’s new CD So Runs the World Away. The chorus of the song goes like this:

I am assured, yes I am assured yes
I am assured that peace will come to me
A peace that can yes surpass the speed yes
Of my understanding and my need

The song helps me remember that in the midst of all the crazy I can find peace. The three minutes and five seconds of the song takes no time out of my day yet leaves me feeling refreshed, focused, and assured of God’s desire for peace in my life. Josh Ritter spirituality, somehow I think St Benedict would approve.

To Do or Not To Do

Sometimes I feel like I create a To Do List…, only to show myself everything I did not get done in a week. Don’t get me wrong, reading week has been a great refresher, but there has been one big elephant in the room, and that is Greek. I wanted to put my focus on a lot of different assignments this week, but the one that kept me up most nights and busy in the morning is Greek. For this week, especially being a commuter, I was excited to have a whole week off since reading week doesn’t start until Tuesday, but Monday is, “school in July,” for me… no class. Unfortunately, waiting for me was a big helping of Greek assignments online. With all my frustration, I see the joy. I was able to focus solely on Greek this week without any distractions, especially in the beginning, when I had nothing due right away. Also, I made a couple of breakthroughs this week, and have some comfort as this week brings another helping of assignments, but now these are mixed in to all my other classes and their papers and mid-terms due this week. Although this smorgasbord can seem overwhelming, I am really excited to get back to LSTC tomorrow. It feels like forever, but I get to see all the people I have not seen in almost two weeks. Tomorrow at 8AM resumes classes for me and so starts the family reunion.

Virginia Theological Seminary

I've been waiting for my chance to write this blog, on this day, because I wanted to write about LutherBowl.  This great sporting event began as a flag football game between the Lutheran seminaries at Philly and Gettysburg.  It has since expanded to several other seminaries, including seminaries of other denominations.  I have a few friends that go to Virginia Theological Seminary, which is an Episcopalian school.  They, and my friends from all the other seminaries that LSTC's flag football team could play against on Saturday, October 30th, have heard my trash-talking.

Is it really trash-talking though when I just remind them that LSTC is going to win?

While I've been excited to talk more about flag football here, one of my Virginia friends posted on her Facebook the other day that their chapel had caught fire.  The article from VTS is here.  I checked the news to see pictures and I was horrified.  In a short time, their wooden chapel, consecrated in 1881 nearly burnt to the ground.  Here is a slideshow of pictures from the damage.  No one was injured, which is a blessing.

One of the stained glass windows was definitely destroyed.  The quote above it read, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel."  I don't really know what to preach at this moment other than love.  I want to show the VTS community as much love and support that we can.

I don't know that my friends from VTS will be playing us in football on Saturday, but I do know that I will be thinking of them and the community, trying to rebuild.

Loving God, Please be with the VTS community.  Comfort them.  Surround them.  Strengthen them.  Give them grace and peace in this time of sadness and destruction, making a new day for joy and building.

The Living Dead

Ever ponder the depth of vampire lore? Why are we so fascinated and intrigued by it? Of course there are many who would simply dismiss the fascination as a result of twisted sexual desire but I think there's something more to it than that. For starters, I think they provide an amazing commentary on our society.

In Charlaine Harris' series (made popular by the show True Blood on HBO), vampires are a part of regular society. They are a reality. The reactions of the human beings are varied and in some cases, quite extreme. Some humans accept the vampires after some initial skepticism. Sookie dates the vampire, Bill. But another group burns down a house while the vampires are asleep in their coffins inside. Another group is obsessed with the vampires and enjoys being their "blood donors."

Is this an analogy for how we accept the bizarre, strange, abnormal things in our world? How much do we scorn or accept what is different or other in our reality? I still encounter people here in Montana and beyond who struggle with the ordination of women and GLBTQ persons. They quote scripture to rationalize or justify their hatred and closed doors. And personally, I find I am most challenged by working in the dementia care unit where most "normal" social skills and cues are out the door, literally.

I think we are characterized, both as humans and Christians, by how we encounter "the other" in whatever world we live in. Do we accept without clarification or question? Burn houses? Go crazy?

If vampire folklore is any indication, we do a little bit of it all.

Short Trip Home

“So I'm back to the velvet underground, back to the floor, that I love. To a room with some lace, and paper flowers. Back to the Gypsy, that I was..”

I have come to the conclusion with all of the transitions and traveling that my fellow seminarians and I go through, from summers of CPE to internships away from the community, we are all wandering nomads and gypsies. And yet, when a place, a sanctuary makes its presence known, it envelops our soul cradling it in the comfort and remains steadfast, with open arms when we are weary.

Faced with hitting the proverbial wall after finishing papers and with a Pentateuch mid-term looming on the horizon, my own gypsy spirit reached out for that place where the grasses swayed softly to ethereal music in muslin green gowns; sparks of blue and white soared overhead, and regal queens, although shy roamed free, unfettered in golden brown dresses.

The unspoiled prairies and the stillness of camp called to me, where I had served over two summers and now took my place on their Board. It called out to my heart, offering me revitalization and peace and my camp family, whom I have grown to adore immensely, showered me with the love and care this worn mid-term seminary student needed.

Returning home to my treehouse, after a weekend of reunions and studying I was comforted that no matter where I roam, I will always have a piece of home with me.

God's Peace.

Treading Lightly

In 1673, two French guys canoed up the Illinois River toward the Great Lakes, eventually running into what would one day be called the Chicago River. Thus began the European settlement on the southwest corner of Lake Michigan that we now know as the great city of Chicago.

Today, it was our turn. While Marquette and Joliet had the help of members of various Native American tribes, we had David. David was our guide on the Chicago Architecture Foundation boat tour, barely able to contain himself with all the historical and architectural information he had to share. While we didn't spot any alligators, the tour was full of beautiful views of the city on this sunny day. These views included not only the massive skyscrapers but also the residential developments that have popped up along the river over the past 20 years. The river’s history since the time of those French explorers is full of human ignorance and manipulation, to the detriment of many Chicagoans. Just now are we beginning to learn to live alongside the river, appreciating it as a source of inspiration and serenity in the midst of the bustling city.

The river's lessons are many. May we continue to learn from our past, moving toward greater responsibility in our interaction with the earth and with the people in it. And may we always remain humble about our supposed knowledge, both in our science and in our theology.

Theology Duck

A few weeks ago I found myself having to write a sermon on a Friday. Fridays are normally my day off so I really try not to do that, but on this particular week there was no getting around it. The other problem was this Friday was an absolutely beautiful day. Being stuck inside was the last place I wanted to be. What to do? Luckily, I live in beautiful upstate New York. I took my laptop and went to Skaneateles, a little village on the northernmost tip of Skaneateles Lake, just a half an hour from Syracuse. I got a cup of coffee and found a little park right at the tip of the lake. Here is a view from the bench where I wrote my sermon.


This duck helped.
Great text, beautiful day, friendly duck, decent sermon. The life of an intern is pretty good.

Reading Weekend

A few days ago a girl in middle school asked me why I was doing homework if I wasn’t in college. Well, I explained, I’m in grad school. But then she looked even more confused. “What’s grad school?”

Good question. Maybe one way to answer it is with a snapshot of my weekend. It was spent almost entirely in the library. The usual suspect was to blame: a major research paper.

In a situation like this, I like to be in a place where I have lots and lots of resources at my fingertips… and where I can work late. First I stopped at LSTC’s JKM Library, where I obtained the passwords for an online database of journal articles dating back decades. But after hours, I head down the street to my second favorite library: the Reg.


In 1939, the University of Chicago discontinued its Big Ten football program and then, as if to drive home the point, built a massive library where the stadium used to be. The Regenstein Library – or “Reg” – is known as much for its brutalist architecture as for its book collection – a whopping 4.4 million volumes, including stack after stack dedicated to theology. And as an LSTC student, I have access to it all. Paper: completed.

Of course, my weekend was spent only almost entirely in the library. There were also those few hours spent wine-tasting with friends old and new. Koinonia, as another blogger recently illustrated, is as important as anything we do here – even during a reading weekend.

Healing the Body of Christ.

There was a healing service in our normal Wednesday Eucharist in Chapel.  I always hesitate with these sort of services, because I’m not sure if I feel renewed or healed by the laying of hands.  I understand that it’s not about “getting something out of it,” in a tangible way.  But what is it exactly?

Still feeling the olive oil on my forehead from my blessing, I looked over at some of the other stations in the chapel.  At one station, a staff member was laying hands on a faculty member who has recently received news that he has low-functioning in his kidneys and will eventually need a transplant. 

And the tears started to fall.

This is what I was supposed to “get out of it.”  Co-workers, colleagues, brothers in Christ, laid hands on one another for healing and wholeness.  There wasn’t a magic moment where I saw his kidneys suddenly return to 100% functioning.  This was a moment where the community of LSTC touched hands to head of the body of Christ: the people. 

When I sat down to write this blog entry, already knowing that I wanted to share this moment of the healing service, I was actually on an airplane.  Mid-writing, the flight attendant announced that if there were any doctors, nurses, or EMTs, that someone needed assistance.  A woman on my flight was feeling light-headed and needed oxygen.  An Army nurse, a nurse practitioner and an EMT all rushed to this woman's side. 

There was no oil.  There were no albs.  There were was no stained glass.  While I was no longer in Augustana Chapel at LSTC, the body of Christ continued to heal and be healed on an Alaska Air flight.

A Tale of Two Cities

Being a commuter gives you a set up of having two communities, I obviously have the LSTC community that I am a part of Tuesday and Wednesday, but also there is the rest of the week where I am in Kenosha, WI. My intense two days at LSTC sometimes can feel longer than the rest of the week, because I am in constant go, whether in class, hanging out (GLEE at 7PM), or reading in my favorite hideaways all over campus. The result is a busy two days. This week we have no classes after today, as we head into a reading week, which means I will not be gracing LSTC with my presence at all. Reading week gives us all a chance to catch up on some projects by cancelling all classes and activities. Now some projects consist of visiting boyfriends and girlfriends in far away lands, taking a quick getaway, catching up on missed TV shows, and of course, actually doing homework and reading. Most likely there is a given that some of reading week seems to be about catching up on sleep. For me, although I will still be reading, I am most excited for some extra time to be closer to my family and friends. It has been two months since I spent a Tuesday in WI. I am excited to get a little extra time in this community, which strengthens, refreshes, and encourages me to be a part of my other community at LSTC.

In the Dark

I'm a junkie for natural light. I'll open every window in the house or office before I flip on an overhead light or click on a lamp. I enjoy the softness of it. I enjoy not wasting energy when I can see perfectly fine in the given light. I just feel more content.

But... I'm learning that here in Montana, there is an entirely different way to be "green." I can't tell you the number of times someone comes by my office and says, "Oh, you can turn on the light...." To their credit, they don't actually flip on the light for me but they do give me a funny look. Additionally in a classic bulletin-versus-hymnal discussion, no one ever mentioned that it is more environmentally friendly to use hymnals. It just never came up. This is especially difficult for me after basking in the uber green collective conscience of the seminary.

So I'm trying to figure out how to define being green in Montana. I am surrounded by natural wildlife preserves and national parks, gardens in over half the homes, natural and local products in all the grocery stores, and a unending desire in everyone I meet to be outdoors and in nature. This last piece seems most crucial as we are celebrating the warm days that still remain and lamenting the onset of cooler weather.

It isn't green as I know it, but I'm discovering the deep joy that is Montana's love for mother nature. Why else would you live here? Or better yet, how can you deny the beauty when you live in the middle of it?

Psalm 27

"I know this rose will open, I know my fears will burn away, I know my soul will unfurl its wings, I know this rose will open."

As seminarians, we celebrate every time one of our peers is blessed with a call, and more joyous when it is one of our dear friends. It is a time for the community to come, dressed in beautiful, flowing vestments and joining in one chorus in affirmation. It is even more humbling and honoring to be asked to participate in the Rite of Ordination.

What was so important about this past Sunday was not because it was just another Ordination service, but for what it stood for. Somewhere, there was a moment where through the dying leaves of Autumn, under the darkness of night splashed with shooting stars, or as the whispers of nature speaking to one's soul the Creator reached out and touched our hearts and we answered.

Even with sometimes through the stumbling, the debris scattered along our Journey and when we doubt, those strong and beautiful mustard seeds sprout in the form of faith warriors who keep us in their hearts and prayers, and we continue on.

And when we come from the road tired and worn seeking shelter, we find those doors wide open with the sweetest gifts waiting: a meal, simple prepared and the purity of rushing waters over us, making us whole.

God's Peace.

Koinonia!

During orientation this year I remember people talking about the “struggle” for community at LSTC. Well, I’ve been here for five weeks, and let me tell you, coming from where I come from this is anything but a struggle. This is success! The fact that each of my professors knew my name by the end of the first class, and that some of my professors live in the same apartment complex as me is community. Having a wine-tasting with neighbors and friends, and then going to church with those neighbors the next morning is community. Finding a plate of cookies by our door after being away for a weekend. Having people around campus notice how long I’ve had cold symptoms. Having classmates ask me why I wasn’t at open gym last night. Continually seeing professors and students at my place of employment off campus. Having classmates ask me just how many hours I’ve worked at Starbucks this week, because it seems like a lot. These are all, to me, signs of community.

Maybe I’m biased, having just moved from a suburb of Los Angeles where it took real effort to get to know one neighbor’s name. Or because my last school was the largest seminary in the country, and I didn’t live on campus. But to me, LSTC has real community, and it is beautiful and wonderful to be a part of.

Conferencia

Last Friday I attended a Latino Cultural Proficiency Workshop hosted by the Metropolitan Chicago Synod.

I had learned about the workshop from LSTC’s weekly “Community Life Update” email. Having spent part of my seminary career in Mexico studying language and mostly Roman Catholic theology and practice, I was eager to see how Lutheran congregations in Chicago were opening their doors to the Latino community.

Nearly two dozen of us gathered at Resurrection Lutheran Church in Franklin Park, a western suburb about 45 minutes from LSTC. Most were pastors; I was the only seminarian. Many had come because they had seen the neighborhoods around their congregations changing, and they were looking for ways to better serve their communities.

Our leaders were two Latino pastors who were each leading thriving Spanish-speaking Lutheran congregations in different Chicago neighborhoods and suburbs, and one Anglo pastor who had recently presided over the merger of two congregations, one Latino and one Anglo. They spoke about their experiences and gave advice for best practices; we asked lots and lots of questions.

In the midst of the lively conversation, I found myself marveling at the new thing God was doing in our midst. Not growing the Lutheran church, not assimilating immigrants into US culture, no. Rather, in the meeting of different traditions, histories, languages, peoples, God’s Spirit was revealing itself in new and wondrous ways, showing itself in ways none of us – individual or community – could have imagined if we had remained alone. Isaiah 43:19, indeed.

(above: A mosaic inside the El station in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood.)

Prayer

“Listen Lord, Listen Lord, not to our words but to our prayers. You alone, you alone, understand and care.”

The lyrics above are from a song from the Taizé community in France. I led a Taizé-style worship for a while and know the song well, but the meaning of it never hit me until last week.

I’ve never been much of a pray-er. I’ve tried various types and styles and methods, but nothing has ever really stuck for me. I struggle with that. After all, I’m in seminary, I’m studying to be a pastor, shouldn’t I be good at praying?

But we were singing this song in worship last week, and I was feeling totally overwhelmed by the experience of being in a new place, juggling new responsibilities, and trying to figure out who I am in this new role that is “vicar,” when suddenly it hit me. Maybe my problem is I have been defining prayer too narrowly. Prayer doesn’t have to be carefully composed soliloquies. (As one of my favorite bloggers points out: “I leave that to the real professionals like Thomas Cramner and the Blessed Mother.”) God doesn’t need my words; God hears my prayers. Even the ones I don’t know or cannot speak; the ones “too deep for words” (Rom. 8:26).

And not only does God hear, but God cares. The God who is creator of the universe and Lord of all, cares about the worries and concerns of one small, lonely intern in upstate New York. This is, as Dr. Satterlee would say, some good news.

You may kiss the bride...

I spent my weekend going to Green Bay, WI and from there to Saginaw, MI, with one thing on my mind…Weddings! On Wednesday I was in my Pastoral Care class, and our discussion was all about…Weddings! In my own life, weddings are usually talked about at least once a week if not once a day, since I am also engaged and planning to be married in August. I also received a heads up from my best man that he was getting engaged this same weekend. So my weekend was jam packed with driving, dancing, and a whole lot of fun experiences..
Throughout the weekend, I was learning about families and their rituals throughout services and receptions. Some things were silly, like opening the dance floor with a polka called, “The Bears Still Suck!” It was then, that I knew I was at a Green Bay wedding. Others were more sentimental, like the wedding in Michigan, where the couple was married in the same chapel as many of the groom’s family. I came back from the weekend with anticipation moments like these that pastors get to be a part of, and how they play an instrumental role in bringing God into a marriage in its first few seconds of existence. I cannot wait to perform my first wedding, I know I will be nervous, but how exciting to be a part of that day, and show God’s love through two people, just like it was this weekend and hopefully in my own wedding as well.

Every Sunday night, my cohort group meets for our Pentateuch study session.  We typically read LOTS and answer questions for every week’s worth of classes.  One of our first days of class, Dr. Klein encouraged us to find a group to split up the work with for our own sanity’s sake.  I wasn’t sure if I would, because I’ve always despised group work.  Inevitably, somebody doesn’t pull their weight and one person ends up feeling bruised and beaten by the project at hand.  

This isn’t the case with my cohort group.  We meet every week, with our work for the next two classes done.  We’re ready to discuss Amorites or the Documentary Hypothesis or what the heck Zippora was thinking! 

And the best part?  We eat.  We come up with themes for our meals and have family time, as cheesy as that sounds.  Last night was breakfast, which included cranberry-orange muffins, chocolate waffles with whipped cream, spinach/leek/onion quiche, fruit salad and orange juice.  It was pretty amazing.  

   

I can study like this every day.

Creator God, thank you for bringing my classmates into my life.  I am so grateful to have them to share the journey with.  They provide food for the soul and the body.