It happens in every household. The supper is finished, the conversation winds down, and then someone utters the fateful words: “Who’s doing the dishes?” Suddenly, chairs scrape back with remarkable speed, family members discover urgent tasks elsewhere, and the dog must be let out immediately — even if you don’t own a dog.

Yes, the dishes. That never-ending cycle of cups and plates, the great equalizer of domestic life. They pile up as surely as manna in the wilderness, except that unlike manna they do not vanish by morning. No, they are still there, stacked precariously in the sink, silently accusing you of neglect.

And yet — believe it or not — there is theology in the dishes.

Psalm 139 reminds us that God knows us in every place and at every moment. Not just in the pews on Sunday, but in the kitchen on Tuesday night. The God who formed the stars and knit us together in our mother’s womb is also the God who notices when we mutter over a greasy frying pan.

Doing the dishes is an act of service. It is not glamorous service, not the sort that earns you medals or even polite applause. But it is service nonetheless. Jesus knelt to wash the feet of his disciples — a menial, humble task — and told us to do likewise. I sometimes wonder if, in a modern retelling, it might be washing the supper dishes instead of washing the feet.

In my very first parish, I was blessed to serve alongside an amazing honorary assistant priest, Fr. Kent Gardiner — a man of deep humility and an incredible pastor. Each year at Vestry, someone would propose that since the parish held so many church suppers, we ought to install a commercial dishwasher in the kitchen. Kent would rise, clear his throat, and gently say, “I wouldn’t use the thing. Some of the best pastoral work I do is gathered with others in that kitchen, with our hands in soapy dishwater.” And he was as good as his word. After every church supper, there was Kent — apron on, sleeves rolled up — serving Christ and his community one plate and one pan at a time.

And here is the deeper truth: discipleship is not made up only of the grand gestures — those rare moments of heroic faith. It is also made up of countless small obediences, quiet acts of love repeated over and over. Like dishes, it never really ends. The Christian life is not one glorious triumph but a daily rhythm of choosing to serve, again and again.

So the next time you find yourself staring at a mountain of dishes, remember this: holiness may be hiding in the bubbles. The sink can become a sanctuary. And in the clatter of plates and the swish of the sponge, you just might hear the quiet voice of God saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

A Prayer

Gracious God, teach us to see you not only in the great and shining moments of life, but also in the small and ordinary tasks that fill our days. May we find holiness even at the kitchen sink, and in every act of service, may we reflect the love of Christ. Amen.

Yesterday, I came into the office with a very specific list of things that I wanted to accomplish. The list wasn’t one that I would usually consider terribly long, but in my mind, every thing on that list was of crucial importance. But God it would seem, thought otherwise. Yesterday was a day filled with other distractions that derailed my plan almost entirely. Most of those “important tasks” are now on the to-do list for today. And do you know what? The world did not end.

We tend to live by calendars. Some of us are ruled by little squares on a wall calendar, others by a buzzing phone that interrupts us more often than we’d like. And of course, we are terribly proud of how busy those calendars look. I’ve often thought that clergy could take Olympic gold in the event of “calendar clutter.”

But then, along comes God — who, as it turns out, is not bound by iCal or Outlook. God has a habit of stepping into our lives when we least expect it, and certainly when we haven’t pencilled God in. Scripture is full of these “sacred interruptions.” Moses is minding his own business, tending sheep, when suddenly a bush starts burning and talking. Mary is making her plans for a simple village life when Gabriel knocks at the door. Saul is trotting along the Damascus road, intent on mischief, when he finds himself face-down in the dust. None of these were in the day-planner.

And yet, it is precisely in those interruptions that lives are changed and God’s purposes unfold.

We don’t usually welcome interruptions. They break the rhythm, they delay the task, they derail the plan. But sometimes it’s in the missed bus, the unexpected visitor, the phone call at the wrong time, that God does some of God’s best work. One of the saints of our Anglican tradition once said that interruptions are not obstacles to ministry — they are the ministry.

Now, I don’t mean to suggest that every traffic jam is a burning bush or that every telemarketer is Gabriel in disguise. But I do believe that God often meets us in the unscheduled moments: the child who needs our attention when we’re trying to finish an email, the neighbour who drops by just as we’re putting on our shoes, the quiet nudge in prayer when we’d rather be planning our week. These are opportunities to remember that the world does not, in fact, revolve around our calendar — but around God’s grace.

So perhaps the invitation today is this: instead of seeing interruptions as enemies of productivity, we might receive them as holy moments in disguise. Who knows? The person tugging at your sleeve may be the very one God is sending to bless you — or to be blessed by you.

And if that thought doesn’t lighten your schedule, at least it may lighten your heart.

A Prayer

Gracious God, thank you for meeting us in the interruptions of our lives. Give us eyes to see your hand at work in the unexpected, patience to receive what we did not plan, and joy in the holy surprises of each day. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dear reader, I have long cherished the quiet moments of prayer, when the silence itself seems to hum with the presence of God. But lately, I’ve also found myself thinking about another kind of prayerful sound: the hearty belly laugh. If silence is the hymn of the contemplative soul, then surely laughter is the psalm of joy — sometimes slightly off-key, but all the more beautiful for it.

I don’t know when we got the idea that holiness always comes with a serious face. Somewhere along the way, Christians began to think that God’s business was best conducted with furrowed brows and pursed lips, as though Jesus came not so much that our joy may be full, but that our frowns may be perfected. And yet, in the gospels, we find a Christ who brings feasts, banquets, and celebrations. The kingdom of heaven, after all, is described more like a wedding reception than a board meeting.

Laughter, I think, is a ministry in its own right. It lifts the weary heart, eases the load of a heavy day, and bridges the distance between strangers. A well-timed laugh has healed more wounds than a thousand sermons — though, I assure you, we clergy keep valiantly trying with both.

I recall once, after a particularly chaotic parish dinner, someone said to me, “Father, I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in months.” And there it was: holiness. Not in a hushed chapel, but in the clatter of dishes, spilled gravy, and the sound of friends roaring with laughter until tears came. That night, joy was the sacrament we all shared, and the Spirit was unmistakably present — even if the potatoes were overcooked.

The Book of Proverbs reminds us: “A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones.” Medicine, indeed. The laughter of a child, the chuckle of a grandparent, the snort in the middle of a solemn hymn (though hopefully not from the choir) — these are not distractions from holiness, but reminders of it. They are glimpses of the joy that is at the heart of God’s creation.

So yes, silence will always have its sacred place. But do not underestimate the ministry of laughter. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is to laugh until our sides ache — and in that moment, we may find ourselves closer to God than we ever imagined.

And, dear reader, if you happen to laugh at yourself along the way, consider it an advanced course in humility. I’ve been enrolled in that course for quite some time now.

A Prayer for Holy Joy

Gracious God,
You are the giver of joy and the source of every good laugh.
Thank You for the gift of laughter that lightens our burdens,
for the smiles that knit us together in friendship,
and for the joy that points us back to You.

Teach us to cherish holy silence,
but also to celebrate holy laughter —
to know that both are sacraments of Your love.
When life feels heavy, lift our spirits with joy.
When our hearts are weary, remind us that
a cheerful heart is Your good medicine.

May our lives ring with the sound of both prayer and laughter,
until the day when we join in the eternal chorus of joy
around Your heavenly banquet table.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dear reader, as I sit this morning with my first steaming cup of coffee, I am reminded once again that God’s grace often comes to us in the most ordinary of ways. Coffee is, for me at least, one of those small but daily sacraments of life. It is not (before anyone calls the Bishop) one of the seven great sacraments of the Church, but it is nonetheless a sign, a token, and a gift of grace. That first sip, when the aroma fills the air and the warmth passes through you — well, let’s just say that more than once I’ve whispered Deo gratias before I’ve managed even my morning prayers.

I sometimes think that the Lord, in creating beans, must have had coffee in mind all along. And when someone first figured out that roasted beans, ground fine and steeped in hot water, could produce this holy elixir — surely angels sang. Some people find God in the sunrise; I, too, find God there, but with a mug in my hand.

Of course, there is humour in all of this. I’ve often remarked that the most theologically charged moment of a parish Sunday is not always the sermon or even the hymns — but the line at the coffee urn after worship. Coffee hour, I have long believed, is the eighth sacrament of Anglicanism. Conversations deepen there, friendships are renewed, the lonely find companions, and someone always discovers that the last cookie has been taken (and offers forgiveness anyway). It is in those simple cups poured and shared that community takes shape.

I am reminded, too, of the Emmaus story. The disciples didn’t recognize Jesus on the road, but when He broke the bread, their eyes were opened. I often think He could just as easily have offered them a cup of coffee and had the same effect. Sharing a cup, breaking bread — they are both reminders of the presence of Christ among us, hidden in the ordinary, revealed in love.

So, dear friends, I encourage you to think of your morning coffee (or tea, or whatever warms your heart) as more than just a necessity for getting the eyelids open. Think of it as a small sacramental act, a reminder that God meets us in the daily and the ordinary, in mugs and moments, as much as in chalices and cathedrals.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe the Kingdom of God is calling from the kitchen — in the form of a second cup.

A Prayer Before Coffee

Gracious God,
You meet us in the simplest gifts of daily life.
Bless this cup before me —
that its warmth may steady my spirit,
its strength may ready me for service,
and its aroma remind me that joy is found in small, holy things.

May this morning’s coffee be a token of Your grace,
sustaining me in patience, kindness, and love.
And if it also helps keep my eyes open during Morning Prayer,
well, Lord, You know my frame, and You understand.

Through Jesus Christ, who breaks bread with us,
and would surely share a cup as well.
Amen.

Grace Before Coffee

Lord of life and early mornings,
we thank You for this holy brew.
May it wake our hearts as much as our minds,
warm our fellowship, and keep us kind.

Bless the hands that prepared it,
the friends who share it,
and grant that no one spill on the church carpet.

Amen.

Well, dear reader, my boots may be back in the front closet and my pack tucked away on its shelf, but I have come to realize that the Camino is not something you simply finish. Like a particularly catchy hymn that won’t leave your head (I’m looking at you, All Glory, Laud, and Honour), the Camino lingers. It moves into the rhythms of daily life.

Walking through Spain, I learned that pilgrimage is about more than the destination. It is about the road beneath your feet, the people you meet along the way, and the God who walks with you whether you’re crossing a medieval bridge or just the supermarket parking lot. Now that I’m home, I see the same truth: pilgrimage never really ends — it simply changes scenery.

There’s a temptation to think of life as divided neatly into “holy” moments and “ordinary” ones, as though God were only present in a cathedral in Spain, half a world away, and not in my local hardware store. But the Camino teaches us otherwise. The Spirit of God is just as present in the slow line at the grocery checkout as in the hushed silence of a chapel. (Though, in fairness, both can feel equally penitential at times.)

One thing that struck me on the Camino was how each day had its mix of delight and difficulty. Some stages were breathtakingly beautiful; others seemed to be made entirely of blister-inducing cobblestones. Isn’t that life? One day is filled with laughter and grace, another with tears or frustration. Yet in both, Christ is present. The pilgrimage of daily life is no less holy than the walk across Spain — if anything, it is the real work of faith, where love, patience, and trust are put to the test in small, hidden ways.

I remember one evening on the Camino when David and I toasted our fathers with a small dram of Scotch. That moment, as simple as it was, felt sacramental — an earthly act suffused with heavenly grace. At home, I’ve begun to notice how even a quiet walk around the block, can carry that same weight of holiness. Pilgrimage does not stop; it simply finds new routes through the ordinary fabric of our lives.

So today, I give thanks for the road beneath my feet, whatever shape it takes. Whether it’s cobblestones in Spain, the sidewalks of my neighbourhood, or the carpet in my office, all of it is Camino. All of it is life lived in the company of Christ, and in the cloud of saints who walk with us still.

And if, dear reader, you happen to hear me humming “He Who Would Valiant Be” while working, just know — it’s all part of the journey.

Prayer

Gracious God,
you call us to walk each day in the light of your presence.
Thank you for the pilgrim paths of our lives—
the sacred roads, the ordinary sidewalks,
and even the winding detours that test our patience.
Help us to see that every step is holy
when it is taken with you.
Grant us eyes to notice your grace in small moments,
ears to hear your Spirit in the everyday,
and hearts to trust that the journey never ends—
it only deepens in your love.

Through Jesus Christ, our faithful companion on the way.
Amen.

And if, along the way, I should forget that every step is holy, Lord, kindly remind me — perhaps before I trip over the cat or discover that I’ve been on pilgrimage all along to the kitchen fridge.

Dear reader, it happened again this week. I had carved out a day with a to-do list as long as my arm — laundry, phone calls, perhaps even the noble attempt to conquer the dust bunnies that seem to breed in dark corners when I’m away. Instead, sometime after lunch, I sat down in my chair for “just a minute” of rest. You already know what happened. When I opened my eyes, an hour had disappeared, and the to-do list was still leering at me.

Now, in a world obsessed with productivity, I could have berated myself for laziness. But instead, I thought of Walter Brueggemann’s reminder that the Sabbath itself is an act of resistance. When ancient Israel kept Sabbath, they were proclaiming to Pharaoh, “We are not slaves anymore.” They were saying, “Our worth is not in endless bricks or bottomless quotas. Our worth is in the God who rested on the seventh day.” To nap in the middle of a busy day is not only self-care — it is a tiny rebellion against the idol of busyness.

Above all, I am a firm believer in the Sunday post-liturgical nap. Many of you know that I am a strong introvert. There are few things that introverts find more exhausting than being in very public settings — much less being the one leading those public settings. As much as I love parish ministry, and as a liturgist, I dearly love the liturgy, Sundays are exhausting. After the last hymn fades and the final parishioner has left the building, my soul begins to long for that quiet recliner or couch that awaits me at home. The post-liturgical nap is not laziness. It is spiritual survival. It is the space where I can breathe deeply, reset, and remember that God is God — and I am not.

Jesus himself modelled this. He napped in the boat while the disciples panicked at the storm. (I’m not sure my snoring is as holy as his was, but the principle still stands.) And he reminded us that “the Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath” — in other words, God’s gift of rest was never meant to be another burden, but a delight.

We often imagine holiness as tireless labour: praying without ceasing, working without faltering, serving without resting. But sometimes, holiness looks suspiciously like a Sunday afternoon nap. It is the reminder that we are creatures, not machines; that God runs the universe just fine without our constant supervision; that our value does not depend on what we accomplish.

Of course, not every nap feels holy. Some of mine look suspiciously like the escape tactics of a procrastinator. (Stephen Leacock once said, “I am a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.” I, on the other hand, find the more I nap, the more the chores pile up — but that’s another sermon.) Still, when our rest is claimed as God’s gift, it becomes more than avoidance — it becomes worship.

So, dear reader, the next time you feel guilty for closing your eyes when the world clamours for productivity, remember this: to nap in faith is to say, “I am not Pharaoh’s slave. I am God’s beloved.” The holiest thing you may do this week might just be to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and trust that God holds the world — even while you nap.

Prayer for Rest and Renewal

Gracious God,
you created us for work and for rest,
for service and for stillness.
Teach us to receive Sabbath as your gift,
and to trust that the world rests safely in your hands.
Bless our naps, our pauses, and our moments of quiet,
that in them we may be restored to love you more deeply
and to serve others with joy.
Through Jesus Christ, who slept in the boat
and rose to calm the storm.
Amen.

Dear reader, yesterday I was invited for a round of golf in the couples’ group that my friends have every Friday afternoon. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But Padre, you are single!” Quite right. My appearance in a couples’ group may seem a little odd, but I usually get called in as the emergency substitute when someone’s partner is unavailable — sort of the “designated hitter” of the golf course. Each week our friend Ron invents a little side game to make the round interesting for golfers of all levels. This week he unveiled what he called “Poor Man’s Golf.” In this curious version, we were only allowed to use a putter, a nine iron, and a seven iron. The rest of our expensive collection of clubs had to remain at home, mocking us silently from their bags. It meant, of course, that the entire round was basically a study in one thing: the short game.

Now, my short game is… well, a theological exercise in humility. I can manage a respectable drive, and most days I can keep up in the fairway. But when I’m forced to rely on those little touch shots around the green, I discover that physics has a wicked sense of humour. My chip either dribbles a polite three feet, as if apologizing for disturbing the turf, or else rockets across the green like it has somewhere better to be. My companions, kind souls, always say, “Take your time.” But I was taking my time — that was the problem!

And yet, as I stood there watching the ball do everything but what I intended, I found myself learning again about patience. The Gospel, too, is full of calls to patience — with ourselves, with others, and with God. Growth, like a good chip shot, rarely comes on the first attempt. It comes slowly, with practice, with perseverance, and with a fair bit of laughter at ourselves along the way.

Golf, in its own mischievous way, also teaches humility. Just when you’re feeling a bit smug after a long straight drive, the game offers a reminder: a shank into the rough or a sand trap you didn’t even see coming. Ministry is like that too — we’re given moments of success, but we’re also constantly reminded that we are human, not divine. The Gospel tells us our worth doesn’t come from flawless performance but from being loved by God, who knows our weaknesses and still delights in us.

And then comes grace — golf’s greatest sermon illustration. The “mulligan.” That blessed second chance. Undeserved, unearned, yet generously given. It’s the Gospel in miniature. Life with God is full of mulligans: second chances, fresh starts, and the freedom to try again without fear.

So yes, “Poor Man’s Golf” revealed what I already knew: my short game needs a lot of work. But it also reminded me of the deeper truths of faith: that patience is a virtue to be practised, humility is a gift to be received, and grace is the greatest mulligan of all. And if, on occasion, my seven iron behaves like a broom handle and the ball like a wayward comet — well, perhaps the Kingdom of God is closer than I thought.

Fore!

Prayer for Patience and Humility on the Course of Life

Loving God,
you teach us patience in every swing,
and humility in every missed shot.
Help us to see the fairways and roughs of life
as places where your grace meets us.
Keep us steady when our aim is poor,
and grateful when the ball rolls true.
May our whole game — short or long —
be played in the light of your Kingdom.
Through Jesus Christ, our guide and companion.
Amen.

Well, dear reader, this last week of vacation seems to have slipped through my fingers like sand at the beach—or perhaps more like the last cookie on a plate, where you’re not entirely sure who ate it, but you strongly suspect it was you. Next week, I return to work, and truth be told, there’s a part of me that looks forward to it.

Monday will mark 32 years since I began my first ministry as Rector of St. Thomas the Apostle and St. David’s in Cambridge. Thirty-two! That’s an awfully large number of candles for a pastoral cake. In fact, if we lit that many at once, I suspect the fire department might feel compelled to attend the party.

But behind the humour lies a deeper truth: these 32 years have not simply been a “job.” They’ve been a way of life. The patterns of prayer, preaching, and pastoral care are so deeply ingrained that they shape not only what I do, but who I am. Some of those patterns, of course, never stopped during vacation. I continued to pray the Daily Office, morning and night, and found myself reflecting theologically on the readings of each day. One does not really “switch off” being a parish priest, any more than one can take a vacation from breathing.

Still, there is something about re-entering the full rhythm of parish life that fills me with joy. To see the familiar faces of the congregation once more, to hear their stories from the weeks I’ve been away, and to join voices together in worship — it feels a little like coming home after a long journey. The truth is, I love the work of ministry. It is what I have been called to do, and, after three decades, I cannot imagine living any other way.

So as vacation draws to a close, I don’t step forward with dread or reluctance, but rather with gratitude and a quiet excitement. God has been faithful in these 32 years of ministry, and I trust that God will continue to be faithful in the days to come. And that, dear reader, is worth far more than any extra week of holiday — though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t say no if someone offered me one.

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Gracious and faithful God,
for these 32 years of ministry, I give you thanks.
For the privilege of proclaiming your Word,
for the joy of sharing in your sacraments,
for the gift of walking with your people in times of sorrow and celebration—
I praise you.

As I step forward into the days ahead,
grant me strength where I am weary,
joy where I am burdened,
and above all, a heart ever open to your Spirit.
May all that has been begun, continued, and ended in you
bring glory to your holy Name;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, dear reader, today has been marked in my calendar as “Doctor Day.” Now, before you rush to conclusions, let me assure you — my health is good. I’m not writing this from a hospital bed or with a dramatic fainting couch at the ready. It’s simply that, since my heart troubles some years ago, regular medical check-ups have become part of the rhythm of life. They are, if you will, like spiritual disciplines for the body — checking, guarding, maintaining what God has entrusted.

Last week I sat in the cardiologist’s office, waiting for his verdict. He smiled, looked up from the screen, and said that my heart is functioning beautifully and should last me another 30 years. (At which point I thought, “Well, that takes me almost to 90… if I’m still preaching then, you have my permission to roll me into the pulpit in a wheelchair.”) He also removed two of my prescriptions, which has already made a noticeable difference. My morning pill-taking ritual had been so extensive that I half-expected to be offered toast and marmalade to go with it. Now, at least, it feels less like I’ve already had breakfast by the time I’m through.

Today’s adventure began with a trip to the endocrinologist. My sugars are usually good, but Spain — with its time zones, tapas, and long evenings — introduced a bit of chaos. My theory is that my insulin and my body clock were not on speaking terms. I suspect the doctor may phrase it differently, but I’ll let him have the final word. After all, I’ve noticed that specialists like to be right—and more often than not, they are.

As I thought about these visits — cardiologist, endocrinologist, chiropodist (yes, even my poor Camino foot has had its very own doctor) — my heart was filled not only with the blood flow my cardiologist so cheerfully confirmed, but with something deeper: gratitude. Profound thanksgiving. What an extraordinary blessing to live in a country where I need not worry about whether I can afford care, or whether there will be a doctor to see me. It is simply provided. That, dear friends, is an incredible freedom, and a moral gift.

I found myself thinking back to Sunday School when I was a child. Before we split into classes, we would gather for a short worship, and every week it ended with a prayer for Canada. The words are still with me, etched in memory like scripture. Today they ring in my heart again.

We are so blessed. My prayer now is that I may live in such a way as to be worthy of this blessing — that my life, like yours, may express gratitude not merely in words, but in deeds of kindness and care.

And so, while my doctors ensure that my heart continues to beat well, I ask God to make certain it also continues to beat faithfully.

Almighty God, who hast given us this good land for our heritage: We humbly beseech thee that we may always prove ourselves a people mindful of thy favour and glad to do thy will. Bless our land with honourable industry, sound learning, and pure conduct. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion; from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defend our liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudes brought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Endue with the spirit of wisdom those to whom, in thy Name, we entrust the authority of government, that there may be justice and peace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, we may show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth. In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness, and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail; all of which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer, 1962)

Dear friends,

As I sit to write this morning, the sun is only just beginning to rise. I realize, however, that within a very few days, that same moment will be greeted not with golden light but with darkness. Even here in August, the signs are already whispering to us that the seasons are changing, and that summer is beginning to yield to its inevitable close.

This, of course, led me to think (as it so often does) about the various jobs and chores that still need my attention. And then reality interrupted me: my foot, which still insists on reminding me of its injury from walking the Camino in Spain, is not yet fully healed. Feet, I have learned, are particularly slow to mend. This is because one cannot stay off of them, particularly when the golfing season is slipping away and one feels morally obligated to seize every last chance to play. (Surely, St. Paul would have mentioned golf if he had known about it. I suspect his line might have been: I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith, I have played the last round before frost.)

Now, many of the jobs staring me down are really two-person affairs anyway, and I began to wonder how I would manage them. Just then, as though sent on cue, my nephew Owen appeared on the scene. Owen is always eager to come and help — and, it must be admitted, equally eager to enjoy a short holiday at his uncle’s house. His arrival reminded me what a blessing it is to have people in our lives who quietly step in and offer a hand, whether in times of great need or simply in the ordinary tasks of life.

Scripture reminds us again and again that God does not leave us to walk alone. Christ sends us companions on the journey — family, friends, sometimes even strangers — who arrive at just the right moment. It is one of the small miracles of daily life that so often God’s help comes wearing familiar faces and carrying a toolbox.

So today I give thanks — for Owen, and for all the others in my life who lend their strength when mine is lacking. Since Owen also loves a good meal, I believe breakfast out will be his particular reward. And as I say my Morning Prayer today, I will give thanks not only for him, but for all the helping hands God has sent my way.

For truly, these small mercies — these acts of generosity and companionship — make one’s days good, and remind us of the larger mercy that surrounds us always: that we are never left to walk alone.

Gracious God,
I thank you for the gift of family and friends,
for those who come alongside me in times of need,
and for the small mercies of laughter, companionship, and care.
Bless all who offer helping hands in my life,
and grant that I, too, may be ready to serve others
with the same generosity and love that comes from you.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.