THE SIGNS LEAD ME TO . . . PRAISE!

I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth. - Psalm 34:1

Dear Friends in Christ -

As we stand on the prow of the year, we strain to see what lies ahead, seeking a sign. This year, whether we peer into the annals of history or the pages of the NYTimes or the words of the pundits and politicians, all seem to bear the same message: 2012 promises to be a momentus year. The winds of change are blowing, and fiercely so. There will be great challenges in weather, in war, in politics, in economics.

In the face of dire predictions, some may be tempted to fear, but I'm opting to take the advice of yesterday morning's preacher, Deacon Knute Hansen, and meet the year with praise. Praising God and His world's goodness lifts my eyes from this present moment to the glories of the past and the hope of the future. Praising God and His world's goodness sets the current press and rush in the context of the grand flow of time, reminding me that what has been will be again, and what has not been may yet occur.

I invite you to join me in praise, and I offer to you a poem, from another troubled time, the days following the terrorist attacks on September 11th, 2001. May it nourish your spirit today and in the days to come . . .

Faithfully with you,
Janet+

Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
—Adam Zagajewski
(Translated, from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh.)
From THE NEW YORKER issue of September 24, 2001.