Sunday evening scratch scribbled on the blank side of a bulletin.

Grateful.

People in a room.

Strangers in so many ways.

Words spoken into a microphone.

Truth.  Agony.

Suffering shared and shared.

We’re all a mess of

ugly and grace,

beauty and dark gaps.

It’s all so much more than I could ever comprehend.

And it bubbles up and trickles out

and I wouldn’t stop it from splashing down my cheeks if I could.

It’s beauty-filled and hope defined.

And it’s more than church.

It’s Jesus and feet and hands and heart

and all things practical and holy.