Morning

Lord,

I am so profoundly grateful for the bus that is on time, Author of Order out of Chaos.

I am so grateful for the coffee in my hand, the book on my lap, Author of Comfort in time of Distress.

I am so grateful for the hair that blows in the wind, feet that move in rhythm, Persistent Giver of Life in the face of Death.

I am so grateful for the clothes that more than cover my body--even fitting, hugging my waist, draping my ankles, You who give all that I can't believe I had the nerve to ask.

In Pakistan, are the floods receding?

In New York, will the homeless find warmth?

On this bus, will the travelers go home to a garden?

The sun is shining golden, making the sky blue, in Pennsylvania in November.

If gold can make blue

in Pennsylvania,

in November,

then perhaps we have reason to hope.