Dylan Stafford

20 minutes. Timer is set. Writing snippets of gratitude on this Holy Day.

The Moment:
Back from 7:30am church service at St. Monica’s. Box of fresh donuts. Family visiting from out-of-town. Easter meal will happen here. Refrigerator overflowing. Prepped parts of the celebration meal. Friends and family will join us. Serving at 12:30.

First time back in physical church today:
Masks still. No masks new. Full but not overflowing. Not back to pre-Covid Easter volume, but still a lot of people. A victory on the road to recovery.

Music:
The art form to which all art forms aspire.
Joyful, joyful we adore Thee.
Hallelujah Hallelujah.
Weeping–and not knowing why. The music, the Spirit, flowing through me and pouring out in tears of gratitude.
Seeing the musicians in person, the faces of the people who we watched on zoom the last two years. My wife Marisa thanking them. Me crying as I added my appreciation: “Thank you for your ministry through Covid.” There were church services with over 1,000 attendees on zoom, spread all over Santa Monica, California, and the world. The miracle of music. The creation of community.

Pray for the Dead:
My sister Lisa. My grandparents. Our dog Coco, who we lost on Easter afternoon 2018, when he bolted out the door and across the street. More tears. More weeping.

Service:
The hospitality ministers; the volunteers who make a village a community, a safe and welcoming home. What did they do during Covid? These beautiful servants who could not serve, who had to sit on their hands during Covid, and wait for their opportunity to contribute again. Blessed to see them again.
The Priests. Giving up a worldy life to serve a community. Life from a small room. A huge life in fellowship with the community.

Art:
The paintings. The walls adorned with images of saints. Aspiration. Look up. Yes, we are broken. But what do we do with our brokenness? It’s the crack in our vessel where the Holy Spirit pours in. Jesus did not come to preach to the winners in society. He brought his message of love and forgiveness to the prostitutes and tax collectors, the bottom of society and not the top. Comfort the afflicted. They will know us by our love. To teach. To touch. To heal.

Easter:
Resurrection. A miracle. A new birth. The beginning of history. A story that doesn’t die. A story that outlasts worldly realms and endures. A direction to look. Seek Ye first the Kingdom of God.

Weeping:
Sitting in my pew. Surrounded by community. Begin with gratitude. Happiness is wanting what you have. United, in the promise of the United States of America. Problems? of course. Gaps? of course. Broken? Yes.
And, in spite of all that. Hopeful. Looking up. Arising from the dead. Seeking. Looking. Asking for guidance.
The tears flow. There’s too much. And that is ok. I’m a speck of dust in the universe. And yet I’m known. I’m not alone. I’m not forgotten.
Neither are you.

Amen:
Final hymn. Photos in front of the flowers. Thanks to the priests and the musicians and the youth director. Back to the car. Stop for the donuts. Easter baskets back at home. Let the dogs out. Get ready to prepare the meal. All is well. 2 minutes left on the 20-minute timer. First draft/final version. All-in-one. One-in-all. Can’t be hateful when I’m grateful. I’m grateful.

Blessings on you and yours this holiday weekend, no matter what your tradition.

Amen.