This past week has been a tough one for listening to the news. My heart breaks as I think of those who lost their lives in the in the steel and smashed concrete that was once known as Champlain Towers in Southside Florida; the hundreds who have died in the extraordinary heat waves that have scorched the Pacific Northwest; and most recently, the inhabitants of Haiti who live in fear and uncertainty after the assassination of their President, Jovenel Moise.

As we approach the celebration of Independence Day this coming Sunday, with news of outdoor gatherings, picnics, fireworks displays and parades, I cannot help but remember what we were anticipating at this same time last year, in the wake of a pandemic that shook us to the core and shut us down, socially, politically, and economically. The words “independence” and “liberty” sounded somewhat discordant then, during a time we were so clearly aware of our interdependence, so keenly tuned into limits of our liberty.

As I reflect upon the events of my first weeks back at St. John’s after my surgery leave – with a wedding, and ordination, and our Juneteenth celebration on three successive Saturdays – I have been filled with gratitude for all that was planned, but also by what was unplanned. I’m thinking of the people who showed up to fill roles we hadn’t contemplated in advance, the tiny glitches that led to a roomful of laughter, the interruptions that may have created short delays, but offered opportunities to shift gears, re-center, re-connect, and experience joy.

Our Gospel reading for this Sunday is a very familiar one to most of us: “The Calming of the Storm.” In it, Jesus and his disciples get caught in a storm on the sea of Galilee while Jesus sleeps. Finally, the fearful disciples wake him, and he performs a miracle that calms the seas. ‘Oh, ye of little faith,” he tells them.

In our reading for this Sunday, Jesus teaches a simple way to help grow the realm of God. Simple, yet surprisingly difficult to live.

As I move through this first week back at St. John’s after my medical leave, I am reminded at least once an hour why I have missed all of you so much: the laughter I share with our staff as we review the achievements, fumbles, and surprises of the previous week; the enthusiasm and passion of the members involved in planning the Juneteenth service for St. John’s and St. Peter’s; the jittery excitement of the young couple to be married at St. John’s this Saturday; the emails and phone calls with news and stories and ideas to consider.

Grace and peace to each one of you.  I have held you in my heart during my recovery from back surgery with gratitude for the love, support, cards, emails, meals, visits, and prayers that I have received from so many of you, and for the awesome work of our vestry, our lay leadership, our clergy and staff, and our Interim Supply priest, Jenny Montgomery.  As this spring has unfolded in all its radiant glory, I have embraced the gifts of healing and hope, not only in my own life, but in the life of our congregation, as we emerge from a year of pandemic and begin to regather in person for worship, fellowship, learning, and outreach to our community.

I almost forgot today is Ascension Day. As Episcopalians, the Ascension is right up there with Christmas, All Saints, Easter, the Epiphany, and Pentecost. And yet falling on a Thursday like it does, Ascension Day rarely gets the attention it should and many of us may need reminding of what it signifies.

I grew up singing in church choirs. Before I could read words, much less music, my parents sat proudly in their pew of Kirkwood Baptist Church beaming at me singing “Jesus Loves Me” with the Cherub Choir. From being a cherub, I went on to sing in many church choirs. Singing with others is a true delight as voices meld together in beautiful four-part harmony.

Don’t laugh. I have recently become obsessed with reading magical realism.

I didn’t mind the rain on Monday. It was a good excuse to take a nap rather than go for a walk. “April showers bring May flowers” so there’s that benefit to the rain as well. And yet, after a year of mostly being inside, I didn’t think I’d be saying this so soon, but spending a rainy day inside was a gift.

We learned this week that the tree that towers over our backyard is a water oak. The birds and squirrels love this tree and so do I. It’s a bit lopsided due to a storm that swept through several years ago causing a very large branch to fall and crush the roof of our neighbor’s garage. That was before our time, but we heard about it and wanted to ensure the stability of the tree today.

One of my ideas for retirement was to become a writer. There was no grand vision of being famous or even published. I simply imagined myself as a writer. So, once we had moved to Richmond and settled into our home, I enrolled in an on-line fiction writing class last fall through the VMFA.

“Are you there?” “Are you there?” “I can’t see you?” Dropped calls and loss of internet connection happen all the time.

This past week, I have been deeply touched by the notes and emails that I have received from many of you in response to the news of my impending surgery. I have said this before to a few of you, and it bears repeating: I have learned more about the pastoral elements of my ministry through the kindness and care I have received from others during my own times of need than from any textbook or training program or internship…and this week, I am learning a whole lot from all of you.

During this season of Lent I have begun each week spending some quiet time with our lectionary readings and paying attention to what word or phrase or concept strikes me the most. For those of you who read my message last week, it was the sense of resilient hope that permeates our stories of faith. This week, I’ve been pondering the difference between knowledge and wisdom, something that I am more aware of as I enter my 60s.

As we enter this 2nd week of Lent, I have been thinking about what we were doing this time last year, and how little we knew what was in store for us. There is no way I could have imagined that in a few short weeks, we would launch upon a Lenten fast from corporate worship that would last a year or more.

In our Gospel reading for this Sunday, we will hear Mark’s version of Jesus’ forty days in wilderness. His telling of the story is very short. He says only that Jesus was tempted by Satan, was with wild beasts and was ministered to by angels.