By the rivers of Babylon—there we sat down

and there we wept when we remembered Zion.

where you wander around feeling confused and lost. I remember

feeling that way at age 45 when my Aunt Mary died. I had lived

next door to her since I was a year old. Aunt Mary celebrated every

holiday and birthday with my family and went on many of our

family vacations. I went on trips with her. Even after I was “grown

up,” Aunt Mary was part of my life.

We used to compare plants, seeing whose flowers bloomed first.

A few months after her death, one of my plants bloomed. My first

thought was, “I have to call Aunt Mary.” Then I realized, “Aunt

Mary is dead. I will never be able to call her again.” I sat and I

wept.

Some people say that Christians should never be sad or afraid.

Psalm 137, a lament of exiled Jews in Babylon, teaches us that we

can take our pain and tears to God. Have you ever seen children

who are frightened or hurt? They run to a parent or trusted adult,

reaching up to be held. They bring their fear and pain, knowing

that this is a safe place to cry.

In the same way, we can bring our pain and fear to God. God

will not push us away or punish us for our pain. God will sit with

us in our grief and suffering. God will hold us while we cry.

I now pray before you day and night for your servants,

the people of Israel, confessing the sins of the people.

on New York and Washington, attendance at religious services shot

up. Religious leaders of all faiths spoke of a spiritual awakening in

the United States. Within two months of the tragedy, however,

attendance was back to pretragedy levels.

When Nehemiah hears about the destruction of Jerusalem, he

begins to pray. But notice how Nehemiah confesses his sins and the

sins of his fellow Israelites before he asks for help. He admits that

his people have ignored God’s Word. Only then does he call on

God to help restore Jerusalem.

It’s hard to confess. Confession means we have to look at ourselves

and our motives as well as our actions. Nehemiah models

how to take responsibility not only for himself but also for the sins

of his nation.

What difference would it make if our first response to tragedy

was confession? What if we looked at our own motives and actions

as well as those of our families and of the congregations, communities,

and nations to which we belong? What if we asked for forgiveness

before we asked for help?

Might religious activities reflect more than panic responses that

disappear once we’re no longer afraid? If we started with confession,

perhaps we could have a true spiritual awakening, leading to

an increase in justice, mercy, and peace for all people.

I said to the king, “If it pleases the king, . . . I ask that you

send me to Judah, to the city of my ancestors’ graves,

diagnosed with cancer. He has an 18-month-old son, his wife is

pregnant, and they recently bought a new house. When our congregation

heard the news, we were in shock. How could something

like this happen? We wept and prayed for his healing. But, like

Nehemiah, we didn’t stop there.

The congregation organized a support group. One person asked

the couple what they needed. Others thought of needs that might

arise while the husband was in the hospital, such as car repairs,

house repairs, and yard work; several offered to be on call. Some

babysat for the mother during hospital visits and work. People corresponded

with the husband by email and online chatting. A group

cleaned the house to prepare for his discharge from hospital.

We continue to pray as individuals, families, small groups, and

congregation. Now that he is home, we keep offering our talents

and time to support the family during further hospitalizations, decisions,

and crises.

God wants us to ask for divine help, but God also expects us to

do our part. Nehemiah fasted and prayed, but he didn’t sit around

waiting for God to do all the work. He went to the king with a plan

for rebuilding the temple. We, too, are asked to help rebuild our

families, communities, and nation.

On the day I called, you answered me,

you increased my strength of soul.

for strength. God always answers my prayer, sometimes in unusual

ways. One such answer came the other day.

I live in a row house in a large city, where the birds we see are

mostly sparrows. We have a very small backyard, filled with flowers,

vines, and bushes that should normally attract birds and butterflies.

But still, even though we put out bird feeders year round,

it’s mainly sparrows.

I was sitting on my back steps, feeling overwhelmed by bad

things that had happened. As I was crying and praying for strength,

I looked at my butterfly bush and saw a hummingbird. It flew from

the bush to a flower, to a hanging plant, and then hovered in front

of me for a few seconds. I watched it fly to the neighbor’s flowers,

settle on a fence, and then dart away.

I felt a sense of peace, of hope, of strength. It was only a bird,

right? But for me it was more than that. It reminded me to keep

watching for miracles and for grace. Since then, I haven’t seen the

hummingbird. But that’s okay. I know that they do live in the city.

I have hope, and that gives me the strength to keep going.

All of [the disciples] were filled with the Holy Spirit

and began to speak in other languages,

fortunate to have several preschool children who attend with their

mothers. As I watch the children interact with the adults, I am often

reminded of important things that we, as Christians, need to keep

in mind.

Not long ago, I was talking about an insight I had while praying.

I used the phrase “It hit me.” Three-year-old Isaiah looked at

me, puzzled, and asked, “What hit you, Miss Karen?” We adults

tried to explain, but Isaiah just continued to look puzzled.

Obviously we were not making any sense to him.

I think of that incident when I read this passage from Acts.

Usually, we have to figure how to make our meanings clear to others,

taking into account their point of view, their experiences, and

their age. However, in our story, the disciples also had the Spirit

make the gospel message clear to everyone.

We can ask God for wisdom when we speak to others, trusting

that the Spirit will give us the words. Even so, there may be times

when the message might not penetrate right away. At such times, as

in our conversation with Isaiah, we can still leave the outcome in

God’s hands. Isaiah’s ability to understand will deepen and mature.

I hope that I, like Isaiah, will continue to grow in my understanding

of God and in my ability to communicate clearly.

All these [gifts] are activated by one and the same Spirit,

who allots to each one individually

she wants and makes it very clear to everyone. Once, when I was

babysitting her and her brothers, she did something that made me

laugh. “Matia,” I said to the girl, who was then three, “you’re

cute.” She looked at me with a frown and replied, “I NOT cute. I

Tia.” It became a popular game for her brothers to tell her she was

a sister or daughter, nice or pretty, and then wait for her frowning,

hands-on-hips response, “I Tia.”

Matia knew exactly who and what she was. There was no question.

She was Matia, and no one could call her anything else. She

had a sense of her “Matia-ness.” As Paul desired for the

Corinthians, she had a sense of her giftedness.

I have trouble saying no to people. I want to make them happy.

I want to be helpful. I want them to like me. It’s really hard to say

no when I know I could do what they’re asking.

I am learning to stop and check if the request fits my “Karenness.”

Is this my gift? Am I trying to be someone else? If I take on

activities or roles that are not me, I am rejecting the gift the Spirit

gave me. I am learning that in such cases, it’s okay to say no. I am

learning to treasure my gifts, to celebrate them. I am learning how

to be “Karen.”

Jesus came and stood among [the disciples] and said,

The Romans and the Jews are blaming the disciples. Their response

is to go somewhere safe, lock the door, and stay there.

And then Jesus appears and says, “Peace be with you.” I imagine

the disciples are confused and probably frightened. How did

Jesus get here? What’s happening? How can he talk about peace

when everyone is out to get us? They have killed Jesus. That does

not feel peaceful.

I can identify with the disciples. There are days when I feel

scared and overwhelmed. I want to lock the doors, or at least stay

in bed with the covers over my head, and hide from the rest of the

world. I’ve had a couple of those days lately.

Then Jesus appears and says, “Karen, peace be with you.”

Often my skeptical response is, “Sure, right.” But when I stop and

listen, I realize that I do have peace. It’s just hard to remember this

in my fear.

I think of a favorite verse or song. A friend calls or sends me a

note. I see a smiling child or a beautiful flower. I decide to journal

about my fears. I play piano. Or I just get out of bed and start doing

something. Things aren’t any different. The problems aren’t solved.

I just know that I have peace and, somehow, that is enough.