May spring return to you little by little each lightening day, in small, forgiving signs: a green shoot springing up from earth, a morning warm enough for bare arms, a bird preening on a distant branch, a feather turning slowly through the air.
May you remember that the world is not made safe by your fear of it.
May your heart race and still carry you forward. May your hands tremble and still find the handlebars. May you pause when you need to, listen to the warning in your body, and continue only when you are ready.
Bless the paths that open around the tall gums. Bless the companions who call, “INCOMING!” and stay close until the danger passes. Bless the creatures who defend what they love, even when their love arrives with sharp beaks and beating wings.
And when something soft falls unexpectedly into your keeping, may you receive it as a sacred gift that holds a lesson especially for you in this particular season.
May you enter this spring with courage tucked into your pocket— small, imperfect and weightless, and may you discover that you can be afraid and go back (or forward) anyway.
A “communion” serviceThis is an adaptation of my intergenerational “Teaching Tables” liturgy to cater for younger primary school children and non-churchy families who are beginning to engage with sacramental theology. The setup for such a gathering is best in a hall with six to eight chairs around tables. We have access to a commercial kitchen,…