Sit with me beneath the tree we planted in memory of those we loved who loved us back.

Sit with me and hold my spotted wrinkled hand;  open to touch, to comfort, to care, to plant and do and be.

Sit with me and hold. 

Hold the suffering, bleeding, hurting world:  the pangs of children’s hunger, the stab of mothers’ grief, the decimation of fathers’ hopes.

Sit with me, your hands as bent as the weathered trees which have withstood the storms of paratroopers, Nazis, masked marauders under the stars and stripes.

Sit with me.

And hope. 

The tattered fabric of all we hold dear is not lost.

We will weave again, we will hold fast, we will -

As Jesus said:  Abide.

Wait. 

Hold.

We will be still and know the God of fullness, the God of Love, the God of justice.

And when we die, as die we will,

May the shape of our entwined hands remain, like the invisible roots of the tree

In the memory of what we loved:

Which is you, my friend

You, the world.

You, the Mystery which holds us all.