Megan spent two weeks recently in Mexico learning about border issues and is excited to share her experiences with us. A sermon on immigration issues will accompany a Mexican-themed service.
I know what a blessing looks like,
and I’m not talking about a picture of
the Pope placing his cupped hands
on a child’s head.
It looks like the midnight delivery
of a stunned and wide-eyed Indian orphan
to her adoptive parents at the baggage claim
carousel in Terminal E of Logan Airport;
and a full moon rising over Mt. Katahdin
on an autumn night so clear and cold
it makes your teeth ache.
I know what a blessing smells like, too:
The head of your month-old niece,
thrust into your arms by your dead-tired
sister who wants nothing more than a
few hours of uninterrupted sleep;
and the aroma of fresh-baked bread
that catches you off-guard
as you walk past a bakery,
head bowed against the cold, and grief,
on the way to your grandmother’s funeral.
A blessing tastes like the cherry
popsicles you used to split with
your dad on the front stoop just
before bedtime in summer,
when the light was soft and
the pavement still hot under
the soles of your feet.
The deafening roar of water cascading
into an Ithacan gorge is the sound
a blessing makes; and, too,
the silence of the pre-dawn forest,
when the insects have gone to ground
and birds have not yet begun
to bid the morning welcome.
And I know – thank God I know –
how a blessing feels: Like walking
out of the shadow of a skyscraper,
or your own fear, and feeling the sun
on your face for the first time in forever;
and waking up every morning
next to the one who saved your life.