Today’s Prayer to Passage will be from the book “Anthem” by Ayn Rand.

Today I pray, “Dear God, Thank You for allowing us to view life as a relationship with You, reflected in humanity, as we are called to love. Amen.”

Following my prayer, I held the closed book in my hands and opened it to this passage on page 121:

“Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final, and their night was not without hope. For the battle they lost can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but it will break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.”

This weekend was one of an American celebration. I traveled in a car up to northern Minnesota. One tent, two coolers of food, four swimsuits, and four travelers. There, we stayed in a cabin in the woods, on a lake. I experienced my consciousness of allowing the time at the cabin to flow through me in an essence of, “Here it is. This is what He conveyed. This is the feeling of Heaven on earth.”

I seemed to appreciate EVERYTHING. The laughing, playing, dancing cousins (there were nine of them, ages three-years to 15-years); the songs of birds; the big and bright white clouds that broke and scattered at the moment my feet touched the water; the heat from the sun to keep me playing in the lake; the ski-boat “wake surfing” that seemed miraculous to a Minnesotan who had not yet seen a lake-water board sport not involving the tug of a rope amid 360-degree spins; the contributions of food and of cooking; the playlist of high vibration, good-feeling music blasting from the Beats speaker; the gentle guidance of mothers and of fathers with their children; the doting doggie looking for scraps…

The breeze and the evergreen canopied forest; the lake and its water, clear and fresh; the ever-fragrant campfire smoke along every path throughout a woodland walk; the friendliness of folks; the cheers of beers and other offered libations; the crackle of the fire at night; the fireworks pouring over far-starrier-than-the-city skies from eight locations around the shoreline of the lake; the leaky air mattress that made us giggle; the 5 a.m. sprinkle calling for a prepared rain-guard to be pulled over the arid windows of the tent. And the dance…

There was a moment this weekend when my cherished friend and I were returning from a walk, and as we approached the cabin we saw all of the relatives gathered in the screened porch. Two of the young cousins were dancing, performing routines they had learned in their dance classes during this past year. And one of the songs that played made my Heavenly experience a liturgical one. It was as though we were all gathered in that screened porch for worship. There was an incense that was perfumed into the room from the embers of a previous campfire. And there was an excitement of the littlest children to join in the dancing of their own bright, un-choreographed accord. In the eyes of the children, there was a hope and a possibility in it all.

And what we were worshipping as we gathered in that room — with this music, witnessing these dances of eagerness for life among the children, was this American life. And more than that: We were worshipping this life, together, on Heavenly earth. There was a line in the lyrics of the song being played that went: “So we pray we were made in the image of a figure eight.” And I immediately felt a glow of light surrounding me, and I knew I was meant to experience that moment. The image of the figure eight is INFINITY. Infinity is my calling, to witness to spirits to inspire them to return as infants and begin anew as children; to have lived and died like fireworks so they may return and live again — ever brilliantly — burning bright enough to pull apart the darkness, and catch God’s eye.



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