These Hands I have hands to play the music so this heart of mine can hear, And these hands can sign the language of the one with silent ear. I have hands to feed the hungry, and hands to clothe the poor, And these hands can greet the stranger as she knocks at my door. I have hands to hold the hammer, hands to guide the plow, And these hands can thread the needle, though my eyes are tired now. I have hands to hold the baby as he suckles at the breast. And these hands console the dying as they find their final rest. I have hands to write the letter, and hands to wash their feet. And these hands can hold the child whose home is in the street. I have hands to grind the flour, and hands to knead the bread, And these hands can share the harvest of a life that once was dead. I have hands to tend the garden, and hands to sow the seed, And these hands can spread the bounty to a universe in need. I have hands to weave the linen from the threads of finest gold, And these hands can mend the broken, wipe the tear, heal a soul.

Voices of the Mountain This is a story with no ending, and the theme is still the same, and the tragedy plays out through all of time: human “wisdom” is deceived in a cruel devil’s game, pitting love against the world’s dark other side. “If you kill me my spirit will rise up in the people.” Once a puppet, now a martyr, his words of truth prevail. Injustice and falsehood are just the demon’s idols; love still conquers hate – tears down its cunning veil. And the voices of the mountain call my name! The passion of their tears drives the Salvadoran rain. Oh-Oh-Oh hear the rain! Can you hear the rain? A baby, eight months old, and his brother, only three, by Providence were spared the sniper’s fire. Raised by his “abuelita” he worked within the mission where he speaks with words of courage recounting former times: through the conflict his family made provision for the army and filled their hungry bodies with vegetables and rice. But they shared as well their bounty with the ones in opposition, and the price that they would pay would be their life. And the voices of the mountain call my name, echoing their fear that their lives were lost in vain. Oh, feel their shame. Can you feel the shame? Monterosa was a soldier, though his years were ten and seven, conscripted by the army to kill “subversive seeds.” Their mothers, too, he slaughtered and left their broken bodies there to die upon the mountain, forsaking his own creed. “Campesino recruited to kill campesino.” In his anguish he asks, “Will the army soldier gain? If I survive my year of duty, I [just] become a campesino again. In the name of God, [tell me] who gains?” And the voices of the mountain call my name. No longer can the truth be denied or contained. Oh, who’s to blame? Who will gain? Their names were Miguel, Isabel and Frederico, campesinos, common people, who were crushed beneath a lie. Wisdom deems: “The oppressed must free their oppressor,” and “those who fight for life could never [die.]” They were mothers, they were fathers, they were sisters, and brothers. They had dreams and a vision to change their destiny. They rowed to fish the waters, they gathered in the harvest, they planted “Seeds of Life,” they were you and they were me! And the voices of the mountain call my name. The passion of their tears drives the Salvadoran rain. Oh, hear the rain. Can you hear the rain? Oh, hear the rain. Can you hear the rain?

Calls in Conflict Just got the call that she’s leaving on Sunday. Go tell her children, they’re waiting to know. See if her brother can drive to the station, but, please understand that I just cannot go. I begged her not to enlist in the Army. She was determined to prove to herself that for the conflict she’s equally worthy. But, what does that cost? What’s a life worth? They say: “If war is the answer [we need a new question]” – a praxis of peace where we join other hands; a doctrine of Love’s non-resistance to evil – evil that’s sanctioned by church or this land. She accused me, said I’m not patriotic. I knew her challenge still spoke of her youth. But it’s precisely for love of this country: “... do justice, love kindness, walk humbly [in Truth].” (Micah 6:8) Just got the call – she’s returning tomorrow. Don’t tell the children; in time they will know. But help them remember how she used to love them. I love her still, though I must let her go. Help them remember that she’ll always love them. I love her still, as I now let her go.

Manly Beatitudes Happy is the man who rises with the sun. And happy is the man who is at peace when day is done. Happy is the man who has nothing to prove; happy is the man whose life is love. Happy is the man who knows his strength is in the Word; His armor is truth – not tempered steel – a sharper sword. Happy is the man who knows that, in reality, as long as one soul is in chains, that no one is free. Happy is the man who can answer his call and would rather stand alone than to let another fall. Happy is the man, when all is said and done, who knows that Life is “One for all” and we are all one. Happy is the man who has his work to do, who earns an honest wage, and when the day is through, happy is the man who makes his way back home, and, no matter where he lives, he’s not alone. Happy is the man who knows just what to say, and happy is the man who will choose the better way. Happy is the man who not only does his share, but who walks the extra mile when he is needed there. Happy is the man who calls another “friend” – someone to trust, upon whom he can depend. Happy is the man when the joy that fills his heart can be his legacy when he has done his part. Happy is the man who rises with the Son, and happy is the man who is at peace when life is done. Happy is the man, for there is nothing left to prove. Happy is the man, for all there is, is Love.

Toes In the sultry summer on my way to work when I take the Red Line “T” to Boston, My eyes are cast down, mostly from the lack of sleep. But, when they’re open, what a spectacle to see: A flimsy, flip-flopp-ed, questionably fashionable digital fantasy! There are dainty, painted, peeking-through-silky- salmon-satin-toe-hole toes; Tiny, candy-red-tipped, poking-through-frilly-flowered-flip-flops toes; oyster-shell-lacquered, suffering-‘neath-the-weight-of-ice-blue-crystal-mock-rock-studded-sandals toes; rouge, blanc et bleu French-tipped-to-match-their- red-white-and-blue-sandal toes. There are prestidigitated digits concealed in fatigued army-camouflaged sandals; elongated, red-punctuated, brown-bronze, thong-entwined toes; once-new-and-nimble, now numb, neuropathetic toes; much-too-swollen-and-stuffed-into-my- too-conservative-shoes-for-comfort toes. Then there are can’t-you-tell-I-haven’t- washed-my-feet-in-several-days toes; soft, pink, unadulterated, innocent and naked toes; bound, bent, bunionated, bruised and blistered toes; wiggling-out-of-their-pointy-spike-heels-to- oh-so-comfortable-flip-flops toes. Maybe I should look up more? I really love . . . the fall!

Angel with an Attitude Well, he wasn’t there this morning, guess he had something else to do. I was kind of looking forward to hear his point of view. He’d tell his joke, he made me laugh, he went the extra mile. And the sign that sat there next to him said, “It’s the law...SMILE.” The first time that I saw him, I quickly walked on by. The next day I encountered him, he looked me in the eye. I turned away, afraid to see, went on along my way. Then I looked back as I walked on. His eyes had so much to say. They were tired and full of aging, but the message still came through as if he were some angel, disguised to look like me or you. Maybe it’s some paradox, and, in reality, like so many other angels, they’re invisible unless you want to see. Next day when I saw him, I finally came prepared. Some quarters that I set aside, left over from my fare, were waiting in my pocket, hoping there he’d be. It took a lot of gumption; this was something new for me. He sat outside the church at Park Street right near the Park Street “T.” He’d set up shop like he does most days, but, of concern to see, another sign placed next to him said, “Homeless by Fire.” I handed him the quarters, he said, “Thank you, Ma’am,” and smiled. So I smiled and muttered something and then walked on my way, and, as I went about my work, I thought of him all day. What’s it like to be out there, and soberly I’d muse: Could I really walk in his shoes? He could be a character from Steinbeck living in some hard-luck tale, but he also looked like “St. Nick” with his white beard and long hair. But how dare I romanticize his grim reality? I pay a price when I discount his full humanity. The next day that I saw him, with two dollars more to spare, I said, “I’m sorry for your trouble,” and, as I lingered there, it occurred to me to ask him ‘bout his work in former times. Said he was a coppersmith way back in his prime. Said he worked on roofs and steeples. [I’m sure a master of his trade.] He said that, of his people, he was the only one remained. But illness now had taken hold, he had the “sugar blues.” Then he relented, “Now, this is all that I can do.” I asked him where he stayed at night, [I didn’t mean to pry]. He didn’t mind my asking, said he stayed in the subway. “Do they give you any trouble?” He said, “Oh, no not me! It’s all about my attitude; they let me be.” Then I asked him where’d he get his care? [Thought that I could helpful be.] Said he’d found some friendly doctors over at Mass “G.” They gave him drugs and insulin – shot up four times a day. Living on his attitude, he didn’t have to pay. Told me that he could stay healthy when he can get some food, and living in the streets like this, it was hard to test his blood. But “table scraps” from garbage cans sustained him every day. I wondered if he had the faith to pray. For what it was worth I told him, said I could somehow empathize. I’d been out of work for half a year, but, (lest I trivialize his present situation – it might have been mine), when there was doubt my hard times would ever end, with the help of some gracious friends, there, but for the grace of God, was I... You might ask, “What’s in it for you?” or you might ask me how I know that he isn’t trying to con me to buy smokes and alcohol. The answer’s very simple, but, a paradox you see: it’s kind of like forgiveness – I’m doing this for me. Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow. I wonder what he’ll have to say. Will he smile and tell the same old joke, or will he find another way to live and keep on seeking his winter heart’s desire? Perhaps, that’s as an angel there beneath the Park Street spire.

A Special Kind of Love What would it take if two would dare to rise in love, soaring together like an eagle with a dove, with trust and understanding, the kind there’s plenty of? It would take a special kind of love! What would it take to make a house into a home, not just the furniture, the dishes or a phone, but where you could be all by yourself and never be alone? It would take a special kind of love! So through all your days, may your love and your life be praise! “Out-do one another with honor” and pride, and may the Spirit walk gently by your side. What would it take to calm an ocean full of tears, offering to forgive instead of giving in to fear, to receive without condition a blessing far more dear? It would take a special kind of love. So through all your days let your love and your life be praise! “Out-do one another with honor” and pride, and may the Spirit be always by your side! My prayer today for each of you is that you dare to rise in love, giving each one to the other with a blessing from above. And sometimes be the eagle and, other times, the dove. It will take a special kind of love. May God bless you with that special kind of love!

Father, Stay With Me Father, stay with me. Spirit, pray with me through the longest hours of this night. With my brothers gone I am here alone. Father, stay with me through this night. I will drink this cup for it is your will so that those you love might be one. You said all along it would come to this through the sacrifice of your son. Through the darkest night many souls still sleep though the shroud of death closed their eyes. But new life will rise with the morning sun. Abba, Father! Stay this night!