In the arena...

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face in marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

~Theodore Roosevelt

*Address delivered at the Sorbonne, Paris, April 23, 1910.

Read the entire speech here

Praise Song for the Day

Praise song for the day.

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; a teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; we walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp - praise song for walking forward in that light.

By: Elizabeth Alexander, Graywolf Press, Inaugural Poem, Copyright © 2009, sourced with attribution and video here.....

The Prayer for Reverence for Life

Almighty God, we thank you for the precious gift of human life, for life in the womb, coming from Your creative power, for life of children, making us glad their is freshness and promise, for the life of young people, hoping for a better work, for the life of the disabled, teaching us that every life has value, for the life of the elderly, witnessing to the ageless values of patience and wisdom.

And for all creatures ~ their timidity and docile nature regarded as a special blessing to human families.

....May we say "yes" to Your gift, May we defend it and promote it from conception to the natural end, And bring us at last, O Father, to the fullness of eternal life, Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen

(excerpted, in part, from Marians of the Immaculate Conception Prayer,www. Marians.org)