Dear God, thank you on this eve of the feast of your Last Supper for all that you have done for me and for my family. If sorrow or uncertainty or darkness or selfishness or painful indecision or irresoluteness or weakness descend on me, for whatever reason, please may I offer such discomfort up for your intentions. The world is suffering, my discomfort amounts to nothing. May I continue, through my daily prayers, to reach out to you, hoping for the peace that comes only from you. May my suffering brother Bill know peace and joy and feel our love and Your Love and Peace. The same for brothers Ron and Doug, their wives and children and all my family and my dear friend Diane.
Dear God, pain and confusion and lack of courage can muddy one’s vision. Darkness descends, and agitation of spirit. But last evening, in the beautiful church in Tampa, Florida, where first, nearly forty years ago after a long absence, I returned to you, I felt comfort. I believe I felt your presence. It was here that a priest, name unknown and probably long departed, comforted me, and in Persona Christi, forgave my sins and reminded me that evil stalks us always out there in that dark, busy world. It is tragic that I came, over four decades, only half way back to you and that a kind of pain persists. It is the pain of others of which I must be conscience and seek to lighten.
I pray on this April evening, for inner peace and pray for the assistance of all those loved ones and friends who knew suffering and joy in this life and have now gone before me — and I ask your grace to do your will, not mine. I cannot end this prayer. I cannot stop reaching out to y ou for clarity in my current dilemmas. I pray I will love, know and serve you to my dying day.
There is work to be done. We must — I must — work while the light lasts.
Through Christ, Your Son,