The Lord be with you,

And also with you.

Lift up your hearts.

We lift them in pieces to the Lord, trusting that He will restore wholeness to them.

It is meet, right and our bounden duty to lift our hearts at all times and in all places to the God who is near to us. Who desires not just to help us, but to heal us. Not merely to comfort us, but to transform us into the image of His perfect son, our Lord, Jesus Christ. For we know that if we be united with Christ in His suffering, then we shall also be united with Him in His triumph and victory.

And what sorrow do we know that Christ has not known also?

In the Holy Scriptures we read that Jesus knew in His flesh the pangs of hunger, the ache of wearyness, the deep compassion towards the hungry and sick. In His life we see that Christ experienced the grief of loss that brings weeping, knew the betrayal of dear friends as they fell asleep in His hour of pain and then denied that they knew Him. And He in His kindness and love forgave them, and restored them to His favor.

We read with trembling, that Christ prayed that the cup would be taken from Him, but then submitted Himself to the will of the Father. Jesus walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Death into the dawn of His glorious resurrection and victory. He exchanged the scornful crown of thorns, for a conqueror's crown and He holds securely all the Father has given Him.

What peace does He speak to us, dear ones?

We know that He will not crush a bruised reed nor a broken heart.

We know that He will not snuff out our smoldering wick.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Christ, our good shepherd, will carry us wooly and weary little lambs in the shelter of His arms, strong arms that bore the weight of the world. We are not too heavy in our sorrow for Him to bear, for He is our strong deliverer.

Praise to you, Lord Christ.

Peace, peace to you, dear ones, loved by the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Peace at all times, in the fearful dark night, and in the brightness of day. Peace of Christ to the wounds of your heart and soul. Peace of Christ to your weary spirit. Take heart, be you yet of courage though you tremble, for Christ walks beside you, now and evermore.

I had an 8 am class that day - piano lab in Tate Hall.

It would be easy to write that when I got back to the dorm that day, the world had changed - and it had, but I didn't know it when I got back at 9 a.m.

In fact, no one did.

The classes had not been cancelled yet. I went to Music Theory in the Fine Arts Building, and still we did not know, we went on studying chords, and listening to their different variations, we considered the relative minor.

We left class to find a silent campus tuned in to CNN. There were no more classes that day.

I cannot remember the name of the girl in my dorm who told me about it. I can't remember who I ate lunch with, or what I did that afternoon.

At 4:30, a kid named Justin picked me up to go to Marching Mizzou. Dr. Shallert had not cancelled our two hour practice.

We were 280 youth strong. We were pissed off that our director had called us together - it seemed heartless to practice, marching band was totally unimportant. There was none of the levity that usually accompanied us - no piling on top of a band member in a rugby heap of a tradition called stacking. No barking of upperclassmen at younger ones. Just our feet marking time, the click of our instruments, the fury of the notes we directed at our director in the viewing stand. And when we paused, sometimes we grumbled nasty words at him, but mostly we were silent.

I remember that it was warm that day, that the sun was bright, and reflected off the pavement of our practice field. We must have practiced the pre-game show, and that means we must have played the national anthem. But I do not remember.

What I remember most that day, though, was what Dr. Shallert said at the end of our practice.

He said that he knew it seemed absurd to come out to field that day. That it seemed cruel, and mean. He did not try to help us understand what had happened, he offered no trite cliche.

He said that it was better to come out for 2 hours, to play the memorized songs, to focus on the steps we knew, to be together with one another than for all of us to sit glued to the TV as we had all day. He said it was important that we had been together, to create something in the midst of that terrible day.

And he was right. He was wise, and he led us well that day.

As I recall, the football game was cancelled that weekend. But I do remember that we as band approached the practicing of the National Anthem with a renewed vigor.

And when we played it the first time on Faurot Field in front of the crowd after that terrible day, the notes shimmered in the air. We had never stood so stiffly at attention, we were determined to play the song as it had never been so well played. It seemed the only thing to do.

When the song was done, I know the whistle blew, and we fell into the next formation. We kept moving, but we had played our parts well.

As did the rest of the country in that terrible time.

A couple of nights this past week, I've woken up at 3 a.m. on the nose - once after an incredibly bizarre nightmare in which I was in a Civil War battle with minnie balls flying all about my ears, thanks sub-conscious.

But I digress. Each time to my mind has flown from the reaches of my memory the snatches of a prayer from the Book of Common Prayer:

"Be with those who watch and wait this night..."

At any given moment, I wonder how many people on this madly spinning globe are experiencing what they might call, "the worst time of their life"? How many are watching and waiting through a dark and chilly night?

Certainly more than anyone should like to think. How much compassion we need, what great tenderness we need.

For there are those this week who have borne the news of death.

And those who have borne the diagnosis of illness.

Ones who have been physically wounded.

Others who bear loss of many different sorts.

We who mourn and sorrow are never alone, in our suffering we enter a dark fraternity where choices must be made about how we shall watch and wait, how we shall endure the darkness of night.

I think of how I come to the feasting table of Lamb, to the communion rail - there I see part of what it means to wait upon the Lord.

We wait with our hands open, don't we. Hands open to receive the bread and the cup through which we are fed in grace.

And decorum insists that we wait patiently, for the meal must be served appropriately - the words spoken to each who comes to receive: "The body of Christ, the bread of heaven, the blood of Christ, the cup of salvation."

I humbly admit that I'm not great at being patient, and there are some days when I think of throwing sharp elbows to reach the table first, so hungry am I for the grace of Christ.

But that's not the way of the Lamb is it?

Not at all, no preference is given to those who get there first or last. To each is given grace in its proper time and into open and waiting hands.

The grace always comes, even if you're the very last one at the rail, but it comes in God's proper time.

I am beginning to understand that in a very small and humble measure, and that in itself is part of God's grace to me.