The damp wood was soft under my bare feet. The air clung to my skin and in my throat, heavy with humidity. On the chipped and rusty fire pit I placed the colored pages, which held the names of beloved friends – abiding and estranged, living and dead, yesterday’s memories and today’s texts. Our group prayed for all these people who’d touched our lives.
When the workshop ended, I couldn’t bring myself to simply toss the slips away, so I saved them for this morning, this perfect moment, of gentle fire and flame. The smoke found its path through the dense air. May our prayers rise like incense. We entrust these precious people to God’s care.