Avatar in a wheelchair

I met a neighbor walking her dog the other evening. I asked if she minded company and we began chatting about life. She’ll be 70 soon — I can’t believe in two years I’ll be there — and she seemed a bit down.

“I didn’t do a lot of things I could have when I was younger,” she said, the dog tugging at her leash for us to move faster.

“I studied art, you know, pen and pencil, pastels and I loved it. Even got my degree in fine arts. Then I married, had children, divorced and put the art away. And now …”

“And now?” I prompted her.

“It’s just too late to do anything with it. So in the mornings I do my crossword puzzles, read my books. I won’t ever go back to art and I’m fine with that.”

When we parted ways I felt sad about her words. She may be content with what she’s doing with her life — and if so, that’s fine — but my motto has always been: It’s never too late.

If art is an activity she enjoyed, why not do it again, for the sheer, delicious pleasure of it? She may never have a show in a gallery or sell her work, but so what? If art nurtures and feeds her soul, what more wonderful gift could she give herself at this stage in life?

The week before I happened upon another neighbor, this time in the hospital lobby. I spend much of my time it seems in hospitals as I care for aging parents.

I was rushing to get dad in his wheelchair and into the elevator to his doctor’s appointment when she snagged my attention from the periphery of my vision, a frail, almost elfin-like woman, lost in an enormous wheelchair. A ding of recognition — do I know this woman — hit me, but I let it pass as I had to get dad upstairs and settled.

After I spent the afternoon caring for dad at home, I had to return to the same doctor’s office at the hospital to pick up some paperwork and I saw her, still there. I was almost sure I knew her and walked over to her and asked, “Aren’t we neighbors? And have you been here alone, all day?”

We were neighbors and yes, she had been sitting at this hospital alone. All day. She was waiting for a medical transport, but she had missed the last van. I volunteered to drive her home, but she told me she had already paid for the service and she was OK, even though she had another hour to wait. I asked her if I could get her coffee. Wheel her to the bathroom? She assured me she was fine.

I sat down next to her and we began to talk. Within a few minutes I realized I was in the presence of a special soul, someone who talked of God always being with her, a God who never failed her.

Someone who had been through great pain but physically felt herself being cradled in God’s love. Who had sensed God’s presence deeply with her throughout her life. Someone who told me that most us in the world are walking around asleep and need to wake up to the miracles around us.

I listened in awe and wonder to this avatar in a wheelchair. When her transport arrived, I leaned over and hugged her. She had shifted my heavy, sad energy of caregiving in that one hour to light and hope. I didn’t want our conversation to end. We promised to pray for each other.

Life always brings challenges. And choices. Some of us are bound by our limitations in thought — what we think we can or can’t do — and some, although bound by wheelchairs, are free and unlimited.

When I was in my 20s, my first love introduced me to Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning. I never forgot Frankl’s famous quote:

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

I’m always humbled by the people God puts in my path, teachers who come in the most interesting guises. Both these women continue to inspire me in different ways. They leave me questioning: What am I choosing? As a people what are WE choosing? And are we awake or asleep?


The grace to remember

I went to the Garden of Reflection in Yardley today. The park commemorates 911 and the lives lost — in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, Shanksville, Pa.

The energy of the space belies the horror and evil we all felt and experienced. The memorial exudes peace. Two fountains spurt upward, an ethereal remembrance of the towers, and a circular wall lists the names of those who died.

Surrounded by vast green farmlands and thick, sweet woods, the garden is surrounded by an other-worldly silence. Today, many came to walk there, as I did. And remember.

The weather was much the same was it was that day in 2001. Deep blue skies without a cloud, bright sun, a temperate breeze.

I read the names. These people came to work that day, perhaps were thinking about meetings, phone calls, what they would be doing later that evening — dinner with family or friends.

And then.

I kept walking the circle. Some family members had placed vases with roses, or a single rose, beneath their loved one’s name. Many who died were from this area, including one of the pilots.

As I took in the energy of these names, I was reminded: Each was loved. Each had a mother, father, sister, brother, aunt or uncle, daughter or son, a friend — someone who cherished them.

I sat on a bench beneath a shady tree. I thought of all that has happened in our world since then. All that is still happening. Those suffering from hurricanes Harvey and Irma, an earthquake in Mexico, wildfires and excessive heat and droughts, the threat of nuclear war.

I thought of my own personal situation, how each day dad declines and his care becomes more difficult, and how so many in our world are struggling and suffering in even more horrendous circumstances.

In his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Harold Kushner writes:

“Pain is the price we pay for being alive. Dead cells—our hair, our fingernails—can’t feel pain; they cannot feel anything. When we understand that, our question will change from, “Why do we have to feel pain?” to “What do we do with our pain so that it becomes meaningful and not just pointless empty suffering?” 

I’m still struggling with that question.

I have met those in my life who have transformed their suffering — those who have lost spouses or children who end up helping those in similar situations, or those who have been addicted who get into recovery and then become drug and alcohol counselors. And some, who because of the pain they’ve suffered, open up to others with more compassion and love.

And I’ve met yet others who have sunk into their grief or sorrow with bitterness and despair.

Many times we want it all to go away. Or we pray to God for miracles. Kushner says:

“We can’t pray that God make our lives free of problems; this won’t happen, and it is probably just as well. We can’t ask Him to make us and those we love immune to diseases, because He can’t do that. We can’t ask Him to weave a magic spell around us so that bad things will only happen to other people, and never to us.

People who pray for miracles usually don’t get miracles, any more than children who pray for bicycles, good grades, or good boyfriends get them as a result of praying. But people who pray for courage, for strength to bear the unbearable, for the grace to remember what they have left instead of they have lost, very often find their prayer answered.”  

I left the park, praying for all of us — for courage and strength to bear the unbearable, to remember with gratitude what we have left, instead of what we have lost.

As I offered the words up to the heavens, I watched a child escape from his mother and run with abandon through the grass, laughing.

A small joy amidst the sorrow. I smiled.


It goes by fast

As some of you know I’ve taken a brief respite from two years of writing this blog. But this post today visited me unexpectedly and asked to be written. Here it is. I share it with deep gratitude.


Birthdays make me wax philosophical. I become more than my usual existential self. It’s not a matter of “to be” but where I am now, in that “being-ness.”

To that end, a friend and I were discussing the question that seems to have become popular as of late: “What would you tell your younger self if you could?” My mind went through the Rolodex (that’s how old I am) of pieces of sage wisdom.

I smiled and said, “It goes by fast. That’s what I’d tell the younger me.” He turned and asked, “Would you have listened?”

Probably not.

When we’re younger we may not look too far ahead. No need. Yes, we plan, we work, raise a family, whatever it may be, but mostly, our vision is short-term. We have the illusion that life is forever, with many days left, much time to do whatever we need to with our lives.

But the truth is, as I head into the end of this decade of my 60s, I can say, with honesty, life is short.

I’ve seen friends die, or lose their spouses or children. And those deeper, philosophical questions seem to plague me now more than ever: How many years do I have left to fulfill whatever I came here to do? And what is that anyway? Do I have enough time to do whatever “that” is?

When we are younger, we don’t dwell on those questions; in our older years, the questions dwell on us – whether we like it or not.

It’s more than curious to me that I seem to have a history. I can look back with perspective, as if standing on a hill and viewing the landscape of my life. And what do I see?

At the risk of sounding too corny (but I do love James Taylor), I have indeed seen fire and rain. I’ve had moments of joy, deep sadness, longing to belong to something deeper in life, given up hope, rallied, dug deeper, laughed at myself. All these are shared experiences that make us human. That’s what I see.

And sometimes I’ve just screwed things up.

But I’ve learned from that. At least I hope I have. Mistakes are part of life’s journey and in them I’ve discovered parts of me that are teachable, the essence of my being that wants to grow, evolve and become more compassionate and loving.

As I age, I’ve also found that things of mammon, or of this world, really don’t impress me anymore. Call me a curmudgeon or a not-so-material girl, but I’m no longer invested in what I can get.

But what I can give.

And what does impress me? A soft summer rain, the lulling or crashing waves of the ocean, a forest sweet with the smell of earth, my toes in green grass, a child’s giggle, a long, delicious nap, the deep inhale of pure, clean air. Seeing the potential of genuine goodness in others and in myself.

And here’s what I continue to learn.

Life will unfold, with joy or with sorrow and many times with the ordinary hum-drum of days — and that the “powerful play goes on and that you may contribute a verse.”

And what is my verse? I don’t know. Even at my age I still struggle with this. In the end perhaps life’s journey is stumbling in the dark, trusting in a Higher Power that always guides us, love us. That we are where we are meant to be — and I don’t mean that as a platitude or cliché — and that somehow we exist in each sacred moment as intended by the Divine.

And perhaps that verse is simply being love. Every second. Because it does go by fast. It does.




This is not my typical blog post. On Cinco de Mayo, we will be celebrating my dad’s 90th birthday. If you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share with you some of his amazing life.


When dad was born on May 5, 1927 — 90 years ago — he almost died.

His mother, my late abuela, prayed to St. Anthony. If her son lived, she would offer him to God’s service and name him Antonio. Anthony.

Dad survived. And his life has indeed been of service to others. Interestingly, his namesake, St. Anthony, was the greatest preacher of the Middle Ages and one of the finest orators of all time.

Dad became this, too.

But dad wasn’t always this way. He was a first-generation Mexican-American who grew up in poverty. He was shy.

Because of his race, he experienced prejudice in South Texas. Many of his classmates weren’t pleased when he was named the high school’s valedictorian. Mexicans weren’t supposed to be smart.

Dad went on to study radio engineering and worked at Pan American Airways. While all this was happening, he and my mother, from Tennessee, were writing letters to each other and fell in love. https://mezuniga.wordpress.com/2015/07/12/a-love-story/ They married and started raising a family in Donna, Texas.

His career then morphed into television engineering at KRGV-TV in Weslaco, and he would often bring us as children there. https://mezuniga.wordpress.com/2016/04/26/fame/ With a growing family, dad needed more income and left the TV station to find better employment.

He took a job with the Philco Corporation where he worked as a civilian consultant to the military in South Korea. He was responsible for helping set up the first TV station in post-war Korea.

But we weren’t able to go as a family. South Korea was still considered a hardship area. So we stayed behind in Houston, with my aunt and uncle helping my mother with our care. Every day the mailman brought a surprise from Korea — dolls, silk kimonos, toys and books.

After a year, dad returned to the U.S. and the Philco Corporation transferred him to the Philadelphia area.

Among his many duties, he helped develop the high-resolution cameras, attached to an airplane, that detected the growing build up of missiles in Cuba — that led to the Cuban missile crisis. Dad also helped set up the TV monitors at NASA in Houston.

His work then took him to KYW-TV in Philadelphia as chief engineer during the time of The Mike Douglas Show. There, he met many movie stars and celebrities. https://mezuniga.wordpress.com/2015/07/07/kissing-shirley-temple/

During all this time, however, dad was also involved in much more. At some point in his early career, he took the Dale Carnegie course and discovered a gift — inspirational and motivational speaking.

From there, dad became involved in a program called Adventures in Attitudes and branched out on his own, giving lectures to help inspire others, to help them become the best they could be.

He offered talks such as “You were born for greatness, why settle for less?” and “The ABCs of greatness.”

His public speaking extended to the Crusillo movement, where he was one of two men to help bring this Christ-centered movement to the Philadelphia area from Spain.

Dad lectured around the world, not only for the Crusillo, but speaking about other spiritual and self-help topics in churches, schools, veterans’ hospitals, nursing homes, prisons, and to troubled youth. https://mezuniga.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/the-nellie-nobody-knows/

Dad’s sole desire was to help others and to serve. I remember him saying, “If only one person is helped and comes to know God, it’s worth it.”

Stories are told that healings happened when dad spoke. Emotional healings, but sometimes physical healings. After one of his talks, he counseled a woman who had cancer. After hearing her story, he told her she needed to forgive her ex-husband. She found it difficult, but she finally did, from her heart. Later, she reported to him that she had been healed.

Prior to one of his talks — an important one — he was seized with an uncharacteristic fear. While in the shower he heard Mother Mary’s voice: “Do not be afraid,” she said. “I am sending my angels before you.”

Dad wrote two books and recorded numerous CDs of his talks. He was not part of the digital age, but at some point, my hope is that I — or one of his family — will make these available via social media.

Throughout his 90 years, dad has helped countless people, given tirelessly, and helped his nine children along the way. He helped us move, provided money, offered counsel, prayed with us, cried with us, loved us, forgave us when we made mistakes. He went on to do the same with his grandchildren.

The stories are countless and if anything, dad himself was the consummate story teller — until his stroke four years ago. https://mezuniga.wordpress.com/2015/11/23/the-zen-of-caregiving/

That’s the day God took away the one gift dad cherished most — his speech.

And yet, dad still speaks with his eyes and his smile. He is still there, giving. How?

He helped me learn in the deepest way, as I help care for him, that loving service to others is the greatest gift we can give. I now know this in my being as never before.

So this Friday on Cinco de Mayo — Antonio (Tony) Zaragoza Zuniga, true Mexican-American that he is — will mark 90 years of a life well lived. And on Saturday, May 6th, his family and friends will be there to celebrate him. They are arriving from all corners — Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, California, from next door and a few blocks away.

We will honor dad at a party with Mexican food, Margaritas, mariachi music, laughter, family stories. And we will cherish him. We will love him.

Gracias, Papi. Por todo.





Who are you?

Strange things happen as you grow older. You start to lose things. Hair, energy, car keys, lists to help you remember, and why in the world you walked into that room. What was I going in there to get?

But sometimes, loss can be a blessing. It strips down and shows us what is no longer necessary.

Most important, I believe we begin to lose our false self. What is that?

In his book Adam’s Return, Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest, says:

“Our false self is who we think we are. It is our mental self-image and social agreement, which most people spend their whole lives living up to — or down to.”

For many of us, this becomes an all-consuming effort. We create this other persona that we feel society wants, or our family and friends expect of us. For me, it was years spent working in the writing field, for newspapers and magazines, and a few stints in the corporate world.

As an ambitious young working woman, my persona was about fine clothes, a good salary, making an impact with my words, earning writing awards, my by-line.

Were those wrong? No. All of those were necessary and part of my journey. I had to pay bills after all. And on some level, writing offered me an avenue to use my gift of writing to educate and inform many people.

But at some point, I began to realize there was more to life than this. These “things” were not at the deepest level about my true self.

One of my favorite authors Sue Monk Kidd writes: “In our youth we set up inner myths and stories to live by but around the midlife juncture these patterns begin to crumble. It feels to us like a collapsing of all that is, but it’s a holy quaking.”

That “holy quaking” can lead us to our true self. And what is that?

Simply put, the true self pulls us closer to the Divine, to God. I think children and animals show us how to do this best. They have no hidden agendas, take no offense at slights, but simply delight in the purity of being themselves. They are who God created them to be.

A friend of mine scolded his dog one day for jumping into a basket of clean clothes. But the dog didn’t know she had done anything wrong — she was living in pure innocence and joy as God had made her — and just as quickly forgot about her “mistake” and went about playing and wagging her tail.

I’ve also had the privilege of knowing a handful of people in my life who I sensed were living in the integrity of their true selves. They accepted themselves, knew who they were, both flaws and sanctity — and in their presence, I felt an ease and grace.

As we move closer to our true selves, I believe the more loving parts of ourselves are magnified. And we begin to accept those parts that hide in façade or selfishness. Or they simply disappear in the light of that love.

Discovering our true selves is not so much about what we do, but what God does, says Rohr.

“And what God does—what life does—is gradually destabilize the supposed boundaries of the small self so we can awaken inside of the Large Self, which we call God. This usually happens through experiences of great love or great suffering or inner prayer journeys that allow the private ego to collapse back into the True Self, who we are in God.”

For me, the journey toward discovering the true self has come late in life in caring for my father. In honesty, all facades and pretenses crumbled in the call to be of loving service and this ongoing experience has graced me to see myself as I am in God’s eyes — holy and flawed, sacred and scared, selfish and loving.

But I am — like everyone else — always in process with this. Living from our true selves is a journey, or as Rohr says, “a dance between the loneliness and desperation of the false self and the fullness of the true self, which is ever re-discovered and experienced anew as an ultimate homecoming.”

So, I find as I am growing older, I am also growing up — spiritually. Even better, waking up. And like most of us, I am still learning to navigate the mysterious pathways to who I really am. Warts and all.

Home to my true self. In God. In the divine. In love.




All the lonely people

The diner was noisy and overcrowded. A friend and I finally found a booth next to the counter where three men sat, talking.

One was loud, his voice booming above the clamor of rattling plates, forks and knives as bus boys cleaned up tables.

He was perhaps in his late 60s, scruffily dressed, and he made his boisterous presence known.

“So there was my son, hurt and in a heap on the football field and my wife said, ‘That’s your fault. I didn’t want him playing this game.’ That was years ago when the kid was in high school. He’s got a high-falutin job in California and I never see him. And you know Rosemary died last year.”

The other two men lowered their heads. “Sorry, Jack,” they said and sipped their coffee.

Jack went on about the Super Bowl, asked the waitress behind the counter what team she was betting on and shared more of his life with the rest of us nearby, whether we wanted to hear it or not. He was retired, Vietnam war vet, and Eagles fan, depending.

Then Jack stood up, said goodbye to his friends, and left.

My heart went out to him as he walked unsteadily out the door.

loneliness-blog“He’s lonely,” I told my friend.

“He’s drunk,” my friend said.

Perhaps. But it didn’t matter to me. I saw a man who had a grown son living elsewhere, who had lost his wife and who was returning, most likely, to an empty home. Lonely. At least here, in this diner, he was visible. He was connecting with others. He had a place to belong.

At heart, I believe we are all lonely. It’s inevitable and part of the human experience.

I know I have been lonely in my life more times than I care to remember, especially when I’ve moved for jobs in new cities where I didn’t know a soul. Being shy and introspective didn’t make connection with others any easier.

Along the way, however, I’ve learned a few things about this human experience and one is that “being alone” and “loneliness” are not the same.

pain and sorrow womanMany times I enjoy being alone, without others. I like to spend quality “me” time doing things I enjoy. In fact, solitude often draws me closer to my spiritual center and to God. And when alone, I’ve learned to be comfortable with my own company, to treat myself with compassion.

Being lonely, however, is when I have that unsettling inner gnawing at my soul, a feeling of disconnection from others, an emptiness and emotional hunger that wants to be filled with any diversion as to avoid that pain.

Today, loneliness seems rampant. It seems we’d rather do anything other than face our loneliness. So we distract ourselves with Facebook, Twitter, TV or “whatever” it may be rather than face loneliness and ask what it has to teach us.

The late Henri Nouwen, spiritual writer and theologian, writes:

“When we have no project to finish, no friend to visit, no book to read, no television to watch…and when we are left all alone by ourselves, we are brought so close to the revelation of our basic human aloneness and so afraid of experiencing an all-pervasive sense of loneliness that we will do anything to get busy again and continue the game which makes us believe that everything is fine after all.”

So what do we do?

Perhaps we can transform our loneliness into solitude, a time to sense our oneness with God or all of creation. I’m sure many of us have stood in awe at a glorious sunrise, crashing waves, an unexpected rainbow, a majestic mountain range. We are all part of that glory so we are never truly alone.

If that doesn’t work, perhaps we might consider reaching out to others and helping them in their struggles. Offering a listening heart and hand to those in need is not such a bad idea during the times we feel lonely. And in the end, life has a strange way of giving back what we put out.

woman by door at oceanAnd sometimes, as uncomfortable as it may feel, we can simply “be” with that loneliness. We may choose to listen to what it has to teach us and know that as part of this human journey we share in that experience of loneliness — ironically — together.

In fact, loneliness and many other feelings we call negative can be great teachers, if we allow. Psychotherapist and spiritual counselor Matt Licata writes:

“Your sadness, your loneliness, your fear, and your anxiety are not mistakes. They are not obstacles on your path. They are the path. The freedom you are longing for is not found in the eradication of these, but in the information they carry. You need not transcend anything here, but be willing to become deeply intimate with your lived, embodied experience. …Nothing is missing, nothing is out of place, nothing need be sent away.”

Then again, we may choose to be like Jack, and head to the nearest diner. Shout and boom to the world that we are here. And for a few seconds, like him, we may distract ourselves from the pain of loneliness. Perhaps that, too, can be a part of the path and if we are open, part of the learning.

After all, we each have a bit of Jack in us. May we learn to bless that loneliness in our being. May we know we are never truly alone.



To boldly go

I’m back. And I’ve missed you all. I’ve missed writing this blog.

I had an accident and I’m still mending. But I’m better each and every day. This challenge (see “Shields up, Red Alert” below) has been and continues to be a profound teacher. Fodder for a future blog.

This blog post below was written, ironically, on the morning before the accident. How interesting to go back and read what I had started, not knowing what was ahead for me. The truth is, we never know.

As a result, I’m learning even more deeply to stay in the moment. To be thankful for all I have — and I am so grateful for all who have been praying for me and supporting me.

I wrote that morning about the “spirituality of Star Trek” little realizing that I was about to encounter a dark space in my own life. But this experience has only confirmed for me that while we may be sucked up by those “black holes” of sorrow or pain in life, we do come out of them and find brilliant horizons of light. Perhaps not right away. But if we are open, we do journey eventually to a new and heightened sense of the preciousness of life and gratitude.

Each day — with God’s grace — we boldly go.


Were you a Trekkie? I was.

No, I didn’t attend conventions, wear a uniform or learn how to speak Klingon. Although if that was or is your thing, may you live long and prosper.

Instead, I was awestruck by the possibilities for our future. Doors that opened on their own, communicators, Tricorders, Replicators, the transporter beam.  And then nasty aliens who manipulated your mind or adorable ones like Tribbles.

star-trekEven better, here was a cast of every stripe, gender and color, including a logical alien with pointy ears. The show was a bow to gender and racial equality, and they all managed to get along, hurtling through space on the U.S.S. Enterprise.

I was in high school when the show debuted 50 years ago and Star Trek was a fresh look at what might be. Now, of course, we laugh at how “fake” the show seems, and yet, some of those Enterprise inventions have come to pass.

Later in life I began to see how this show, and its progeny, offered theological ideas and concepts. So 15 years ago I wrote a book titled “The Spirituality of Star Trek” that attracted interest from a literary agent, and then never went beyond that. A writer’s life, I’m afraid.

Still, those truths, at least for me, remain — shining like a bright star in deep space. So here are some spiritual principles I learned from Star Trek.

Warp Core Breaches — You never want one of these. Bad stuff, especially if you’re trying to flee Khan (apologies to non-Trekkies but he’s a real bad guy). Aboard the various starships, the warp core is the main source of energy that propels the ship through space. We can view the warp core as our souls. When we fail to forgive, we breach our spirits. Lack of forgiveness sucks up our souls, like the black holes in space. The gravity of vengeance is so dense no other life can exit there. When we forgive we begin to repair those breaches and mend our souls.

ohuraOpen Hailing Frequencies — When encountering aliens, the captain’s first command is always “Open hailing frequencies!” This is a way of addressing new life forms and identifying the U.S.S. Enterprise and its human cargo, proclaiming: We are here and we come in peace. How can we learn from each other? Sometimes we shut down our hailing frequencies. We don’t take time to listen to others or to the universal language of love from the Divine who permeates the universe. Or perhaps, we don’t take time to listen to what our souls are trying to tell us.

Resistance is Futile — That phrase is an eerie command from the Borg, a techno-alien race that thinks with a hive mind. When starships encountered the Borg, they were assimilated into their collective. But the Borg had it right when they announced “Resistance is futile.” An old metaphysical axiom says that “what we resist, persists.” Like the Borg, when we allow ourselves to accept whatever is happening — no matter how joyful or painful — we learn. We grow. And when we embrace and assimilate those forgotten, neglected parts of our being, we grow into personal and collective wholeness and holiness.

Shields Up, Red Alert! — All of us have faced red alerts in our lives. It may be traumatic, such as a divorce, death or a life-threatening illness. Whatever it is, the experience, as painful as it is, is there to love us and teach us, if we allow it. It is often a wake-up call because something needs desperate attention in our lives. Sometimes we need to have “shields up” for a time to mend or recuperate. Sometimes we need to relax into whatever is happening and hear what it has to tell us. Only then can we move forward.

picard-engage_0_0Make It So — Capt. Jean-Luc Picard often gave this command to his crew. We also have the power to “make it so.” Our thoughts are the stuff of energy that propel us wherever we focus it. What we think, we create. God was first thought and first cause. We, too, think and create. So, how do we want to “make it so” in our lives?

The Prime Directive — This is the Federation’s mandate not to interfere in alien civilizations. God is much like this, although the Divine has been known to intervene in human history. However, most of the time I believe that the Divine invites us into partnership — to participate by using our free wills to co-create a new heaven and new earth. Choice is frightening and an awesome gift. When we choose to let the Divine take the lead, we may not know the outcome. It’s always a risk. But it is always sacred ground when we do it in union with the Creator.

spaceSpace, the Final Frontier — Although outer space may be adventuresome, inner space offers infinite possibilities. This is the territory of the Divine, where we find our spiritual identity and souls. We traverse this space in many ways, with meditation, being in the moment, or whatever may help us connect with that vast presence within us.

Whether you are a fan of Star Trek or not, the reality is we are on this earthly “enterprise” together. So may we learn to be kind and loving to one another. May we boldly go into each new day knowing how much we are loved. And by God’s grace, may we live long and prosper.