Every once in a while, a stranger glides in to the cool and dark and peace of the church from the glare and chaos of the city and walks all the way up into the chancel and leaves an offering on the magnificent stone and snowy linen altar.
Blows my mind. The power and humility. Can’t explain it so won’t try.
Wherever you are today, will you STOP and find a holy space—perhaps the altar built of memory and hope between your ears? And make your offering?