Even after all this time, as new grass appears in the spring, I find it utterly miraculous. Again and again it rises from its whittled-down state, despite bouts of lawn-mowing so persistent you would think the grass would finally give up and quit. And yet it doesn't. It keeps growing. And I'm so grateful that my son didn't give up on me when I was inept at (respectively) feeding him, teaching him to ride a bike, and helping him understand the difficulties inherent in true friendship. We keep showing up and growing up. It's what we do. If we were any better at it, we'd all be giants. But size isn't what's important. How tall we grow, or how large a space we occupy in our community circle, or how much clout we carry in the world at large. What's important is that we keep going.

Many spiritual students and people of deep faith find courage where they least expect it. I found it in my back, during a year of intense pain. I found it in a car accident, when my hatchback hit a van carrying a sick young man, and much more than a mere insurance payment--a call of apology and an offer to be of service