August 31: Life, Community, Love Prayer

We give thanks for the gift of life.

Even when life is challenging,

it offers possibilities in each moment.

We give thanks for the gift of community.

Even when community is problematic, 

it offers comfort and support.

We give thanks for the gift of love.

Even when love seems eclipsed by fear,

it still shines through in troubled times.

Let us pause to consider the gifts

of community, life, and love.

May we open our minds to the gift of life.

May we open our arms to the gift of community.

And may we open our hearts to the gift of love,

now and always. Amen!

August 30: When Words Refuse

Forget the metric feet that slog beneath

the line emerging on the written page;

forsake the aching need for rhyme or form

when words refuse to follow your command;

forswear the artifice of empty verse,

and let the words fall down like healing rain.

August 29: Troubled Minds

Troubled minds and desperate acts

dominate the news cycle as corruption

spreads like rot through the body politic,

and even those who are doing the most

to make things better feel hopeless at times,

feel like they are never doing enough,

while others dither, complain, and comply.

August 28: Dancing Shadows

Leaves cast dancing

shadows on dusty

front windows as day

begins as gently

as the soft sun shines

on the dogwood tree.

August 27: Home to the Sea

Beyond the next hill, 

the stream wanders

unseen toward more 

twists and turns, falls

and rapids, past towns 

and pastures until

at last it finds its way 

home to the sea.

August 26: Possibility of Fall

Morning light has changed—

as the sun rises five minutes 

later than it did last week,

and its position in the sky 

shifts little by little, 

mornings are more golden 

and the oak tree across the street 

lights up a bit later

and the air is charged 

with the possibility of fall.

August 25: Music Continues

Music continues to resonate

through our bodies long

after the singing has stopped,

long after the strings 

have ceased vibrating—

even after the words are gone,

the song remains.

August 24: Blanket of Human Caring Prayer

As summer draws to an end and a new church year begins,

We pause to consider who we are and why we are here.

We pause to create, together, a container that is large enough to hold all:

To hold our joys and sorrows, our hopes and disappointments,

Our triumphs and our failures, our ideal selves and our actual selves.

We pause to weave, together, a net strong enough to catch all who are falling:

Those who are lonely or bereft, those who are marginalized or oppressed,

Those who find themselves falling through the cracks of an inhospitable world.

We pause to stitch together a blanket of caring broad enough to comfort all:

All the discomforts of living at a time when compassion is hard to find,

All the discomforts of increasing social and economic chaos and uncertainty.

We pause now for a moment of silence to create, together,

A container, a net, a blanket of human caring. [pause]

May we find hope in hopeless times.

May we find comfort in a world of discomfort.

And may we bring into being the love we seek,

Now and always, Amen!

August 23: The Path to the Sea

The path to the sea 

begins anywhere,

anytime you take 

one step that leads

to another until you 

arrive—it’s not required 

that you have an itinerary 

or purposeful destination 

in mind or even an intention 

of going toward the shore.

The path to the sea 

begins exactly where 

you are and ends 

where the sea begins.

August 22: Every Land Is Holy Land

Every land is Holy Land, 

every acre of rolling pasture,

every expanse of dense woods, 

every square inch of scrubby desert, 

every place sentient beings have dwelt

or passed through is holy, but no

place is more sacred than a mountain,

where inspiration strikes and

the voice of God can be heard.

August 21: Today's Gray Skies

Today’s gray skies

hold something in,

hold something down,

hold all and nothing,

hold the story of now,

hold tedious potential.

Perhaps it will rain.

August 20: Moving Day

Morning rain falls soft

but a hard day lies ahead

full of strain and tears.

August 19: Too Much to Do

So much to do today, so much

ahead to say and plan ahead,

too many things, really, too many

for just one day alone, for just

this mind not quite awake, this mind

caught up in thought, caught up

in things only imagined, in things

beyond the not-so-great beyond.

August 18: On a Day Like Today

On a day like today, 

with a golden sun 

shining and a gentle breeze 

blowing and a cheerful bird

singing, there must be 

something good happening 

somewhere in the world.

August 17: Prayer for Courage, Compassion, and Hope

We pause now for a moment to hold together,

in this sacred space, during this sacred hour,

what we cannot hold alone.

To hold not only the usual challenges of life—

the transitions, changes and various twists and turns

of all human existence, both expected and unexpected—

but also to hold the extraordinary challenges of our era,

the blatant disregard for human life and human rights

evident in various edicts from Washington and elsewhere,

the very real existential threats that are on full display,

especially toward those who are most vulnerable.

We pause, not to lose ourselves in worried rumination

but to find ourselves and our part in the work ahead of us,

to sense, in this moment, that we are not alone,

that there is good in the world, that there is always a next step,

and then a next step and then another.

We pause for a moment of silence to find our way back to now

and back to the possibilities we create together.

May we face all the challenges of life with courage and compassion.

May we bring hope into the world through our actions.

And may we return to this place of courage, compassion and hope,

Again and again and again. Amen!

August 16: Somehow the Sun

Somehow the sun 

looks different on weekends,

not quite as intense, 

gentler and more diffuse,

slower to rise, less likely 

to sear or burn,

more inviting and ready 

for picnics or croquet.

August 15: Tiger Swallowtails

Tiger swallowtail butterflies flittered

about the trail as I hiked—not at all

flittering but trudging and sweating.

Still, I was enchanted and fascinated

as I came to the end of the trail and,

walking through a patch of grass, saw

butterflies and a passel of blue moths

rise and take flight just a few inches

off the ground like living movie magic. 

August 14: More Perfect Union

Now is not the time for petty squabbles

or senseless dithering—that time is past.

Before us is the work of coming together,

of building something bigger than each,

something that has room for differences

but is rooted the need to labor as one

for the good of all, to sing from a score

with separate lines of harmonies, creating

what might become a more perfect union.

August 13: Passing Storm

After ten days of intense 

heat and drought,

last night’s passing 

thunderstorm brought

just enough rain to leave 

water dripping this morning 

from the tiny dogwood’s leaves

and left our dog unsettled 

and tired, while little birds play 

in the tree, free from worry.

August 12: End and Beginning

It's the end 

and the beginning—

end of night 

and beginning of day,

end of the weekend 

and beginning of the week,

end of summer 

and beginning of fall,

end of the beginning 

and beginning of the end,

end of hope 

and beginning of whatever 

comes after hope.

August 11: Hot August Day

Morning sun still lights 

up the sides of trees

across the street and casts 

long shadows just 

for an hour or two 

before it moves on, 

climbing ever higher 

on this hot August day just

a couple of weeks before school 

starts, before routine kicks in 

and each day is just

another day, and summer

becomes a memory.

August 10: Counting My Steps

High school marching band camp ruined me.

Ever since, I find myself counting my steps

in eight sets of eight: one, two, three, four,

five, six, seven eight; two, two three, four,

five, six, seven, eight . . . on and on and on,

as if I were still fourteen, marching across

freshly painted lines on the practice field

in blazing August heat, sweat running down

my back, nose running from hay fever, left 

foot first, eight steps to every five yards,

thighs lifted high, parallel to the ground,

listening to Mr. Somerville barking out

the cadence through a crackly megaphone,

wondering if I might die on that field.

Dozens of years later, and hundreds

of miles away, hiking deep in the woods,

I’m still marching on, counting my steps

now and perhaps for the rest of my life.

©2025 Jim Magaw

August 9: Lift Up Your Eyes

Life up your eyes and see! Ahead, the road 

is clouded, misty, rugged, barbed and long.

You cannot know its snags and snares, its twists,

the shape of that which has not yet emerged.

You cannot know just how it all will end.

But, oh, the beauty of the journeyed life,

the wondrous, lustrous, moments on the way.

Forsake the downward worried glance of fear

Look up, the sun-seared mist is growing clear.

August 8: Face of the Moon

As I hiked a rocky trail 

I came upon a series of craters 

in the rock, formed by rain having 

pooled in tiny indentations made larger 

by the force of water and time, 

and one of these craters looked 

like the face of the moon. 

Later, further down the mountain, 

I saw the face again—this time 

in a knot on an aged tree 

in a dense part of the forest 

where all the trees were thin 

and grew straight up, searching 

for light, with no branches anywhere 

near the ground. Later I realized the face 

looked like the one I see in the mirror, 

only craggier and even more ancient 

and filled with wonder and surprise.