Gratitude

I was walking home on a cold crisp February morning in Minnesota, about 16 degrees, the ground still covered in snow.  As I rounded the corner a half block from home, I caught the sound of a wind chime, swinging from a tree in our neighbor’s backyard.  It was blowing gently, each long tine tapping the others, speaking the deep, minor notes of an old church bell.  Then the sound lifted, no longer originating from the actual chimes but now the voice of the wind itself speaking a gentle reminder: go to whatever church you know, worship what or whom you can, remember gratitude for all your beloveds (my husband, my son) and for the long privilege of living, here, on earth.