Living in the American Midwest, I am only now beginning to see the first signs of Spring.  A flower here, a flower there, a few buds on the trees, birds, robins and sparrows in particular, emerging.  And the sun, rising ever farther in the northern horizon, proclaiming the new day.  It's all very glorious, glorious, indeed.
     Beyond the reverie, as we all know, suffering reigns.  And it's not just the pandemic.  Even amidst the deaths it is unleashing, every moment, people are, quite apart from the virus's effects, sadly, dying, taking their last breaths, leaving the world forever.
     Yet every moment, people are being born, too:  life continues.  And this we have hope.
     A few days ago, many people remembered the anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, in 1968.  It's a tragedy supernally difficult to undo.  To remember it, however, is to hope.  And to believe.  To believe in the human species, the fundamental point of the human being:  what wonder we are!  For justice we long, with love we long for it.
     And for this we are grateful there is a God.