O extravagant God, in this ripening, red-tinged autumn,
waken in me a sense of joy in just being alive,
joy for nothing in general except everything in particular;
joy in sun and rain mating with earth to birth a harvest;
joy in soft light through shyly disrobing trees;
joy in the acolyte moon setting halos around processing clouds;
joy in the beating of a thousand wings mysteriously knowing which way is warm;
joy in wagging tails and kid's smiles and in this spunky old city;
joy in the taste of bread and wine, the smell of dawn, a touch, a song,
a presence;
joy in having what I cannot live without-other people to hold and cry and laugh with;
joy in love, in you;
and that all at first and last
is grace. (words from "Guerrillas of Grace by Ted Loder, photos by Isaac)