HERE by Yalie Kamara, May 6, 2018

For Second Baptist Church of Bloomington, Indiana I know the hand that guides me, its careful arch, its gentle heat, the way it holds me closely when I’ve at times been unsure of my own beauty. In the emptiness of doubt, and in the bowels of solitude, there is a soft sweet light that flickers in the distance, a blessed glow close enough to illuminate my spirit, and remind me that even in the darkest hour, I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I know the hand that guides me, but not, yet, still, all of its power. What trouble it has spared me in a myriad of moments. How it has pulled tragedy from my path, shadows from my midst, and weakness from my soul. I know the hand that guides me: it teaches me that my gratitude is like a seed to be watered and that my prayer is ever-blossoming, and that my roots have become firmer. Here. In the fellowship of this garden, Second Baptist Church, among God’s varied and vivacious flowers. Here. My prayer is ever-blossoming, my roots have become firmer. Here. I know the hand that guides me is the same one that holds this congregation in its palm, and that during altar call, we are lovingly fastened in worship. And that when we praise, our words soothe like honey, and stick like the lyrics of the gospel song that proclaims, yes our souls have been anchored in the Lord. I know the hand that guides me, guides this sanctuary, and is in the business of miracles, that it breaks the spell of sickness and strife between its fingers,

and that our best, we are assured knowing that faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. I know the hand that guides me blesses every inch of this sanctuary. And that there is much to celebrate. Bless the hug that waits just beyond the church’s entrance. Bless every pew. Bless the elegant two-step of the choir’s procession. Bless their anointed harmony and all the ways they tell the storm to go elsewhere. Praise the furious language of the tambourine and the call and response of the clap. Praise the open mouth and its undying love for the Lord. Bless the deacons, ushers, parishioners, the children, and the visitor alike. Bless the fingers of the pianist and the drummer’s grip. Bless those who have made it, praise those who are on their way. Bless the timbre of the pastor’s voice and the sweat on his brow. Praise his perfect timing: how every single week the sun begins to glisten through the stained glass just as soon as he speaks of early Sunday mornings. Here, we sit on North Rogers and West 8th. Feel the divine wind that passes through the aisles. Bless this place. Here. My forever home. Hear us as we lift your name beyond the ceiling of the sanctuary. Watch our praise float upward, outward, and beneath the feathered wing of the sparrow. Watch our praise float upward, outward. Bless us as we animate the air with your glory.