From my front porch, I can look to the left and see two buildings.  The first, just down the street, belongs to a young woman who lives on her own.  I have only met her once, when passing out cookies to the neighborhood.  After offering her cookies, she cocked one eyebrow, looked at me like I was Anthony Weiner trying to get her Twitter handle, and said, “Why?”  I replied that we just wanted to be good neighbors.  As her expression softened, she said, “It’s just that this is the first time anyone has done something like this for me since I started living on my own.”

The second building is the children’s hospital.  The helicopters that bring children to the emergency wing often pass directly over our house.  I have good friends who serve as chaplains to the children and their families.  The last time I was there, I visited a classmate’s son who was in an induced coma after being hit by a train.  The mixture of strength and pain that I saw on his mother’s face is reflected in the faces of hundreds of parents who move through that building each day.

As I sit on my porch this morning, sipping on steaming hazelnut coffee and dwelling on the stress of the coming day, I recall the words of a poet who once wished to “not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; to be understood, as to understand; to be loved as to love.”

And looking to my left, I wonder what mother is rising from beside her child’s bed, seeking consolation?  What child, groggy from a restless night of sleep, seeks to be understood?  What young woman seeks to be loved?

I find my own worries slipping to the back of my mind, only imagining the needs of others.  What could happen, I wonder, if I went further?  If I offered consolation, understanding, or love?

May we find one to whom we can show love today, that we may know our own belovedness.  And may you know that you are loved.