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God of the brisk autumn evenings and chilly fall mornings,
Tomorrow is All Saints’ Sunday – the one time per year when we recall out loud the names of our deceased loved ones.
We speak of them aloud to give their lives dignity and grieve their passings.

But All Saints’ Sunday Eve is drastically different than All Saints’ Day Eve.
There is no hunting for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Milky Ways.
There are no costumes or parties or pumpkins.

Instead, it’s me and you, God.

I pray that I have the strength tomorrow to muddle through the service
To remember my father without publicly shedding copious amounts of tears.

It will sound strange to hear his name read in the list of saints.
And as my skin will crawl when he is named
May your peace be a salve to my irritated spirit.