Weeks later, the new administration issued an executive order banning people from coming to the United States from seven mostly Muslim countries. Thinking of Maria and the other friends of mine and of my sister’s whom that order targeted, I thought of a speech my father gave in the wake of the September 11 attacks, and I reposted it on Instagram. Here is some of it:
America counts millions of Muslims amongst our citizens, and Muslims make an incredibly valuable contribution to our country. Muslims are doctors, lawyers, law professors, members of the military, entrepreneurs, shopkeepers, moms and dads. And they need to be treated with respect. . . . Those who feel like they can intimidate our fellow citizens to take out their anger don’t represent the best of America, they represent the worst of humankind, and they should be ashamed of that kind of behavior. This is a great country. It’s a great country because we share the same values of respect and dignity and human worth.
Some people accused me of taking a political stand by posting that. I disagreed. Loving our neighbor should not be a controversial political stance.
After I posted it, on one morning when I dropped Mila at school, Maria called me into her classroom. She told me she saw the words I had written and said they comforted her. I told her I didn’t write them. My father had, years before.
She asked me to thank him, too. She said, “Those words were pure love.”
THE SUNDAY AFTER my grandfather’s funeral, back in New York, I went to my church, which is nondenominational and close to my apartment. There is no judgment. Everyone is welcome. I don’t talk about church often. I’ve found that it can be awkward to discuss faith. But faith is a big part of my life, and my church is a place of great comfort for me.
Savannah Guthrie attends the same church. Given that I had just lost my grandfather, she suggested we lead the prayers. Together that day we wrote the prayers, ending with my grandfather’s prayer on his inauguration day, thirty years earlier. His prayer embodied love over fear, a gentleness of being, and acceptance. He wrote about something we don’t talk about enough: how people in power should try to help the weak. To me, that is walking in faith. My grandfather believed, and taught me to believe, too, that the opposite of love is fear.
At church that Sunday, I rose to read and immediately broke down. Something about being in a safe space, surrounded by love, allowed me to let go at last. There were no diplomats’ eyes on me, no TV cameras. I couldn’t control my sobs. I hadn’t broken down in public at all that week. Now I was a puddle. I cry often, but this was different. I could barely breathe.
This is what I read, through sobs, Savannah holding my shaking hand:
I
Dearest Lord Jesus,
We pray to you. We approach you with hearts open, hearts tender, hearts hurting.
Today, Lord, we thank you that weeping lasts for a night but joy comes in the morning.
Rejoicing comes in the morning. Hope comes in the morning.
Thank you for being the god of joy. The god who wipes every tear, not just for a moment, but for eternity. We thank you, God, for the “new heaven and new earth” that the prophets saw all those millennia ago.
We rejoice in the god who reunites lost loves. Who bandages wounds. Who tends to broken hearts. Who makes right what was wrong and could never be fixed. Whose plan is a final, all-encompassing answer to brokenness, to hurt, to death itself. We pray to the Lord who triumphs, then gives us the victory.
We pray with joy because our Lord has the last word. Because this earth cannot contain your heaven. We pray in anticipation and expectation of the eternal joy that awaits us.
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.
II
We pray to you, Lord.
For hope and humility over despair and arrogance.
We pray for those we have lost—all the while knowing they have entered the forever embrace of their god and now light up the heavens like a thousand points of light.
We thank you, Lord, for the power of a quiet example. We thank you, Lord, that in your kingdom, the last will be first; the kind and gentle ones will inherit the earth. Thank you, Lord, that your way is not the world’s way. It is not the loud way, not the self-serving way, not the way that grabs everything for itself but instead gives everything of itself.
Lord, touch us this morning with renewed hope and joy as only you can. Help us to give thanks in all circumstances, for this is your plan for us and your gift to us.
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.
III
[Savannah read this one while I tried to pull myself together.]
We pray for those for whom joy seems impossible. Whose bodies ache, whose spirits fail, whose thirst is not quenched and whose bellies burn with hunger. We pray for those born seemingly without even a chance. But, Lord, you know different. So come to them, Lord. Save them. Make yourself known. Fill their needs and fill their hearts.
We pray with gratitude to you, Lord, for you came to rescue us, you came to set us free—presently and eternally. Free from earthly pains that cripple us, earthly chains that confine us, earthly limitations that tether us—Lord, let gravity’s pull that binds us to this lost world finally be broken. We pray for lightness, for release, for freedom, for eternal homecoming. For your “glorious and inexpressible joy.”
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.
IV
And finally a prayer said on a January morning in Washington almost thirty years ago.
Heavenly Father, we bow our heads and thank you for your love.
Make us strong to do your work, willing to heed and hear your will and write on our heart these words: use power to help people.
For we are given power not to advance our own purposes, nor to make a great show in the world, nor a name.
There is but one just use of power and it is to serve people.
Help us remember, Lord, amen.
Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.
I sat back down, my face puffy, and looked over at Henry. “I’m embarrassed,” I said. “I lost it.”
“Hey,” Henry whispered, “at least it wasn’t at the National Cathedral.”
I laughed. That was just the kind of dry joke my grandparents would have made. They were always making cracks like that, then holding hands and laughing uproariously. Looking around the church, at my community and my family and my friends, I thought once again how even on the darkest days God will show us cause for joy.
Times I Have Cried (a Partial List)
At kids’ birthday parties, while watching my daughters dance with abandon.
Walking down the aisle to marry Henry.
When Poppy met Gampy, her namesake, for the first time.
At parent-teacher conferences, when I hear glowing reports.
When the Oak Ridge Boys played at my Gampy’s funeral.
At all Kleenex commercials (ironic, I know).
Watching proudly as my dad was sworn in as president.
Often as I’ve written this book—both happy tears of joy and cleansing tears of grief.
When my grandfather read love letters he wrote to my grandmother during World War II on the Today show. He cried as he read, which created a chain reaction. By the end of the interview, I had tears flowing down my face, mascara everywhere. My steely-eyed grandmother later teased us, saying we were “two John Boehners” (Boehner was a famous crybaby. I relate, John).
While conducting many interviews for work, listening to people open their hearts. (Sometimes I cry when those I’m interviewing do not. I call this the reverse Barbara Walters.)