O LORD, you once whispered in a vision, ‘The elegant thing is to transcend being a victim.’ You have bred us to write our own lyrics. We do not make the music, that’s sheer hubris. But we pen the words. Forgive us our fear of grandiose thoughts. Fill our loins with love and our bellies with laughter. Teach us to always carry matches, to light every candle we find. They are key witnesses to the dark.