Grace University Lutheran, to which I belong emails devotions to members during Advent and Lent. Contrary to Homeland Security announcements there is little sign of an ICE withdrawal from Minnesota. Today's Grace devotional reflects on the ICE occupation and attack (see below).
Saturday, February 21, 2026
The January 26, 2026, New Yorker magazine contained a poem written by Klya Kaminsky, titled “Psalm for the Slightly Tilted,” that I found particularly heartening. During this period of civil unrest, I am inspired by the extraordinary signal moms, dads, friends, & colleagues who show-up. Though they risk harm, they seek justice for our immigrant neighbors.
Psalm for the Slightly Tilted
by Klya Kaminsky
This is not
a good year.
But it has
witnesses.
When you see them protest the powerful,
since who else does,
they stand
like flagpoles outside the courthouse
after a northeaster.
They came with
the wrong shoes
for revolution.
Still,
they showed up.
Comfort, Lord,
their bodies –
each a question mark
doing time
as a coatrack,
hung with borrowed jackets.
They are your legion
of bent spoons.
They are the only ones
who showed up –
with their orthopedic flair.
I saw my people lean –
not toward hope but toward each other.
They chant off-rhythm
and mean it.
These are my kind of people:
no tears – just
steam from a kettle
that never quite boils.
In times like these, don’t forget us:
the lopsided
leaning on one another,
like sodden paperbacks
left out on the stoop –
Nobody opens them.
But they still insist
On carrying the plot.
Comfort us standing up –
half scarecrow
half saxophone
with a squawk.
While stiffness becomes state policy,
comfort us sitting –
in that collapse called calm.
In the year they come for us
watch my people
make protest signs
out of old pizza boxes.
Watch –
There are no boring people
which is unfortunate.
You’d think statistically
we’d get at least a few –
one-speed souls
with just meh stuff to do.
But none of them are dull.
Each
a suitcase
held together
by duct tape.
These are your coffee-stained saints
who rise not with trumpets
but with Advil.
They stand
and wait
creased like maps
of a country
that doesn’t exist anymore.
Prayer
Dear God, we thank you for these coffee-stained saints, who chant, with whistles around their necks and with their wrong shoes, borrowed jackets and pizza box protest signs. They lean on one another, lopsided, some like flagpoles, others like bent spoons, on the steps of the state capitol, at the memorials for Renee Good and Alex Pretti, and outside elementary schools. They deliver food, put signs in their windows and give to Go-Fund-Me sites. The duct tape holding them together is your call to bear witness, to be just, to be merciful and to love all our neighbors. Amen.
—Nancy Baker
Takk for alt,
Al
