Neil Sroka Brings Leadership Skills to All Parts of Grosse Pointe

Neil Sroka recited this poem by Walt Whitman as our pastoral message today. The passage appeared first in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass. Our second hymn came from #SamuelLongfellow, Unitarian minister and brother of
​Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Our service sets gems of literature and music in a perfect setting, dazzling in the light of our chalice's flame.
The team at the #DepartmentOfHistory monitors the weekly Grosse Pointe News for the accomplishments of our members. We were well aware of the page dedicated to the works of the Grosse Pointe Rotary Club. Sroka recently passed the president's gavel to a newly president, Jackie Dale. Before passing the gavel, Sroka presented a twenty-five grand check to Mary Fodell, leader of the sheltered workshop at the Full Circle Foundation.
We had thought of posting the article on the cork board. We thought of asking Sroka first. Unitarians do the right thing, neglecting to trumpet their good works. Fortunately, an anonymous member pinned the article to the cork for us. So thank you. We care little who breaks the good news first. Even so, we hope you'll drop news tips into the historians' mailbox so we can follow up.
Mary Fodell is the sister of new GPUC member and veteran UU Tom Peelle. Peelle recently built a chicken coop for Full Circle's urban farm on Warren in Detroit, designing and building the coop with the help of the local MICHIGAN MASONS. Peelle will be talking with a big daily, so we'll clip and post that ink soon. Several of our beloved community volunteers at the garden, a relationship pointed up in our Green Sanctuary application.
Fact checking and commentary requested.
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Miracles
by Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
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Walt Whitman by John Plumbe Jr.?, ca. 1848–1854.
Whitman Archive ID: zzz.00006
Cite this page: "Walt Whitman by John Plumbe Jr.?, ca. 1848–1854." The Walt Whitman Archive. Gen. ed. Matt Cohen, Ed Folsom, & Kenneth M. Price. Accessed 13 July 2025. http://www.whitmanarchive.org.

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