"...how silently,
how silently,
the wondrous gift
is given..."
- p. brooks
yes,
this is how
the day should feel,
silent,
expectant,
blanketed in the stillness
of hope
the whole world
holding its breath
in anticipation of another
daybreak
this,
for me,
is heaven
to be new,
to be given the gift of
being who I've never
been before
not who I was
earlier today,
not the me of yesterday,
or last year,
or a lifetime ago
when I thought I had it
all figured out
a life I thought
I'd built with
each thought,
decision,
choice
carefully selected
and
placed perfectly
upon the page
of my living
so that the picture
made sense to me
and
was beautiful
but
this is
not about
a carefully
constructed
story
I want to be
surprised by the
next moment
to be new,
innocent,
as fresh and
sweet as the blue light of dawn,
to be
as open
as a child
eager to learn,
discover,
grow...
to be
delighted
by the serendipity
of it all
to live in wonder
with
what is
possible
as
who I am
not who I was,
or who I wanted to be,
or who I thought
I'd earned
the right to
expect next
from myself
I want
to wander into
a village and
discover
that it is enough to
love well,
to be kind,
honest,
gentle,
generous,
new
this is the
gift that
comes
on the soft
breath of
stillness
that waits
in the
silence
that slips between
the snowflakes
and delights
the heart
with
hope
to
be
new
now...
"...so God imparts,
to human hearts,
the blessing
of His heaven."
~ ibid.
"You and I must
make a pact.
We must bring salvation back.
Where there is love,
I'll be there..."
- Gordy/Davis
it's time
time to shift our focus
from measuring
spiritual progress
by human outcomes
to the
unseen
immeasurable
resurrection of
all that
is
enduring,
unchanging,
invisible,
eternal --
the
substance
of Spirit,
within
to refuse the
claim of
separation from
the divine Source
of all good...
for you,
or me,
or mine, or
yours,
or ours,
or theirs
or any
or all
no one sundered from
the divine
no one removed from good,
no one sundered from Love
no exception to
the Allness of
God,
in all.
all deserving of
our faith
in all they do
because
there is love
everywhere,
and where there is
love,
He is there.
so,
let's make a promise
to be gentle with
ourselves on those days
when the world seems to be
coming apart at the seams, and
the ledger
is hovering between the red
and the black,
and the engine light
comes on just east of Topeka
in the middle of the night,
and I
am alone, and
you are weary, or
one of us is
silent --
wrestling with
self-doubt
on those days
and every day...
let's make it our
pledge to
remember
that
it's about
salvation
let's vow
to not forget that
it's all about
salvation
it's about
salvaging all that
is redeemable --
our joy,
our innocence,
our wonder,
our trust,
our patience,
our humility,
purity,
honesty,
affection,
hope...
oh yes,
especially
our hope...
these are the things that
cannot deteriorate with time,
decrease in value,
drop off a fiscal cliff,
become weary with doubt,
or broken by
fear
let's pray that
we are not distracted by
outcomes that fade,
and that we not
become puffed
up with self-importance...
a priestly pride
in human accomplishments,
achievements,
accumulation,
accretion,
or acclaim
hypnotized
by
self-determinism
sated
by the false convenience of
that which can be
counted in numbers,
stored in barns, or
possessed by men
rather let us be
transfixed on reaching
that which is infinite
in scope and
eternal in the
heavens
absolutely
awe-struck by
the beauty of
salvation...
this is
our pact,
our promise,
our vow
to make
salvation the
crown,
the diadem,
the holy grail
the
most desirable
discovery
demonstration,
unfoldment,
manifestation,
sign,
proof
of all
that really
is
the
perfect
evidence
of His
Love...
man,
sinless,
innocent,
holy,
and wholly
His.
the rest
will
follow,
the rest
will
follow...
"The emphatic purpose
of Christian Science
is the healing of
sin..."
~ MB Eddy
"Not knowing
when the
dawn will come,
I open
every door."
- E. Dickinson
the
angels come
in dark of night
as much as
light of day
and I am waiting
in the silence
ready as
a child on
Christmas eve
no door is closed
upon their entry
if they comes as tender touch
I will welcome them
with open arms
I will listen with my
fingertips and
ask questions with my
lips
Should they steal through
the door of
this solstice feast --
harvest table piled high with
gifts sweet and savory
as cook or servant,
I will taste and see
see that the Lord,
He is God...
I will savor each bite
keening for the message of
a grace so tenderly
placed by humble
hands that
paint in
scents and flavors
images too beautiful for
words
I will fling wide the doors of
song and wait to
see notes floating
along a sugar plum path where
satin slippers
dance out
the unmeasured
prayers of
a thousand tears
in arabesques
under a canopy of
breath-taking
beauty
all doors are
open to
the dawning of
a new
nativity
my heart is Your manger
I am
waiting
for shepherd
and kings,
doves
and lambs,
a meek man and
his brave
girl,
a babe and
a star
i will not
sleep
on nights such as
this
when angels
sing,
and cook,
and dance,
and
feed us
with
the breath
of
heaven
that
sounds like
an infant's
sigh
"let every
heart
prepare him room..."
~ I. Watts
"Let us make
a little chamber,
I pray thee, on the wall;
and let us
set for him there a bed,
and a table,
and a stool,
and a candlestick.
And it shall be,
when he cometh to us,
that he
shall turn in thither."
oh yes,
that is all
i want
a little chamber
a space of my
own
a place
where I can
rest and
feel safe,
secure,
settled,
sure
a place where
I am welcome
and where no one
will
turn me
away
please dear
Father
just a little
chamber
and I will be
satisfied
oh kate,
my darling girl
I
am
your place
I am
where you are
safe
secure,
I am the
home
you have been
seeking,
that place
where you
are never turned away
you are not the
guest,
but the woman
the host
the one who
watches for
My appearing
by the
door of
human hopes
so make
Me a chamber in your
heart
make it
a place
where I am never
turned away
let Me
rest upon your
desires,
abide within your
dreams,
occupy your
thoughts...
and
when you wake in the
night
I will be there,
I am always there
perched
on the
three legs of of my
perfectly
balanced
little stool --
Truth,
Life,
and Love --
My candle never
goes out
I am
always
awake,
alert,
inspired, prepared,
ready,
willing,
eager to share
My thoughts
with you
and oh,
that strong,
sturdy table
you have
provided for Me,
I have piled it high with
the fruits of
My love for you
the harvest of
consciousness,
a life laid bare,
a world of opportunity
spread before you,
pages open
a feast of Soul
the
milk of
the Word
make your
heart
a little chamber
I will always
turn in thither
and
abide
"Let every heart,
prepare Him room,
and heaven and
nature sing..."
"The inharmonious and
self-destructive
never touch the harmonious
and self-existent..."
- M.B. Eddy
the perverse, dark,
and violent,
never touch
the
noble,
the good,
the
trusting and
innocent.
never
groping, angry
hands,
bullets,
gossip,
fire,
hate,
never touch the
hearts,
minds,
or bodies of
the innocent,
the servant,
the Samaritan spirit
so
sweet, strong,
trusting,
and pure
betrayal,
fear,
disdain,
self-hate,
death
can never penetrate,
even
the shell of
what we seem to be,
or
reach the
nucleus of who
we really
are
i promise
because He
promises
dear
gentle,
beautiful child,
innocent girl
trusting boy,
man,
mother...
your purity is
an environment
where violence
cannot
survive
no matter how
close it seems to come,
or
how graphic the picture
may seem to
an observer,
you and I know this:
we walk untouched,
unsullied,
unmarked,
unstained,
unhurt,
unviolated
by what
is so
incompatible
with our
childlike
natures
all that reaches
us,
all that
touches our
lives,
impels us forward,
motivates our
desires,
defines our futures
is of God, good:
kindness,
love,
gentleness,
humility,
affection,
trust,
grace -- these
are the irresistible
impulses,
and their touch
lingers through
eternity because it
is part
and parcel
with our
own natures
that which is unlike
who we,
essentially are,
cannot bond with
all that
is
fundamentally
aligned
with our divine
Source
murky water does
not take the debris
it seems to coexist with,
as it evaporates
into its
native
elements
it rises
in its purest form,
free from the stories
that would attempt
to attach themselves
to who we are,
and always
will be.
we will never be
violated,
murdered,
molested,
neglected,
engulfed in sorrow,
maligned,
burned,
hurt,
broken...
never touched
by
the opposite
of good
it cannot survive
in the pure light of
our innocence
it cannot reach us
it never will
we rise,
and still rise
from the
heat of "battle"
pure as the
sweetest water
untouched
by
being
touched...
"When God went
forth before His people
they passed
through the Red Sea,
untouched..."
- ibid.
"...and when they
had opened their treasures,
they presented
unto him gifts;
gold, and frankincense,
and myrrh...."
if i'd have been
there
i would have brought
rosemary
or lavender...
something for her
I would have brought
large pots of
warm water
and filled the water
trough with
a drop or two of
myrrh
I would have
let her sleep with
her son in her arms
while the stars sang
and angels
whispered promises
of being
loved
and
understood
I would have bathed her
feet and
washed her hair
plaiting it neatly
so that
he could nurse
while she
rested
without
worry
I would have
gathered
the feathers of doves to
make a pillow for
her head and
asked them
to coo
softly
in the eaves
above her
I would have asked the
sheep for
wool and spun a blanket
for her child,
and another for
them to
carry on their
journey for warmth,
when the
nights were
cold under a cloudless
starlit sky...
and I would have brought
rosemary
because it holds the
scent of
love
modest and
enduring
beyond
the first
blush of
a
thousand
alleluias
and
the treasures
of kings
"Then took they
the body of Jesus,
and wound it in linen clothes
with the spices..."
"to everything
there is a season..."
this is
the season of
your rising
the season when
the world
lies sleeping beneath
a blanket of
loamy stillness and
you begin to
stir...
this is the season when
a star calls
your heart to waken from it's
slumber
and give birth to
all that lies within
the manger of
our hopes
this is the child that
does not wait for a royal
nursery,
this is the babe who turns from the lure of
gold, the warmth of
applause
and keens her ear towards the lowing of
cattle and the cooing of doves
this is the infant that sings
beneath a night of cold-sharpened
moments,
and light-pointed stars
the babe who reaches soft hands to
touch the face of
hunger,
sorrow,
fear...
to stroke
a furrowed brow,
to wipe a
tear,
to hold a star,
to place an angel
on the highest branch...
this is the child
who tiptoes beyond the comfort of
an inn and
walks beside the
leper,
the Samaritan,
the widow and the fatherless.
this is the moment
when daffodils shatter the
crusty snow,
a father wakes before
his child cries,
when lullabies are written
before the babe appears,
a lark is heard above the storm,
and a waiting prayer
precedes the call...
this is the season of
her rising
[photo credit: Georgia Griffith and her Papa
by Amy Redfern Griffith 2012]
"I will
bring them
by a way
that they
knew not..."
Father
this sea
is
vast
and
the
dust is rising
from the
pounding of their
hooves and the
rattling wheels
of golden
chariots
we are
here
because we trusted
Your name
we are sure that
You alone
were the
I AM
he told us
would
deliver
us
from
the
taskmaster's
whip and
the
heavy
chains of
what
enslaves
our
dreams
only You
could
be the fire
impelling
us forward
away from
what is sure,
for
the promise of
freedom in
this company
of strange hopes
where nothing is certain
and we cannot find water to drink
yet here we stand
before a sea
holding us captive
show us the way...
Your way
couldn't
You
please
just
give us
an outline
of what
You have in Mind
oh,
My dear
children,
i have you in Mind
i have your
hand in mine
your heart is the province
of
My living
and it is
here
that I reign
with
absolute
sovereignty
you have never
considered an opinion,
made a decision,
weighed an option --
without me
ask yourselves
why did we
come
this far?
what hunger has
leapt
like
fire
within us?
what
desire
has
burned like
a torch
before us?
what
ember has
smoldered
and
cannot be
extinquished by
doubt or
will?
what has
moved you to
this
barren land,
beyond the walls of reason,
beyond the
shores of security?
it has not been
easy
and yet you are here
why did you
go the ends of the earth
if staying
in an old
space was safer
and promised fleshpots
-- a job,
a meal --
however
flavorless and
unsatisfying
what impelled you
to take the
fist step
beyond the
streets of plenty,
can you feel
that fire
flickering
within?
yes...
I am still here
calling you toward Me
urging you
to
step
forward
into
the promise
of
manna,
water,
the wilderness,
milk,
honey
i am there,
I AM
there.
I am the I AM
and
I AM
the promised
land
I will
not leave
you
I will
fulfill my
plan
and
it
is
My plan
not
yours
follow
your heart
-- My kingdom
within you --
and
you will
find Me
this
is
where I
dwell
this is
what you have
been
searching for
this is
the
promise
land
I AM
"Tender shepherd,
tender shepherd,
watching over
all His sheep..."
~ C. Leigh
like sheep
we wander
but never far from
sight
we cannot even
find the place where
He is not
aware of our
grazing
back and forth,
back and forth
we we walk our familiar
sameness within the
ruts of outworn
thinking
fearful that the grass is
growing scarce
the earth cloud closer
to choking us in the
dust we stir
by pacing inside the
safety of where we've been
but He loves us,
he tends us,
and with his rod he prods
us from our apathy,
with his staff, he lifts
us up
out of
the entrenched patterns of
our familiar
certainties
and
into
pastures verdant
with
fresh hope and
fertile with
the unexpected
the promise of a place
we cannot even
imagine from the
resigned posture of our
grazing --
head down,
always searching for the
barely there --
as if we did not
have a Shepherd
who
would
keep
each of
us
from
want
and
lead
us home
to rest
beside
still
waters
"...one
say your prayers
and two
close your eyes,
and three
safe and
happily
fall asleep."
~ ibid.
[in case you love the song from Peter Pan...as much as I do...here is a link to "Tender Shepherd."]
"To want
what I have,
and take
what I am
given
with grace..."
- D. Henley
i want no more
than
this...
and
no list
follows
of
this
and that,
if only
thens,
and sometime
whens,
of wants made
needs,
and needs
not
needed...
only wanted.
I want no
more
of that
i've had
enough
i have
enough
so,
this is
what I want:
to want
no more...
to be at peace
with what is on my
empty
plate
grateful
for the plate
itself that
holds
my hope
my prayer
my peace
contentment
to be satisfied with
all that
is,
and nothing
more,
and
nothing less
only
this
"...for
this
I pray"
~ ibid.
[photo by Katariina Fagering 2012]
I had a garden once...
Her lavender bushes
fat with fragrance,
splaying willowy limbs
well-beyond their beds,
spilling
silver leaves and
redolent spikes of periwinkle
along
a meandering
slate
pathway...
where once
extravagant
armloads of
pale pink
roses
threw themselves with
sacrificial abandon
across the
top of our butter
yellow picket fence
trailing long, slender fingers
dripping with
tiny,
perfectly formed
blossoms
towards
the sidewalk
there,
lovers walking
hand -in-hand
would
brush themselves
against her
perfumed lips and
breathe in
a sacred kiss.
I had a garden once,
and
just before
the break of day
morning glories would
uncurl themselves
from sleep
opening
pale purple
throats
to catch each
drop of
dew
that
fell from heart-shaped leaves
to slake
a nightlong thirst
I would join them
on our wide
porch
-- books in hand --
for
my own first
holy communion
with the
dawn
words
weeping from
sacred leaves…
each page
a cup of cold water --
Love's refreshment
my version of
a morning glory's
awakening
danced to the
music of daybreak
One by one…
marigolds,
dusty miller,
sweet peas,
hydrangea
and
hollyhocks
Shake
the stardust from their
petals
and rise to
begin their
daily
pilgrimage across the
sky to
chase the
Sun
from east to
west
their heads
turn
so
slowly
I am reminded
of Tibetan
nuns
on temple pillows
made of
green
silk
By evening
the white garden
is ready to
unfurl her
quiet
elegant
display
of Light
reflecting light
where,
from
beneath the arbor gate
I can find the
delicate
Moonflower,
creamy Campanula,
diaphanous heath aster,
and always
the patient
pale Impatient
waiting all day
for her moment
to shine
Even the hearty
Daisy looks
like
a slip of
lace
against
the blue light of
dusk
I had a garden once
Sweet Peas
and tomatoes
sat side-by-side --
tendrils
reaching for one another
through the
picket fence that
held
our summer's bounty
like a disciple's basket…
dinner for
five,
And more than enough to
share
Rich soil
stained
my fingernails,
Lavender oil
stained
my linen apron,
Beads of
perspiration
stained my nightgown
when
weeding
came before
breakfast,
and by noon
small streams
salty sweat and tears
carved pale paths
down
dusty sun-kissed shoulders
and along
a back bent with
purpose
I had a garden once
where the bees
were
colleagues...
and we
waged a
miniature war
with aphids and potato mites,
small greedy
grasshoppers
who thought
my garden
was
a banquet,
a feast,
a table of plenty
I had a garden once
that
filled my heart
with color,
and with beauty,
and
oh, so many firsts
First crop of perennials in their
second season,
First warm tomato
fresh from a vines
I'd seen spring from seeds
pushed into the dark earth by my daughters
tiny fingers,
First bundle of lavender harvested
from
plants I'd cultivated
from the cuttings
she'd passed like precious
antiquities
across our shared
back fence...
First summer spent weeding before
swimming,
First race into the
night air --temperatures falling
quickly,
frost threatening
and
the fruit still warm on the vine...
First sweet-scented
steam from
canning in my own kitchen…
First garden with
my daughter...
I returned in secret
one summer...
long after
we had moved on
to other gardens,
other arbors and
picket fences...
trailing roses
I could barely find her…
but she was there
I had planted her well
and deep
I searched for
the evidence of
out courtship...
and
hidden
were
dry, hard,
darkened
rosehips
formed at the
fingertips of
once supple vines on the
other side of
a peeling picket fence
still,
but only just,
butter yellow
a fence so loved
that a child
spent her
summers nestled against
its ribs
beside her
best friend
sequestered
in
the far corner of the garden
where their worlds
of magic and wonder
met and
the roots of
an old cottonwood
made
natural
earth slings for
them to read in.
I wandered through
the tangled briars,
where neglect and
abandonment screamed I
had left her unprotected
there alone
but
she'd survived
Lavender spires,
deep blue and
fragrant,
sprang from the
out-stretched tips of
scraggly, tired gray-green
crones leaning
frail and un-anchored
along the peeling clapboards
above the crumbling stone foundation
and reaching just beyond the
porch's broken lattice
I dared to
walk back
and forth in
front of the trellised gate --
now free from the weight
of antique roses and
English Ivy --
searching for the
scent of
hyacinth I
knew lived
buried
just beneath
the dusty,
littered,
thirsty soil at
the
sidewalk's edge
I keened
my ears
for the sound
of butterfly wings
hovering over
hollycocks that
once leaned against the
wall of the garden shed
profuse in pinks and
reds and
whites that
shimmered in the
hazy velvet darkness of a
midsummer's twilight
I ached to feel
the rich black soil I
knew was waiting
just inside the
garden gate
where heirloom
tomatoes once
dripped their
rare seeds
at summer's zenith
I had a
garden once
she wrapped herself around a little
yellow cottage with
a wide front porch
where I would rock my
daughter to sleep on
summer evenings that buzzed with
Cicadids,
hummed with
tree frogs, and sparkled with
fireflies
singing lullabies about
a moon that saw us,
and the mother we couldn't
see, who
sat under an African sun
I had a garden once
and now I
see what lays beneath the soil but
was invisible to others
I
walked away
clutching a fistful of
her deep
brown
earth
soil stolen from
just inside the
garden gate
filled with
heirloom seeds
and memories of
summers redolent
with a toddler princess and
a mommy whose dreams had come true,
dreams of a child
a cottage,
a garden, and
a chocolate dog with
deep brown eyes
on a wide porch
dripping morning glories
before dawn.
I had a garden
once...
she lives in me
still
"I am
poured out
like water;
my bones are out of joint:
my heart
is like wax"
~David
in the heat of
His love
ice melts from the
brittle edges of my cold, hard
heart --
sharp with regret,
remorse,
despair...
pride drips like water
off the places where I thought I was the king,
the master of my own universe,
chosen before my birth,
privilege and impropriety
seemed
the salary of a bygone courage,
crowned by prophet,
opposed by none...
like an icicle at midday
it drips with
questions...
what was I thinking,
why,
why,
why...
but here I stand
soul-shattered and weak in the knees,
collapsed before Him
begging for a mercy
not deserved...and
yet, neither was the crown
I wore with early honor
But it is in His arms I have
learned to be a
father,
not how to be a king
I have discovered that He is not a divine
employer --
meting out a salary
earned,
a bonus negotiated,
the promised reward,
perks for a "job well done"
but a Father who loves me
all He desires
is my heart...and my heart alone.
A softened heart...
melted
first,
in the the furnace of my own
stoking,
then tempered
made flawless
by the heat of His persistent mercy
till what remains is
an unearned
unwarranted,
undeserved
grace.
New in His eyes,
and yours.
My son, my son...
He has not forsaken me
His son...
He has taught me
well...
so that you
may be
His servant...
an
understanding king.
"the substance
of a diligent man
is precious..."
~ Solomon (his son)
"When the words stop,
and you can endure
the silence
that
reveals your heart's pain
of emptiness,
or that great wrenching-sweet longing,
then,
that is the time to..."
~Hafiz
the words
have stopped
and in their absence,
I feel frantic for their return.
I remember
when our daughter thought she
was old enough to
say "no"
she thought she could
run away
to her house of
sticks and branches
in
the back yard,
eat
marshmallows
for breakfast,
stay up until the stars fell asleep,
and
wear her pajamas
to school...
backpack
filled with crayons and
a party dress,
she straightened her
shoulders,
tossed her ponytail
and let the
screen door
slam
for punctuation
I wondered if the
silence of
twilight
would bring her
home to me...
but it didn't
I wondered if the rustle of
leaves,
the caw of a crow,
the soft mewing of the
neighbor's cat
would
pull her towards me...
but it didn't
I wondered if
the scent of cinnamon and
sage,
apple cider and
smoke curling from the
gently tilting
chimney would
call her to the
soft light of home --
like a
moth to a
candle...
but it didn't
finally
it called me
to her...
and there she sat
in the dusky silence
eyes closed,
stroking
a small blue feather
between her fingers
"hi mommy,"
she said.
"do you think
bluebirds are invisible
in the almost light
of dinnertime?"
sometimes the
questions of the heart,
silence
the call of
things...
"When the
words stop...
then,
that is the time to try
and listen
to what the Beloved's eyes
most want
to
say."
~ibid.
this is
the
gentle season...
this is the time of
year when something soft
and liquid
whispers through
the downy promise of
this late november twilight
as it waits
in hushed silence
like
a hopeful novitiate
motionless in
prayer
this is a tender time...
the hour
just before
dawn,
a single heartbeat of
a day
shattering the sky with
a hue so innocent
a soft blush
of innocence
that is but a mirror to
the morning
this is a fragile moment...
it sits
in balance on a blade of
prairie grass,
standing on tiptoe
at the edge of tomorrow,
holding its breath,
waiting for
the breeze of yesterday to
move all regret
past the
empty waiting of today
this is sweet immanence...
a touch so infinitely
near,
a whispered
caress
as still as the silence of a hare
just beyond the clearing...
a spectral stroke of divinity
felt
only
in the space
between
heartbeats,
the
magic
season when the
dream
becomes
her
truth...
"The way is
straight and narrow..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
I come to
You
confused,
uncertain,
pleading,
begging You
trusting You
to
give
me direction,
guidance...
please
put my feet
on the clear
path and
show me
the way,
Your way...
dear Father,
You know
that
when I turn my
heart
in Your direction,
I am not
looking for a
broad path,
a meandering road
with
many options...
all I want
is for
You to help me
do what's
right,
to give me precise
directions,
to point out the
obvious
waymarks,
to carve out
a deep
swath of clarity...
a path free
from
the
wandering,
divergent,
tangential,
circuitous
route of
indecision
and choices...
I want direct,
clear,
straight,
narrow...
the path
you have promised
I trust it,
I count on it,
I lean all
my hopes,
the weight of
my desires,
into You
I am tired
of my wondering,
wandering
ways...
broad,
vague,
and indirect
give me
straight and
narrow,
so I can see
beyond myself
and
find
You...
only You,
and
Your plan
for
me...
"...I will
bring the blind
by a way that they knew not;
I will lead them in paths
that they have not known:
I will make darkness
light before them,
and crooked things straight.
These things will I do unto them,
and not forsake them..."
- Isaiah
"My salvation
draweth nigh..."
to be offered the
promise of
mercy,
forgiveness,
no condemnation...
who am I...
that my God has
made this
promise
to me?
I will tell
you who you
are in
My eyes...
you are My child,
My beloved,
My adored and
delighted in...
you are all the gifts
of life,
and joy,
and purpose
that
I have
washed up
onto the sea of
promise...
you are the brightness of
My rising,
the
first glimmer of pink light
along
the eastern horizon,
the dancing spark
of wonder in
a child's eyes...
you are ten thousand
rings radiating through
an ancient sequoia
each leaf that turns towards the
sun,
roots that plumb the depths of
the earth,
the song of a
lark
who sings a song
without words
and never
stops at all...
you are the shimmer of
light on a wind-rippled pond,
the taste of strawberries in June,
the curl of chimney smoke on a crisp
November
night,
the scent of
apples,
a mother's fingers,
a child's
sigh...
you are
an awakening,
the first moment of knowing,
ripened fruit upon the
vine,
a benediction
a prayer...
"there is
therefore,
now,
no condemnation
to them..."
"Love,
never loses
sight of
loveliness..."
- Mary Baker Eddy
he reminds me
from
his place
above my head
and
behind me
at the mirror
really?
never?
no, never
he
says with
conviction...
but,
I wonder
aloud
not even when
my smile
fades...
and
the
softness of my
words
have
become sharp
with
anxious
fear...
no,
he says...
not even then.
but,
what about
when I
forget to remember
that we
were once young, and
in love
won't
the dog days of
too many bills, and
too little
patience,
have
dimmed
the brightness of
my place in
your heart's
constellation...
no,
not
even
then,
he says.
but,
I will grow
crinkled with
time and
my softer places may
grow softer still,
things could droop
or spot
or fade to
a colorless shade of
something
not
like the me
you
fell in love with...
so...
and i wait
so what,
he says
and then
I
know
I really know
he means it
the way
his
Father
means it
everytime I
go to Him
in prayer...
I know
that the
love I feel
is already
mine...
this love
I learned to
trust
as real,
the first time
I looked into
each of my daughters'
faces...
was
mine too
a gift
of grace...
unearned,
unsought,
unbidden
it comes without
pursuit,
it springs from
places
silent and
sure...
"really..."
I ask,
really
he says
and I believe
him
but to feel it
to really feel it,
shining on the
shadow spattered
landscape of
my human-ness,
to feel it
radiating,
reaching,
penetrating the
dim primeval
places
of
doubt
and uncertainty...
lighting
my life
with loveliness
well,
it
surprised
me,
and,
still
takes my
breath
away....
I feel
like
an angel
something
holy and
sacred
in his
sight...
"...its
halo rests
upon its
object..."
- ibid.
