When all of the voices settle down to One,

When the shattered pieces of my soul

Stop screaming at the pain,

There lies a whisper of Truth.

The knowing Voice, the solid ground

On which to rebuild.

No more lies, no more rage

Only the quiet of Love.

I should be holding you now.

I should be whispering your name as I cradle your precious body close, so close to my heart.

Though my soul aches for you-

yearning that grows into a scream waiting for release-

my mouth is void, empty and formless as the earth at creation.

Hoping for grace to speak your name, waiting for the grace of its utterance,

my heart is undone by vast deserts of unanswered longing

for ideas lacking corporeal form yet haunting my every moment.

Words that fell lost, unspoken,

never completely formed out of chaos,

but always reaching through the haze

clamoring for a tongue to give voice

to the unknown, the unborn, thought.

I live in a house that I did not build.
I eat fruit that I did not plant.
I wonder where the builders and planters went wrong
to be so cursed of God.
I wonder if I, too, will eventually forget
the author of my blessings
and be cursed to watch
someone else living in my house
and eating my fruit.
I have done nothing to earn this life
but to listen and obey.
It is mine as long as I remember,
as long as I follow and love.
The second I forget or wander away,
I know my life is no longer mine.
But some days, some weeks,
the freedom is too much to bear.
I let the entitlement swallow me.
I let the guilt and the shame hold me
because I live in a house that I did not build
and eat fruit that I did not grow.

*From Deuteronomy 6

I love the promise of a sunset –

everything bathed in golden promise.

It is:

A brilliant, gilded crown of benediction for the ended day

that whispers of glory to come at sunrise.

A flame of hope to last us through the night.

A glimpse of majesty to come.

A memory of blazing color to act as a talisman –

                holding our nightmares at bay,

                warming our sleeping hearts,

                reminding our ids that morning awaits on the next revolution.

I have been lost for a decade, wondering
Who I am and why I am here.
To date, I have only found purpose
in my work, not knowing
where else to look.
But my trunk is rooted deep
in family, deep in God,
deep in Glory and Mystery and Love.
One has only to observe
my branches to note
that I am a work in progress:
a tree branching and growing
to new heights and new directions.
I am the fruit of my labors
and a branch of the True Vine.

I’d always considered myself to be
something less than scornful.
Scorn implies pride
of a magnitude
I never knew I possessed
until one day
I looked down
and was surprised
to find myself firmly seated
above the scoffers and derelicts.
Resting comfortably
on my self-righteous perch,
pretending to be
much grander than
humanity.

*from Psalm 1

In the woods I feel

the hushed sacrament of a cathedral.

Even the ground whispers

divine incantations through the settling leaves.

Hallowed psalms chant on the breeze

until they rise into a mighty wind,

lifting tree branches in their offering of praise.

Holy streams of water pour

over dry and thirsty creek beds,

baptizing rocks and moss into overflowing life.

But the trees- the trees are twice as holy,

like sons of Aaron consecrated to praise and to intercede.

Sacred limbs raised in adoration

filter pure, all-consuming light,

offering glimpses of blessed redemption,

providing shelter from righteous perfection.

Soaring buttresses of trunk and limb

climb ever closer to divinity, eternity,

silent chapel walls of grace