It seems, oh Holy One,
That you are tapping me on the shoulder
That you are whispering in my ear
If I were to stop and listen
… what would I hear?
Would I hear an invitation to join the One? Could that be?
Would I hear a deep assurance that you do love me (even me)?
Would I learn that I am gifted (how impudent is that?)
Would I dare to believe the whisper telling me that God, herself, is in me?
God, herself, comes in on each drawn breath.
God, herself, settles in the beating of my heart.
Touching me gently, tapping a refrain of love –
The continual, faithful, quiet rhythm: love-love, love-love, love-love
Could it be that you have been as lonesome for our connection as I?
Could it be that, even now, even so far down the path, even so weakened by neglect
You still sing my name with a smile?
I want that gentle touch to call me home, though I fear a harsh rebuke.
Could it be that you would rather gather me into your arms than slap my hand?
‘Give me your hand,’ I hear you say.
… and I do
and you gently bring it to your lips.
Your call to me is a kiss of hope.
Your love, indeed, is bigger than all I bring – good and bad –
Your love seeks to fill every crevice that will open itself to you.
And so my heart cracks open
… washed and softened and healed by your unremitting love.
3 27 13
[cropped from photo by Timothy Brown per cc 2.0]