perhaps

cracked egg, just opening

We are experimenters in the holy, as well as subjects of the experiment. – Daniel Snyder

Perhaps it is time for a holy experiment.
My bruised soul
(bruised, in part, from my own abuse)
Has had some time to heal.

My ears have quieted
And the voices that pounded
Or even softly, persistently insisted
Have eased their harping.

The ‘musts’ and ‘shoulds’
That have constrained my quest
Are not so loud, just now.
Their absence gives me room.

If I can trust the frameworks
Of a loving truth to guide me –
A truth I cannot claim,
But can claim me, instead …

Perhaps I can risk
A holy experiment.
Perhaps I can let go
And risk the fall to hope.

Hope is a risk, you know.
It does not let you cling to certainty.
It does not let you cling, at all.
It requires an open hand and heart.

I feel as if I have been scaling a cliff
But my fingers have lost their hold.
I can no longer even see the ground
And so, I tumble, down and down.
Fearful of a fall to the death of all I know;
Of all my self-constructed assurance;
I fall into the dark and groundless silence.

Yet somehow, I feel my soul reorienting
Catlike, turning with my feet to the ground
Not knowing, even, how I know to turn.
Is a soul made like that?

I would not have let go
Except I could no longer hold on.
There are, sometimes, those
Unavoidable, necessary falls
That take you, though resisting,
Into a different frame.
The shell must crack
Before the new life can emerge.

It’s just so hard to be grateful
For that crack.

Could it be that every death
Leads to a bigger life
If we will but allow
The breaking of the shell?

Could it be that the deepest truth
Is that death is not the inevitable end?
Could it be that it is life, instead,
It what is inevitable?
Is there, perhaps, an inevitable beginning
As love invites us home?

Photo by Carlos Ebert retrieved from Flickr per cc 2.0 Quotation from Snyder, Daniel O.. Praying in the Dark: Spirituality, Nonviolence, and the Emerging World (p. 66). Kindle Edition.

your story

prayer.jpg

Oh Holy One,
I turn my heart to you.
I tune my ears,
Seeking the frequency of your heart.
I close my eyes,
So I might see beyond distractions.

This moment of turning
Turns the world.
Until, at last, I glimpse a different story.
It is a story more true than
The one that shouts to me from the TV,
Working to stir my fears.

Your whispered presence
Tells a deeper story.
Not about distance,
Not about disease,
Not about death.

Your story holds a secret melody
That sings of hope,
Of healing, and of resurrection.
You placed yourself within the struggle
To bear, with us, its pain and loss
And walk us through to promise.

Slowly I begin to understand.
Stories are life incarnate:
Life held at a distance,
So that I might better see.

The stories I listen to,
The stories I tell,
Shape me.

So, help me hear your story
The one you speak within my heart
The one that holds the world with love
The one that makes me one with you.

Oh Holy One,
Help me to pray.
Help me to hear your voice amid the storm.
Help me to walk with confidence upon the waves,
Looking only on your face.

Teach me, again, your story.

 

[photo by Via Tsuji per cc 2.0]

Touch of Grace

brown paper packageI enter the warehouse where the shelves are filled with boxes and bundles. I have a long list in my hands and as I walk down the rows of shelves I take a box here and there and place them in a shopping cart.

Yet, these are just boxes: brown cardboard, wrapped with tape or string, or bundles wrapped in brown paper. I cannot see what is inside of them, nor does my list reveal the contents. I am just selecting numbered boxes from the shelves and stacking them in my cart and moving on. Continue reading