The clock ticks,
each moment a reminder
of the uncertainty of now.
The wind rattles,
each bang an interruption
of an idea never born.
The rain pounds,
each drop a harbinger
of the coming storm.
A child cries.
A dog barks.
A siren blares.
Silence seems but a symphony of noises,
and I am gasping for air.
Oh, return to your rest, my soul,
for the LORD has been good to you.
The deep pain it is to be molded,
fingers pressing in and around,
kneading the spots that are sensitive
and sore to the touch.
The potter shapes and forms,
coaxing his subject and speaking softly
as he works this would-be treasure
into a new creation.
The outside begins to reveal its purpose
and the potter could stop,
but he pushes on and the clay’s
insides scream to be let alone.
The fire is too hot and too much
of the old self seeps out,
leaving a seemingly empty vessel
for which there is no going back.
The potter eyes his formation,
stronger now because of his hands,
but still unsure and resistant
of this being transformed.
Nothing gives the soul more satisfaction than
when God calls upon it for his purposes.
Someone in your life needs to hear this.
Oh, Father, open my eyes to the beauty that fills this life! It is all around, ever-present, but I am so prone to miss it. I am seemingly surrounded with the end-of-winter browns and grays, low-hanging clouds, and chilly winds. My mind wanders to old hurts and unfulfilled dreams, then onto daily tasks, momentary disappointments. And suddenly, your goodness springs from the deep call of a red tulip! So mysterious it is, given that there is no purpose for this particular flower over any other. Your sheer delight in its every detail compels its existence. May my soul reach for you and open to receive your grace like rain. Open my eyes and expand my soul!
My fingertips scrape against the bread
that cringes and cracks as each solemn
soul reaches out to tear its piece.
Her shaking hand pulls the bread
with urgent need as our eyes meet and I whisper
“the body of Christ” into the air between us.
She can’t break the bread
and my hand touches hers,
offering quiet help, silent prayer.
Now, two hands on the bread,
we rip, a piece is loosed, and then
suddenly we remember.