I have received more than one gift this Christmas that I don't deserve. This is the nature of gifts, but it is hard to relinquish the guilt for the glory.
Today, my mother and I sat watching the backyard sprouts while the sun cast patterns on our skin. When you grow up and demand that the bowls be arranged by size, reprimand the transgressor once and once only, or else love will suffer. But love has already suffered. Obstinance over the habitual order, fear of what the strangers think, resentment towards mirror deficiency. The day my lord comes, he will find a cup waiting. Who will have the courage, or the faith?
The narrow road from which I diverge, to be returned half amnesic, is lined by weary circles in the dust. Bring me back to the rushing current, to the stones beside. Remind me that the ruinous rubble is built anew.
My sister and I talked into the mountain paths, into the layered air, into the morning cold. Grace expanded the quiet hands into time eternal. I was afraid I wouldn't know the manner of expression, but the psalms were enough for the both of us, psalms and blankets and confessions that piled softly upon the bedroom floor. She fell to dreaming with her head bowed to the tail of a prayer. And when we woke up it was the day of rest.
We wait because our frame cannot hold the fullest joy. Even in thanksgiving, we anticipate the next undulation. But one day the crescendo will swell and not recede. And once for all, there will be glory glory glory.
Today, my mother and I sat watching the backyard sprouts while the sun cast patterns on our skin. When you grow up and demand that the bowls be arranged by size, reprimand the transgressor once and once only, or else love will suffer. But love has already suffered. Obstinance over the habitual order, fear of what the strangers think, resentment towards mirror deficiency. The day my lord comes, he will find a cup waiting. Who will have the courage, or the faith?
The narrow road from which I diverge, to be returned half amnesic, is lined by weary circles in the dust. Bring me back to the rushing current, to the stones beside. Remind me that the ruinous rubble is built anew.
My sister and I talked into the mountain paths, into the layered air, into the morning cold. Grace expanded the quiet hands into time eternal. I was afraid I wouldn't know the manner of expression, but the psalms were enough for the both of us, psalms and blankets and confessions that piled softly upon the bedroom floor. She fell to dreaming with her head bowed to the tail of a prayer. And when we woke up it was the day of rest.
We wait because our frame cannot hold the fullest joy. Even in thanksgiving, we anticipate the next undulation. But one day the crescendo will swell and not recede. And once for all, there will be glory glory glory.
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