“In the beginning” begs the existence of a dot, the endpoint of a line referencing time and movement, like an ant on the Golden Gate Bridge. If there is time (now) and movement (how?) why do we shun this guess the size of a galaxy, turn from the possibility of a God placing us just so? I may travel by antenna, feel my way blind on small steel and close pavement, stopping for crumbs. But just because I cannot see it does not mean there is no sky.  

There is a song in petals, the rainsound of notes on thirsty earth feeding spring’s new flowers. There is a melody in the making of a garden where silent, shriveled seeds wait to burst, pushing through wet soil with their magic strength inside. There is a harmony in the golden leafwhisper and silent shout of green dusting the tips of dogwood and rose, tulip, lilac, moss. The symphony grows as God bouquets the Earth with color and we hear that far off tune, the resounding music that calls us beyond this heaven to our home. ~*~*~* I was reading Psalm 45 this morning; the Scripture that God spoke to me…

“Samara,” she said and the words took flight in my hearing, invisible windborne flora soaring across my thoughts. She spoke of wings, a divine creation spinning towards earth to plant itself like a stubborn weed-fierce and stuck. Imagination took root, sending me flying home towards Webster’s– ‘some-are-uh’ – and there a black and white drawing of a seed with wings “an indehiscent, usually  one-seeded fruit, of the ash  or maple.” Like that spinning tree-gift may I fly holy words, carrying the seed of my Saviour to land, stuck and stubborn, finally splitting into silent roots then skyward, bearing fruit with wings. ~~~~~~~ sometimes a poem inspires a poem. Thank you,…

I wish I could collect the light, landing its shadows on this page as it creeps ever brighter through the gray. Pour it out to wash my heart, salve the wound of this present heaviness, the sighs that never end. Hold it lightly aloft, praying no sharp wind or quiet, steady breeze snuff it out, for we need it so Father, carry us, ferry us through storms, silent and proud as we shine hope in the right direction–people-ward up ward. Send us, spread us like the daily sure rising of your sun, that moves ever on into the distant dark.

Jesus, because He said I could (ask) about a Five Year Plan– like a plannable annuity with a guaranteed return on my investment. as if… as if a sure answer for my tomorrows would bring me peace today. He whispers instead what’s doable– the Five Hour Plan-a chunk of time allotted to say, oh, baking a pie– manageable, like a tried and true recipe gather ingredients check oven double check recipe mix, roll, bake voila! a pie, sure as shootin’. Yes, I asked Jesus about what’s ahead…on down the road… over the hill and of course (you guessed it) He handed me a peach.  

Facing the stove, I busy my hands with this thrice-cooked fowl, weaving water herbs and onions to conjure a warming repast for our souls. Skin holds meat, meat holds bone (or is it the other way around?) and as chunks slip and slide into the bubbling pot before me, I wonder, wordless, at the speed with which we revere and revile our fellow human beings. In the other room a happy tumult erupts. A television voice announces it’s a beautiful day in LaLaLand. Steady sun shines on folks arriving via car and carpet as crowds cheer. Some of them will be handed the world. Perhaps they deserve it. The cynical…