The sight of him, looking out of the window, is like the presence of God.
His cheeks sit warm and plump on his little face: plums curving perfectly in the sun;
his lips, puffy and glistening, sit above his small chin: dew-covered honeysuckle in the morning.
The chair cradles his little-boy body, strapped in and buckled up, a toy truck clenched in his hand, one resting in his lap, and he watches the tree tops and the clouds;
he is lulled into sleepiness by the van’s vibrating lullaby.
When he blinks, I watch the lashes – they are soft as down and slow-moving,
dandelion seeds falling to the ground
where everything begins.
A Song for Christ-Everywhere
He is not separate from the baby
nor far from the man,
not separate from the child
nor far from the woman,
not separate from the giver
nor far from the thief,
not separate from the faithful
nor far from the doubting,
not separate from the penitent,
nor far from the prideful.
He is all in all. Emmanuel.
He never retreats,
but always chases.
I catch him looking at me through my little ones’ eyes,
the browns, blues, greens.
He lives in each of us, in all of our humanity.
The birth of God on earth –
the sanctification of our humanity, our daily life –
makes us capable of holiness,
for God is all in all.
“I made known to them your name and I will make it known, that the love with which you loved me may be in them and I in them.” (John 17:26)
We Stop Beneath the Buckeye Tree
The seed pod dropped on the sidewalk and split.
I see the ruddy shine through a slit
in the spiked orb and wonder at its depth
of color, the certain slant of light spent
on its creation and its becoming.
I hold the sharp husk gingerly between
my fingers and thumb and wonder at the satisfaction
in prying apart the halves, the silken rip at the pith. Notions
of Autumn’s approach, the colored leaves, the drying bits
of grass and flower are upon me. The death and dormancy that fit
beneath the harvest ground conceal a greater thing:
Latent energy bursting into fullness, our God blossoming
into the son of man ripening into the fullness of his mystery.
I am tempted to hold fast the shells and face
the blank wall, keep myself hidden within the pointed case
and find my way to fullness turned inward. Yet I strain
against the covering, press into the exterior a plain
and arching back. I drop against the ground and split
to see a shining depth of light in which
death and birth work together.
Falling away from self I rise in Christ
loving and being loved in turn, this daily practice
our cross and joy. We tear away the ruined husk
and reveal a softer fruit, one that trusts
in a fertile ground, this nature in the city, this spirit in the flesh,
this cyclical forgiveness.
Generous Wisdom | Spacious Heart 