I am living, loading the dishwasher,
driving the van, matching socks,
when my little ones say, “I miss God.”
I know this missing.
One day I stood in my house,
my bed, my dishes, my tables
and chairs all around, and my
heart cried, I want to go home.
These mysteries break my heart.
I watch the morning sky;
I see mars, and jupiter and venus.
They hang, glowing ornaments
on invisible trees.
Does Christ hang this way, glowing
with generosity on all our invisible trees,
a call to desire giving our last two coins,
our last bits of chocolate, our last everything?
My heart breaks for these eucharistic mysteries.
Venus adorns the morning’s crescent,
a glowing diamond in this eastern sky,
while waves of clouds roll beneath
the moon’s waning,
this daily joining in,
a practiced participation,
these lonely dives beneath love’s
surface, breaking into rocks of selfishness
where gleaming bands of diamonds
speak about grace,
sparkling mercies rolling beneath
our smiles, countless gifts
adorning our waxing joy,
sparks of patience and deference
and gifts of active grace
rolling through this mysterious sky.
I don’t love you
to the moon and back.
I love you to the ever-
extending curves of the multiverse