Slowly, quietly I come.
Along this path again. my feet tread, my heart trembles.
Like a bird inside my chest.
The weeds can look like flowers too you know?
Pretty, useful, important.
Stuff.
Entangles, distracts, turns the soil of my heart to parched clay.
I stumble over briers I had not even noticed, I
fall and feel, the barren ground of my soul.
I need to stop. Turn. Gaze.
And let the silence wash over me like a wave of clear, cool, water.
These things, this stuff, worthless as dead idols.
And I sacrifice to them time and time again, thinking that it's important to pay
attention.
Plan, organise, structure. Control.
And the vine I planted is dying, the fruit is drying on the branch.
And all the while I'm watering the weeds and leaving my garden to ruin.
But the fragrance, the fragrance of the blossoms he left me all those years ago,
Somehow still lingers on the breeze.
Reminding me, waking me bleary eyed and sober.
So I stand to walk again, along the waters beside the green, green pastures.
A little gentler, a little smaller, a little softer, thankful.
Always.
Thankful for grace.
"But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her."
"Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain."
Photo by Emmy
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Thankful for Grace
Slowly, quietly I come.
Along this path again. my feet tread, my heart trembles.
Like a bird inside my chest.
The weeds can look like flowers too you know?
Pretty, useful, important.
Stuff.
Entangles, distracts, turns the soil of my heart to parched clay.
I stumble over briers I had not even noticed, I
fall and feel, the barren ground of my soul.
I need to stop. Turn. Gaze.
And let the silence wash over me like a wave of clear, cool, water.
These things, this stuff, worthless as dead idols.
And I sacrifice to them time and time again, thinking that it's important to pay
attention.
Plan, organise, structure. Control.
And the vine I planted is dying, the fruit is drying on the branch.
And all the while I'm watering the weeds and leaving my garden to ruin.
But the fragrance, the fragrance of the blossoms he left me all those years ago,
Somehow still lingers on the breeze.
Reminding me, waking me bleary eyed and sober.
So I stand to walk again, along the waters beside the green, green pastures.
A little gentler, a little smaller, a little softer, thankful.
Always.
Thankful for grace.
"But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her."
"Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain."
Photo by Emmy
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I see this week I have another companion who is tending her soul. I posted this yesterday at Provident God. "Do you know that often a root has split a rock when allowed to remain in it? Give no place to the seed of evil, seeing that it break up your faith." This is a quote by St. Cyril of Jerusalem. I often finding myself pondering the quality of that which grows in my soul. I must say it is quite a journey to becoming a Master Gardener for the Kingdom of God. I have so very much to learn! Thank you for your lovely poem and another day's reflection! Cathy
ReplyDeleteThank you Cathy.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I'm a pretty terrible gardener, but I'm learning, (trying to ) learn, how to weed out some apce for God's hand to grow something beautiful.
A little gentler, a little smaller, a little softer, thankful.
ReplyDeleteYes. Me too.
I like your writing. And what a fantastic picture to compliment it. Thanks for sharing.
So nice to see you again! :)
ReplyDeleteThank you "Craig and Bethany" for such a sweet comment.
ReplyDeleteBless you Susanne! Nive to "see" you too :)