Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Friday, July 26, 2013

Collecting wounds, Letting go

There are faces all around me Lord
They come before me
each day
In my office

as if by accident 
on the street

in homes visited
as one who would
however poorly, represent the love of God

Young faces, firm and flushed with health
Old faces, tired and lined
Joyful faces, expectant one
and then those other faces
Angry or sad
Hopeless and empty

Some faces Lord haunt me
They cry out
One face cries for help,

As cancer eats at the body below it

Another face cries for peace
And as story of anxiety and concern spills forth
A story shared over coffee and cookies

A face cries for forgiveness,
As it spills forth anguish
About children who are struggling

I collect those hurts and wounds
I cannot help it
They are given to me as a gift
And I am asked to carry that hurt in my heart

And at times I am weighed down by the load
Slowly pressed down by the precious burdens
With which I have been gifted.

Help me to remember lord
That those hurts are not mine to keep
or solve

Only mine to carry gently, briefly
And then
place in your healing hands

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