Sunday, October 29, 2017

simple grace, II


October 29th, 2017

We thank you, Father, for these gifts of bog cross,
harvest candle,
book and boy
for sunset filling the hot room
for dragons rumbling in the radiators.

For liquid words and solid hopes.
For time that slips through fingertips.


October 30th, 2017

We thank you, Father, for hot soup
on chill days in cold libraries.
For the humility to bite our tongues
and partners who abide our cruelties.

For learning to love,
even when we're idiots.
Which we are.

For laughing with friends,
learning to love,
even when we feel un-loved.
For pushing into the uncertainty,
taking a leap into the darkness
and finding—huh—
a way.


October 31st, 2017

We thank you, Father, yet again,
for sunshine in these autumn days,
For dancing to mediocre jazz,
speaker phone calls while mixing drinks,
kissing in dark chapel seats.

You didn't have to be this good,
and yet, each day,
still, you are.
In consolation, desolation,
sunshine and self-centeredness,
in broken heaters,
and tattoo ink,
you find a way to speak to us.

We ask you but for ears to hear
and eyes to see
You in the feasts and fasts—
quotidian celebrations—
in this extra-ordinary time
of every day.

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