A Sunday Doxology
Praise God for a world of wonder
where morning never fails to dawn,
where evening fades and brings its rest,
where creation sings out with joy
and stirs within my weary heart
hope, trust, worship, and gratitude
for your mercies new each morning,
your steadfast love and faithfulness.
Oh how great is your faithfulness.
I worked to the rush of wind today;
it was steady and unrelenting in ways
I was not.
Does the wind ever wish it could just
know the singularity of a particular
Or must it always be a wanderer on its
reminding us that change
is both unrelenting and inevitable,
That there is a way from west to east
from here to there,
from this to that,
from now to then.
A Sunday Doxology
Praise God, the good Shepherd
Who leads to springs of living water,
Who leads beside still waters.
Water that seeks and settles
In lowest and deepest places.
Water that fills and floods, overflowing
With tears and hope and grace
and joy and love and thanksgiving.
I wonder if the disciples woke up that morning
exhausted from anxious days
heavy with grief
burdened with shame
numb with despair.
I wonder it they had talked and talked and talked
trying to make sense
trying to recall kingdom words they had barely understood
now beginning to settle into something like hope
but if true
suggesting a future far greater than their yearnings
for a return to what was.
I wonder if the only thing they knew with certainty
was that the sun had risen
on another day.
I wonder what they felt the moment they grasped
in its greatest and most profound sense.
A Saturday Caesura
Working at home under self-isolation guidelines made for a quiet week. No bells. No hallway bedlam. No whispery undercurrent while I’m expounding the rules of subject-verb agreement. No bursts of laughter. No heated discussions. Just the ding dings of incoming mail and messages, my own voice the clatter of a Chromebook keypad.
Into this world of disrupted sound, I pause to listen. A train bellows its warnings (always 4 times). The neighbour’s broken-muffler car rumbles my sleep. Coyotes yelp at nothing and everything. Birds flutter and gossip at the feeder; geese honk on-the-wing. Water drip drips from the eaves, a gentle affront to the freezing silence of winter.
Into this percussion of life beyond isolation, I pause to play my piano (2 times), and the notes falter and trip, having endured their own long season of winter. My fingers search for a voice frozen by grief, hurt, discouragement. It’s a soft voice, hardly more than a pianissimo drip drip, but it is there and maybe spring will thaw this silence, too.
Thankfulness requires a disciplined heart.
When surrounded by abundance and fulfilled desires along with a scarcity of loss, conflict, and discomfort, it takes discipline to choose thankfulness over self-satisfaction and complacency.
When living in the midst of discouragement, exhaustion, uncertainty, and the weighty presence of grief or loneliness, it takes discipline to choose thankfulness over despair and discontent.
Whatever one’s feelings about the historical roots of Thanksgiving Day 🇨🇦, and however the day has devolved into little more than Turkey Day, we need to be grateful. Simple as that.
We need to choose thankfulness as a daily heart posture.
We need gratitude, not as a way of ignoring pain and the ugliness of the world, but as a way through, as a sight-line towards hope and peace and grace.
Grey drizzle rain
sometimes brightens to
blue fresh sun.
Open my heart to know beauty
even when the rain-grey stays.
Christ’s resurrection declares
that darkness cannot eradicate Light.
What profound hope.
Life’s circumstances may have
shrunk my world,
restricted my margins,
so small or narrow
that God is unable to fully
fill with his abundance.