I know you by the spaceyou leave empty.I draw lines in the airwhere the roof used to be.I wait for you, Lord,like a mailbox for a letter.The grass still wonders how the ground got there.
(In memoriam, Roger Lundin, 1949–2015)
Outside the year’s first snow means crashes, spin-outs, brutal shock to unprotected skin,a harbinger of winter’s dreary night.Inside is peace as through translucent paneswe view a world grown still where silence reignsand trees are finely etched in tender light.Deep under brutal, surging waves of griefwild rushing waters pound with no reliefthe unprotected bark of life capsized.Yet deeper down there comes a still small voice,“I am with you, in river’s rage rejoicethat all baptized with me in death shall rise.” Advent 2015
Dear reader, when your readers seem dullas dusk, be patient and recallthat place you must have skimmed in Paula dozen times, and never noticed at all.
Spring in the garden edge, a periwinkle maze—O Lord of spill and swell. I will not disappoint you now, he says; I’ve honed your cell’s repairs. The human ware is slippery in our hands; an ankletwists, breaks on a granite ledge; jointfailure of a stone and heel, the puddled stairs . . .And so, God digs into his resurrection—a funny rib and tooth, a good and solid shoulder: the hidden measure of largesse.Imagine, in a yard, another bone to spare; imagine—long and grassy. For grasses err in favorof excess . . . Ah, isn’t that the Word, excess? Not just repaired: pampered, festooned, unspent. A risen body, Lord, our flesh has never dreamt.
False Solomon’s seal, you trade in frankincense and myrrh, filling the forest with your fragrance.There is a wisdom in the ladder of your leaves, clasping their way to each perfusion of scent and blossom.Multiplied beneath the sunlit spaciousness of Douglas fir, you make a Milky Way of stars, as if the skies had pouredthemselves into our lap, born again as a field of flowers, one vast aroma, calling us to a true home. —North Cascades National Park
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