Hitting Close To Home: Preaching To The Choir

 

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This season of Lent is carrying me to the garden.
We walk together to the sermon by the lettuces.
(The royal we unless you count the coal black English Cocker puppy, faithful by my side)
The figs preach a brief homily as I pass by, one of unflinching hope. It is a taunting message. Their green shoots and leaves trajectory seems sure. June is a garden’s lifetime away and yet they already are. Mine own growth seems fifty fifty at best.
Yesterday’s sermon soaked me good. I can’t shake the message or the feeling of kneeling wobbly on a bed of sweet conviction.
Even the baby limes the size of a quarter of a cracked open pistachio whisper something new. They grow, slow and steady, without reciting the Ten Commandments, praying the Prayer of Confession or being drenched by a thirst quenching sermon that leaves you parched for change.

All creatures great and small  are headed toward re-birth. My own feels questionable, less certain. And the homestretch between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday feels inadequate for my growth.
Not enough time to pick up speed, bear something tangible, edible and fully formed.

The garden, seated behind the lectern listens well. Responds in love.
I want to be the zinnia seed, the radish seed, the one buried in a rich soil of nearer certainty. Of nearer my God to thee. Tucked into the bed by hands who know that giving up and letting go bring more life to life.
That poetry is best heard in the slowness.
And that beauty is tucked in the bed with the beets.

The garden raises its instruments of praise. And a sings an early Easter song of hope and grace. My song is not quite ready. My time has not yet come.

And I remain. Toes buried in the soil. Rooted at the foot of the Preacher. If only I could hear the words. Those written just for me. I seek to hear,  even to read the lips would suffice.

So I remain. Seated in the wooden pew. As close to the choir as I can get. Preparing with those who will sing an Easter hymn.

A hallelujah flowered song of praise, rising up in billowy breath from the mouth of the truly changed one.

 

 

 

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By The Vine

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By The Vine


The image is haunting
Fresh ghosts, no old ghosts or past demons
More of a grey entanglement
Never was there a more perfect physical picture
Eerily beautiful
Twisted with potential
You, wrestling the old, welcoming the new
I, an admirer of your work
You, artist, sculpting out of brittle death
A place
For new life

The work is daunting
Man fighting nature, on the cusp of Spring, you take charge
More of a knight in shining armor
Never was there a more perfect image of you saving us
Brashly handsome
Plucked from a fairy tale
You, saving the day, battling the old enemies, ours and theirs
I, the princess, receiving the fruits of your labor
You, the warrior, slaying the dragons of what was before
A place
For new life

We had no choice in this tale of ours
Happily ever after
Comes to those
Who cut back

The vines that choke a life
You went in
Guns ablazing
And we ended up on top