it's been a long, dry season
both the hallelujah chorus and the adventure awaiting
have long since faded
but I walk on, walk on
I still want to bring a gift
a gift what will it be?
parched voices, faded dreams
of what I thought I'd give
daily bible reading schedule in the foyer
apologetics good theology
"you should read Reinhold Niebuhr"
4th grade class this quarter? please?
"rise at 5 if you have to, but give the best of your morning to your Lord . . . "
I walk on
and I marvel
that you would let me participate in creation with you--what crazy power you give--
did you really think that through, dear Jesus?
and so I write myself into them.
their paths, not mine, but close enough here for a time to seem as one
and we laugh, sing, fuss, struggle, get up and try again and again
my gift is in the apology at the thrown shoe,
the four year old's calm, slightly bemused eyes,
"my shoe isn't stupid, mama"
my gift is in the appreciating the wit of the three year old,
the creative genius of the Lego king, the stories, games, and feats of skill,
in watching, listening, to the "please, watch me, mom!"
my gift, in accepting
that the gifts you gave me to give
were better than the ones I wanted to give
and if I walk, misunderstood, I have good company.
so I walk on
but it's been a dry, long season.
my sister-friend, she had a vision
that you were busting off her heavy
chains and you wanted her to dance with you.
just to dance with you.
she no dancer (nor more I), and I loved that vision.
I didn't see a vision or hear you singing
but this my gift: I heard hers, and loved it, and walked on.
my gift is laughter of women,
gathered around my table. this, too is food and drink.
my gift is thanking you for it, and for phone conversations
that went too long, while kids abandoned schoolbooks,
for sisters you have given me, my thanks for them is my gift.
oh, it's been a dry season.
and when the path narrowed, a precipice on either side
loose stones underfoot
darkness
and I carried the child on the narrow path fit only to my feet
I feared for the strategy of each step I must take,
that it must be right or we fall,
me to one side the child to the other.
but this my gift.
I held him loosely. gently.
we laughed, nuzzled.
I held him not too tight so we could look,
could understand one another.
breathe.
breathe.
my gift.
though I heard not your voice and felt not your hand
had no fall insurance
I knew that you were there. knew.
and trusted that though he fall, I was held, and you were proud of me.
pleased. this I knew, and knowing was my gift.
and so it came that I could walk without fear, without calculating
more steps to the centimeter.
we walked.
and this my gift:
that I was thankful. each. moment.
for the gift of knowing this other soul in my arms.
not mine. not one to be, but another who is. in the now.
fear did not steal our joy, and that-- my gift to you.
the path widens.
my gift that I won't refuse to walk next to one you place by me?
my gift that I won't only look back?
my gift that I will soon hear you singing more clearly, and sing back?
my gift that I would dance, if you asked me to, even if I would rather fight dragons?
I wait. accept your gifts. keep walking. and sure, pray for rain.
