Grace and Peace to you.
It’s Monday and you’re back—
at work, in class, in line, in step and all,
your back against the wall, back in the dodge-and-lurch,
but you want to go back, back to yesterday, in church,
even though most of it you don’t really want—
the part where they looked past you, stained glassed you,
surpassed you with faces all photographic,
when their words went flying by like traffic,
when they said all these holy things
that you weren’t buying and then left them lying
on the ground like cheap scripture candy wrappers,
no, not that part.
And not the part when the preacher,
over-happy over-reacher, said that stuff
that made God sound so high, so far, so wee,
so dense, without much sense, without much feel,
without some touch, some place where you could fall,
where you could rest, where you could just
get in— no, not that part at all.
No, it was in that part you didn’t see coming,
a baby’s noise, maybe, or a mistake,
or maybe the look on the kid’s face trying so hard
to light the candle and it just wouldn’t,
and people tried not to laugh but they couldn’t,
though it wasn’t funny, and he kept on, so serious,
until he got it lit, and for a flash, a bit, a flame,
you saw it: as if God was there inside him all along and you
didn’t know why the look on his face made you light
up like the candle, so odd—but you did. And now
it’s Monday and you want it back, that moment, that kid,
that light, that God.
Oh, darling, don’t go where those Monday others went
and giggle at the mystery, the ones who struggle hard
to keep their skin on tight— but go on, step into that light,
that mapless place where hapless souls discover God
inside you, there, not hiding, no, but so deep down
it’s hard to see, so holy, you, that it’s invisible
unto the human eye.
It’s Monday and you want to reach for God
who seems so high, so far, so wee, but look and see:
God isn’t there, hung up in someone’s reaching place,
but here, inside your hands, your face,
the place that’s broken, truth unspoken,
your doubt, your woundedness, your tired out,
your burned out, kept out, inside out,
your dangling threads, your dead, your left unsaid,
your dreads, your didn’t know, your danger.
God’s in the hungry, thirsty ones inside you,
in the homeless, in the stranger,
in the sick, imprisoned self, the one you’ve kept
back on the shelf because she couldn’t get the candle lit,
but God was in her anyway.
That’s where God is. Never shoved away
beyond some should, but in the anyway,
the nonetheless, the here to stay.
It’s Monday and your life’s a mess—go on, confess,
’cause God is in you anyway, with no unless,
without condition, cause or testiness, just there,
like Monday, in your face, your hands, your heart,
with love and tenderness and grace,
enjoying, hanging out. Don’t do that Monday doubt
and think you have to reach for God—
oh, God is rooted deep inside and reaching out for you
like blood that reaches from your heart and oozes up
to every throbbing part, like flame that uses you
for a candle, like earth that refuses to let you go,
but opens up her arms, and all you have to do is fall,
It’s Monday and your God is here, and loving it,
your second coming, perfecting you from inside out,
and not expecting anything from you but you,
just being here, and watching, humming, resurrecting.
Copyright © Steve Garnaas-Holmes