O ceaseless God, sometimes I am tired.
I get tired of serving when the need is so great.
I grow weary of loving the dying,
healing the shattered,
rejoicing with the hopeless.
I tire of caring for those who do not care,
and forgiving the unrepentant.
I am spent, crying for justice to unhearing ears.
I am not a strong horse, but only a little burro, God,
and I can’t carry the whole load.
Beloved, you are smaller than that:
a tiny blue butterfly
in a blossoming tree.
I do not ask you to transform the tree:
only to do your work
in the bloom where you find yourself,
for there, in that labor,
which is enough for one butterfly,
the nectar of my delight revives you,
and the whole tree rejoices.
May 5, 2020