We are familiar yet ill at home
with what is wrong. Our uncertainty
is our assurance that You are not done
with us yet. Free of self-confidence
for the time being, we wrap ourselves
in a snow of want and not knowing,
and go out into the darkness that sings,
descending moss-furred steps
into the night where the small torch
of a single star will do, accompanied
perhaps by sheep though we can’t see them,
or angels we can’t hear, a night of dreams
that are there but can’t be recalled,
where a lamp beyond our imagining waits
to be lit. We long for more than we can name.
In this darkness, vast, but not barren—nestled,
like a womb almost—it is plain our yearning
is not our own but given. We are summoned.
In the midnight of possibility, cold and still,
where you already are, we wait to see you.
In time, our eyes adjust to the dark.
O Holy One, appear.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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