Author: Steve

             You must be ready, for the Truly Human One
             is coming at an hour you do not expect.
                                                —Luke 12.40

The Healer appears,
like that kid in the store
whose wondrous smile
pulled me back
from the edge of gloom.

The Multiplier of Loaves
comes, picking produce
for me and thousands,
without thanks.

The Crucified One is there
in the beggar I gave money to,
and the one to whom I didn’t.

The Teacher speaks
in the refugee who shows me
more than I want to know
about my own displacement.

The Wandering Rabbi appears
in the homeless who remind me
of how I belong, and do not belong.

The Messiah appears
in whoever evokes my love,
for in loving, and loving alone,
I am saved.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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             Do not be afraid, little flock,
             for it is God’s good pleasure
             to give you the entire realm.
                                          —Luke 12.32

We ask for favors,
for this little victory, that little narrow escape,
and so often that’s not what we receive—
because God gives us something else,
something greater: the whole thing,
the entire realm of God’s grace.
We get this huge glorious planet,
the crashing seas and the rumbling mountains,
we get frogs and koalas and puffins,
and moon and stars and a sun that never forsakes us.
God gives us gravity that holds us, and color,
and food, and wind, and rivers.
We get the whole human family,
all our beauty and strangeness and woundedness,
our music and dancing and wild inventions.
We’re given forgiveness and belonging and hope,
a world mostly unrecognized where we are loved
and blessed and made whole, however broken we are.
We receive grace, hidden in every thing,
whether pleasant or painful.
We get God’s steady presence, closer than our own nerves,
breathing with us, hurting with us, rising with us.
It is God’s joy to give us the whole works.
Even in trying times, it’s OK. Do not be afraid.
We’ve been given more than we need.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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             Where your treasure is,
             there your heart will be also.
                                     —Luke 12.34


What you give yourself to
gives you your self. Choose wisely.

             •

In love you turn yourself inside out.
What you care about lives inside you.

             •

Love the entire world, all of it,
and your heart will be whole.

             •

Love wasted
returns.

             •

             Where your treasure is,
             there your heart will be also.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Up comes the Sun,
spooning great gobs of yellow light
into the mouth of the morning,
that swallows it greedily.

Shadows stand up out of the dullness,
begin to draw themselves into their objects,
but in ho hurry.
Birds scatter a confetti of songs.

And what’s this? I rise
from the grave-clothes of my bed, alive,
the day pouring into me
like sun into the meadow.

I am the opening bars of a song
love is just now improvising,
spilling out of me, who will sing,
if I let it, all day long.

I will let it.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Pretend it’s distant. Blood in the rubble.
Clothing under chunks of cement. A toy. Half a toy.
Scattered shards of mirror, showing sky.

A people being turned to dust we try not to see.
Goodness like buildings collapsed, mile after mile.
In the broken mirror a mother, wordless, gazing.

Desolation that speaks of a desolation.
A child, dazed, starving,
loved. We think they can’t see us,

humanity wasting away. A famine of decency.
Remnants of righteousness, almost buried.
A winged figure sifts through our ruins.

We don’t dare pick up the mirror.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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As if prayer is something you go to
like a place or a meeting, and not
ruin, or
                  seed.

As if prayer is something you can be in
like a room or a mood, and not
poverty, or
                   love.

As if prayer is something you do,
like speaking, and not
what happens to you, like
                  sickness, or surprise.

As if prayer is something you get up from
like a chair or a chore, and not
sex or
                  a grave.

No, let my prayer storm into me,
or digest me, or dawn in me,
from which I rise risen,
                                      scathed.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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Coastal marshes are gentle places,
nothing dramatic: soft sediment laid down,
tender grasses nodding in the breeze,
holding hands. Egrets wade,
turtles bask and fish lurk. It’s pretty quiet.
There are no stone bulwarks, but in a storm
the marsh protects the land
with an invisible strength.

Kindness is like that.

The apple tree by the roadside offers its gifts.
It asks nothing, makes no exchange,
fortifying whoever eats of its fruit.

Kindness is like that.

The scent of lilacs, that transgresses barbed wire,
the beauty of music you can hear even in riot gear,
an act of generosity defying all accounting,
a small seed that cracks sidewalks.
A little song that stays.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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My frightened little soul,
an escaped convict,
wants to run from house to house,
even to people I don’t know,
banging on every door,
pleading,
Forgive me, please!

While God walks calmly
through the neighborhood
of my soul, enters every place,
not even knocking—
whether a door opens or not—
walks right in to the darkness,
lights a candle, sets a table, calls out
Mercy lives here.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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A spider has hung a wheel of spokes
across impossible empty space between twigs,
and now works her way around the lines.
She touches her abdomen to the thread
and moves a pace and touches again,
adding a length to the thread, touching,
on and on, in ever widening circles.
All of this comes from inside her.
I don’t know how she sees with her legs,
thinks with her eyes, knows with something
we don’t know. The circles are perfect.
Like Bach sitting down to the weekly cantata,
she holds the magic, the mysterious energy
between the idea of a web and a web.

After a long time there it is, trembling slightly
in the curious breeze, a face of the world.
She is not done being patient, or course.
She sits and waits.

A windblown branch falls, tears through the web.
Little shreds hang from the twigs
like tiny prayer flags. Nothing, really.
Without much of a pause she strings a thread
between impossible twigs and begins again.

O, spider God, bless us
in our impossible spaces.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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