Trees not yet leafed out,
the woods aren’t green,
just tiny flakes of green

in their childish little hands,
soft and small.
Something larger than them

from deep down stirs,
exceeds itself in them.
Among those who dare

a new thing
God grant me
such ancient courage.

Usually the trees in the woods are pretty silent,
maybe some whispering,
murmuring among themselves. You know,
tree stuff.

Sometimes they intone elegant, lofty things,
“Life.” Or, “Patience.”
The Word.

Today, their hands beseeching, they blurted out,
“We need you.”

I’m a foreigner here, I thought, a trespasser.
“We need you.”

Coming home, all the cars on the road,
and the folks in them, driven,
their speeding was pleading, “We need you.”

The houses, the newspapers on porches,
the people trapped in the newspapers
cried out, “We need you.”

In my window seat I pray
for that inner pentecost
when what is impossible
falls upon me, flows through me,
through all of us,
like fire.

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

Holy Spirit,
River of love, divine delight,
flow through me.                   
Flame of sun, burn in me.
Wind of heaven, breathe in me.
Tongues of strangers, speak in me.
Love of God, sing in me.

Lead me beyond myself,
to return to you in the other,
to love you in my stranger,
my foreigner, my enemy.

Burn with your fire in me,
that it may be mine.
Breathe yourself into my life,
that it may be yours.
I am your song, and your singing.
I am your candle; you are my flame.

Holy Spirit,
love the world
in me.

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

There are times when I need to rest,
a sabbath of dullness,

because the rest of the time
I am walking around behind God,

even the stirred dust sparkling,
even the shadows gleaming,

God every instant saying
“Let there be light.

Let there be stone. This stone,
and this light laying on the stone.

Let there be this tree, this branch,
and each of these birds singing in it.

Let there be this bee, let there be its labor,
and the wonder of its coming and going.

Let there be this river, and its waters,
its springs and tributaries, and their flowing.

Let there be this person.
Let there be this hope unfolding in this heart.

Let there be this moment.
Yes! And now this one!”

It never stops.
It never stops.

         …with the eyes of your heart enlightened…
                  —Ephesians 1.18

Spirit of Mercy, Beauty of Life,
enlighten the eyes of my heart.

Awaken me to your light,
to see with grace and to shine with grace,

to see with gratitude the beauty that unfolds,
to see with trust your immense love for me,

to see with hope the hope that rises,
to see with humility the mercy that rains,

to see fearlessly your suffering in this world,
and the power of your redemption,

to see all people as my kin,
all living beings as my flesh,

to see with love,
to see all people with love,

to see heaven emerging in each moment,
to see you, in peace, before me.

May I see, and others see,
by the light in my eyes,

the light of your peace
in the eyes of my heart,

the look of your compassion,
your delight in the eyes of my heart.

Awaken me to this day,
the eyes of my heart enlightened.

                                 Holocaust Remembrance Day

God of love, expose to me the evils I condone
for the sake of my ease and privilege.

Awaken me to the suffering of others
and my dismissal of it.

Heal me of the disease of my racism and sexism,
my phobias and self-protectiveness and denial.

Bring me to awareness and repentance;
daily change my heart from fear to love.

Give me courage to speak out
for those who are blamed, judged or excluded.

Give me love to know them,
to receive from them, to stand with them,
until they are not them but us.

Do not let me be silent before injustice
or safe in the presence of hatred.

Jew and Muslim, Native, queer and black,
poor and imprisoned and foreigner—
either I belong to them and with them
or I am not human.

Let my love be true, my repentance unending,
my heart be broken, my rage be deep;
let my voice be clear, and my courage strong.

God of love, in the darkness may I be light;
in the shouting may I be a song of justice.

He was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight.
         Two beings in white robes stood by them and said,
         “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”
                  —Acts 1.9-11

Because we are sad.
Because with all those who cry to the sky
we are bewildered, and yearning.

We gaze
because something so dear and fine has left us.
We crane our necks—don’t we always?—
toward the face turning at the gate,
the bus rounding the corner.
We hold the rose before we put it in.
We watch the emptiness
where our beloved was
and we can’t take our eyes off it.

We’re not yet ready
to remember what we’ve learned.
But there is guidance in our longing.
This sadness is some of the miracle
that will raise us,
the loss that opens something,
the sorrow of what is taken
where we find what is not taken.

We are looking up
so you can find us,
the angels of absence,
to walk us through this new land
until we can come and go with grace.

                  —May 4, 2016

How proud we are
to distinguish
among our illusions,
preferring this over that,

how possessive
of the wind in our hands,

the dogs of our minds
barking after squirrels,
“I am not this!”
“I am not that!”

But the blood-red rose
unfolding in our hearts
knows better
and calmly rejoices
at the stone
that is also the grief
that is also the stranger
that is also God.

                               —May 3, 2016

You are not bearing a burden;
it carries you.

You are not crying out;
it speaks you.

They are not strangers
but bits of yourself you have not yet gathered.

The night is dark
but a path reaches out.

The trees here are still mostly bare,
their infinite fingers of resolute patience.
They are in no hurry. What will come,
will.

South of here it’s different, and farther north.
But this is here.

On some twigs the tenderest green
emerges, a different green, and fragile
as new things are.

Without yet the singing, buzzing and sweetness
they gather life in near-freezing wind, bare,
or nearly so.

Sap runs. You can’t see it.
Small things underground shift,
and something larger than all this.
Tomorrow is more open than the western sky,
moving.