Prayer of the insignificant (repeat 2015)

There is nothing insignificant in the world.
It all depends on the point of view.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

(mum / Julie Cook / 2015)

Who am I oh Lord that you should consider my worth…
That you, the God of all that was…
Of all that is…
And all that will be…
Whose hands sweep across time…
Who has masterfully scattered the stars across the heavens…
And whose own breath is captured in the rhythmic roll of each and
every crashing wave…would look upon me,
a tiny speck in the vast churning sea of life and humanity…
And call me your own

(mum /Julie Cook / 2015)

A thousand tiny petals…
Each lovingly placed by your hand and your hand alone.
Counted, numbered and perfectly aligned.
Tightly woven.
Spiraling outward.
Unfurling simultaneously.
An insignificant happening transpiring daily and unnoticed by millions…
Yet You are keenly aware of it all as nothing, absolutely nothing,
takes place on this planet without your desire and knowledge

(stamens full of pollen / Julie Cook / 2015)

Each tiny microscopic dot of pollen exists because You have deemed it so.
Every single unassuming spore, necessary to set a miraculous chain
of events into motion,
Exists only because of You.
Pollination, a miracle unto itself, yet countlessly taken for granted,
Plays out every day, over an endless expanse of time,
as yet another flower blooms.

My mind is woefully limited, unable to grasp the vastness of all that is You.
I cannot understand how or why You, the all encompassing You,
stops because of the small and insignificant me.
Yet stop You do.

You stop to
Listen
See
Touch
Care
Love

Long before my birth, You claimed me as yours–
with both the rising and setting of the sun.

The Psalmists tells me that each hair on my aging head is accounted for
And that nothing which transpires in my life escapes your knowledge.
As I often…
Question…
Wonder…
Argue…
Curse…and rail against the seemingly random and mindless fates
of life that appear unfair and unjust.

Yet each life is inextricably linked together
Each breath, each tear, each sound of joy, pain or sorrow
is woven tightly together, as the Master of the Universe
Jehovah-Jireh has declared it so . . .
As You, the Master weaver, Jehovah-Rapha has knit my heart to your own.

May the Glory of the Heavens declare your Majesty, Oh Lord. . .
May the earth, and all that is in it, sing your praise.

And may my seemingly insignificance, which is held tightly in your hand,
as I am never from your sight, be a testament to your enduring Love
Forever and always…
Amen

(Hope in a flower / Julie Cook / 2015

heightened senses….

“Memory believes before knowing remembers.
William Faulkner

(Victorian Christmas Greeting card)

Every memory seems more keen.
Every sight seems more bright.
Every tear seems more heavy.
Every scent seems more strong.
Every sound seems more bold.
Every heartache seems more piercing.
Every loss seems more painful.
Every joy seems more complete.
Every touch seems more dear…

Each year, finding ourselves standing before what makes Christmas just that,
Christmas…
Our senses,
our thoughts,
our tastes,
our recollections…
seem hopelessly more intense, more sharp, more profound…

Be that a blessing
or
be that a curse.

Pain is greater.
Suffering is more fierce.
Joy is more contagious.
While satisfaction hangs precariously in the balance.

There are those who gravitate toward this more mystical and magical time
full of giddiness and glee…
while others wish to close their eyes,
not openning them again until mid January.

The sensory overload can be overtly overwhelming or palpably underwhelming.

And yet it is in that overload, be it over or under,
that we actually become more….
raw…
more open…
and even more vulnerable.

And it is in that vulnerability that the ego slightly abates….
the guard slips ever so quietly,
While pretense evaporates as the dew in first light…
As we are splayed wide open.

And it is in that moment of pure raw vulnerability that
the heart finally realigns,
beating rhythmically for the first time since the tragic Fall,
as it is once again, albeit briefly, in sync with all of Creation…

For no word from God will ever fail.”
Luke 1:37

In the blink of an eye

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
Washington Irving

(the fleeting frozen rains from hopefully the last cold snap / Julie Cook / 2015)

And just like that, in a fleeting single blink of an eye,
the triumphant joy ceases.
The crowds have quickly lost their jovial revelry.
Things are taking a turn–yet what sort of turn is yet to be seen.
There is a subtle shift in the winds.
Deep dark whispers now drift along the alleyways, replacing the recent laughter and jubilation.
A few dried palm branches are trampled underfoot, unnoticed.

What is passion?
Is it intensity?
Is it a feeling of indescribable and voracious love, longing, desire?
It is a consuming flame within the very core of one’s being, psyche, soul, heart?
Is it with or without control?
Is it with or without pain?

Groups of men are seen huddled together.
Any observer can note the seriousness of their conversations.
There is a hurriedness in the steps of those more official looking individuals.
Even the animals sense the change.
All are now anxious, fretful, nervous. . .
The sky grows dark, a storm seems to be brewing.

Is grief anticipatory?
Can sorrow be foretold?
Is the heart warned before breaking?
What of fear and anger verses hope and love?
Is one greater than the other?
Does love trump all other emotions?
Can one be broken hearted and full of love simultaneously?

Paranoia gives way to determination,
As a final solution is now at hand.
Selfishness, greed, control, swirl into a toxic mixture of treachery
A pigeon is found and a mole is set loose as the silver is gathered.
There are those who rub their hands together in twisted satisfaction as
there are those who wring their hands with foreboding and trepidation

Sorrow and love are now woven as one
There is no turning back as the die has been cast
The sequence of events is no longer reversible.
The truth of the matter is. . .they never were.
This pivotal moment was determined eons ago
Everyone has had a hand in it.

There is but one lone figure who has remained very far removed,
yet it is he who has watched this all unfold, generation after generation.
He stands in solitude perched somewhere between space and time, watching, waiting yet knowing
A single tear is seen to fall.
It is now left to time, which is all that remains separating. . .
what was
what is
and
what will be. . .

My spirit is spent within me

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
William Shakespeare

( detail discarded tulip petal / Julie Cook / 2015)

I am a petal cast aside
tired and spent
My spirit rides low. . .
Gone is the supple newness and vibrant color
Life giving juices having long since dried
Wilted
Faded
Discarded

Until You reach for me
Gently
Tenderly
Softly
You lift me up
Picking me up from out of myself

A single tear trails down my face
Sorrow wells within my heart
Yet when you touch my cheek
Gently wiping away the tear
I know I am not forgotten. . .

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Deuteronomy 31:6