It’s easy to accept a responsibility that comes from the heart, where there is love to sustain it.
It’s harder to accept the duties imposed by a lesser force, for then there is the strain of resistance, rebellion, and repulsion, since the motive is not rooted in love.
I’ve been thinking of the tiny airport prayer room where I prayed for my Aunt Mary shortly before she died. I’ve been thinking of all the places where I’ve sent my prayers, flying, up to God.
Have all these places made a mark? What is it about the little places which seem so forgettable that makes such an impression on me? The airport chapel. The bicycle shed at Lou and Jean’s. The hospital café. The tree beside the river. The kitchen pantry where I told someone I loved him for the first time.
All these little places seem so ordinary, but they leave an impression I can’t quite explain. But isn’t this, in many ways, the essence of our lives? Celebrating the small, daily things and finding the meaning that’s stuffed inside?
Trust in the sun that warms your cheek.
Trust in the moon that holds your cares.
Trust in the stars that glitter and blink
As you tell them your wishes and impossible prayers.
Trust in the voice that stills the night.
Trust in the song that quiets your soul.
Trust in the lamp that shares its light
As you clamber and climb out of your darkened hole.
Trust in the friends who bring you joy.
Trust in the ones who do their part.
Trust in this poet, who wants you to know
That, yes, she loves you with all of her heart.
The choir came and the choir went.
The flower grew and the flower died.
Once, in a vision, she was a bride,
Walking lightly, trailing lace,
Dancing around ’til the night was spent.
What wonderment in her face,
What life! And then, the rain,
Like a sharpened knife,
Cut into the attic roof,
Stirring her from her happy dream,
Reminding her of the bitter truth.
There’s a quiet room inside your soul where the purest thoughts go to live.
When a thought is born, it must decide: am I willing to suffer for my cause, or will I compromise my ideas a little if the going gets too tough? Once a thought makes its decision, it gets assigned a place to live. The thoughts that show the least conviction unpack their bags (though they usually haven’t brought much with them) in the lightest part of the skull, right behind the nose. That way, they can escape with a sneeze if their impatience gets the best of them.
Naturally, there are many degrees and shades of thought, and they all have their peculiar characteristics and their own ways of dwelling within you. For example, there are the anxious thoughts that pace back and forth in the pit of your stomach, and there are the wild thoughts that pound against your chest, thumping like a drum in-between heartbeats. But the thoughts living inside your soul – well, these are an especially interesting bunch. They’re very kind, as a whole, and gracious – but they possess a certain steel which makes them surprisingly strong beneath their gentle mien.
It’s hard to describe these soul-thoughts in one broad stroke because each is wonderfully unique, but one central cord seems to run through them all, connecting them, and I suspect it’s this cord that gives them their unusual tenacity and strength.
The cord, of course, is love, and the stronger love is inside the soul, the more beautiful these thoughts appear, and the room they live in grows warmer and brighter, until it becomes a welcome refuge for the weary pilgrim who passes by, longing for a place to rest his head.
Only when you strip yourself of the frivolities will you see the depth of Love.
You can continue walking on the surface, or you can go deeper, where the real treasure lies.
If only I could
run myself ragged
run hands through your hair
run faster than wind
run freer than air
run wild with laughter
run reckless with care
run into your arms:
oh! such is my prayer.
