[A Poem Each Day This Holy Week]
Whole lives coming through my door
in pieces, just fragments, but lovely,
or broken and weary.
One grateful, deeply so,
eyes welling in praise beyond
words that can't contain
a new life, a new day, a new way
of saying thank you God
for all of this.
Another answering a call,
impossible to hear but impossible
to miss, wordless call of
the nameless; and he,
a young man, saying yes
with his life to a call
he can't hear but has most
amazingly heard:
I will go Lord where
you lead me.
And yet another, angry,
justly so, angry at a pastor
at me who failed, didn't care enough,
didn't respond, didn't love enough;
and I can only say sorry,
a word that seems like a
worn-out umbrella in wind.
This is the whole of it, the whole
of my Tuesday, the strange
holiness of my life, my week,
my discipleship.
Broken, radiant, disappointing,
failed, making connections, and not.
Serving well and not.
Loving Jesus and not.
Strange holiness indeed.
