Before I get there, I want to connect with the lovers of God and the lovers of Dogs.
Unconditional love in either case, mercy in place of judgement.
Jesus said, Suffer the children to come unto me.
Yeah, them and the dogs.
So this is about poetry, prayer and dogs.
Poetry and prayer
Fellow traveler! I’m going through a sojourn similar to yours. I’m pondering ways that I can streamline my life, including my life as a blogger. I have so many questions. May God take into account your dreams, His and hers!
It’s comforting to see that others are on the same journey.
Willow’s posts delve into life’s mysteries. Willow is humble enough to post questions, not answers. The posts are an ecumenical search for answers.
OK. First, in the Born Again sense of “knowing Jesus”, I don’t know Him. I know him in wisdom and example. I like that whatsoever I do to the least of my brethren that I do unto God. That might have to be enough. But if it isn’t enough for you, I suggest you read this blog. I applaud the recognition of the struggles of Chinese Christians.
Note to the paranoid: When I typed in “Chinese Christians” the mouse froze for several seconds, and then resumed. Could mean nothing, but in light of the FinSpy scandal, where the US has put spyware on our computers via trojan horse virii, isn’t it logical that China would be doing even worse?
God, Gardening, sermon and sport. What a winning combination. Hey, c’vista, here’s a gift for you, and everyone else. One of the greatest hymns by Michelle Shocked:
Wait for the music, after the speaking.
And finally, where poetic meditation, God and dogs (of the downward-facing type) meet:
So what do you think?
Burying my daughter’s dog.
First Eucharistic Prayer
Dog dead three hours-
A neighborly knock at the door
The haste of the summer grass under bare feet
A massive form
Still connected by a leash
To the unmoving run.
Fettered and escaped-
I am a father powerless to roll back the stone.
We make our backyard churchyard craters
And watch the energy of love invested
And returned with interest
Disappear in sandy shovelfuls.
Wrapped in a blanket, buried by small hands
Mourned by large, questioning eyes.
And we watch life wash away
chalk on the rainy sidewalk
naughty pawprints under sponge and pail.
When easter has passed again.
the shirt is too small to wear.
I fold away your childhood,
a shroud, for my secret reliquary
Witness of your devotion to the yellow dinosaurs.
Eucharist is communion unleavened,
God’s unchanging hand
But this is our body,
by nature it outgrows,
by the yeast and dough of it.
It rises, it crusts over, baked and salted
Until it is no longer malleable
Until it can only nourish.
Leavened myself, I have been the bread of your life.
You, child of the vine set to ferment.
And our industry concealed your blanket-wrapped affection.
And our industry healed the wound we had made in the earth.
And I cried for your tears.
For I was not the Father to call Lazarus forth.