The Dream (Charles Peguy)

I myself will dream a dream within you
Good dreams come from me, you know

My dreams seem impossible,
not too practical.
not for the cautious man or woman
a little risky sometimes,
a trifle brash perhaps...

Some of my friends prefer
to rest more comfortably,
in sounder sleep,
with visionless eyes-

But, from those who share my dreams
I ask a little patience, 
a little humour;
some small courage,
and a listening heart –
I will do the rest

Then they will risk
and wonder at their daring.
Run, and marvel at their speed...

Build- and stand in awe at the beauty of their building.

You will meet me often as you work,
in your companions who share the risk,
in your friends who believe in you enough
to lend their own dreams,
their own hands,
their own hearts
to your building...

In the people who will stand in your doorway.
stay awhile,
and walk away knowing they, too, 
can find a dream.

There will be sun-filled days,
And sometimes it will rain,
a little variety!
Both come from me.

So, come now-
Be content.
It is my dream you dream,
my house you build,
my caring you witness,
my love you share-
and this is the heart of the matter.

Tough Love

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,

Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and

Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,

He would just drag you around the room

By your hair,

Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world

That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly

And wants to rip to shreds

All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,

And with others,

Causing the world to weep

On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,

Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself

And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants

To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down

And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear

He is in such a "playful drunken mood"

Most everyone I know

Quickly packs their bags and hightails it

Out of town.

- Tired of Speaking Sweetly by Hafiz 

"Prayer is not just spending time with God. It is partly that - but if it ends there, it is fruitless. No, prayer is dynamic. Authentic prayer changes us- unmasks us, strips us, indicates where growth is needed. Authentic prayer never leads us to complacency, but needles us, makes us uneasy at times. It leads us to true self-knowledge, to true humility."

~  St. Theresa of Avila

Called to Become

From Edwina Gateley, There Was No Path So I Trod One (1996, 2013)

You are called to become
A perfect creation.
No one is called to become
Who you are called to be.
It does not matter
How short or tall
Or thick-set or slow
You may be.
It does not matter
Whether you sparkle with life
Or are as silent as a still pool.
Whether you sing your song aloud
Or weep alone in darkness.
It does not matter
Whether you feel loved and admired
Or unloved and alone
For you are called to become
A perfect creation.
No one's shadow
Should cloud your becoming.
No one's light
Should dispel your spark.
For the Lord delights in you.
Jealously looks upon you
And encourages with gentle joy
Every movement of the Spirit
Within you.
Unique and loved you stand.
Beautiful or stunted in your growth
But never without hope and life.
For you are called to become
A perfect creation.
This becoming may be
Gentle or harsh.
Subtle or violent.
But it never ceases.
Never pauses or hesitates.
Only is—
Creative force—
Calling you
Calling you to become
A perfect creation. 

Petition

I see glimpses of the flickering fire of your love
and catch a glimmer of the sparkling treasure from which you made me-

I wish to submit my often proud, judgmental, jealous self to you that
you might draw out your precious child and labourer for your kindom.

Only by your grace can I seek and hear the truth
without fighting for a falsehood-

Only by your grace can I shirk the fetters of
pride and fear which bind me.

I ask you to be gentle enough with me that
I still have the strength and wherewithal to reach
for your outstretched hand-

I bring you this stubborn shell in the hope
that you might accept me as I am and
transform me into a
faithful
and joyful
companion

I like what I see

Covenant by Margaret Halaska osf

The Father knocks at my door, seeking a home for his son: 

Rent is cheap, I say I don’t want to rent. I want to buy, says God. I’m not sure I want to sell, but you might come in to look around. I think I will, says God. I might let you have a room or two. I like it, says God. I’ll take the two. You might decide to give me more some day. I can wait, says God. I’d like to give you more, but it’s a bit difficult. I need some space for me. I know, says God, but I’ll wait. I like what I see. Hm, maybe I can let you have another room. I really don’t need that much. Thanks, says God, I’ll take it. I like what I see. I’d like to give you the whole house but I’m not sure – Think on it, says God. I wouldn’t put you out. Your house would be mine and my son would live in it. You’d have more space than you’d ever had before. I don’t understand at all. I know, says God, but I can’t tell you about that. You’ll have to discover it for yourself. That can only happen if you let him have the whole house. A bit risky, I say. Yes, says God, but try me.
I’ll let you know.
I’m not sure – 
I can wait, says God. I like what I see.

Sacred Moments

The house was small- one room really. Preparations had been going since early morning- bread baked, water collected, lamb slaughtered, spiced and stewed, potatoes picked. the guests had been in and out with their contributions.

They sat down to eat and catch up. They knew the sacrifice which had enabled the feast and savoured each bite, delighted at the pleasure of sharing in this occasion with one another. The boy of the house chasing his cousin or another child under the table or round a grown-up serving another helping of the feast. The wine flowed and the fire at one side of the room was kindled and stoked. They sat around on rugs, on stools, the edge of the bed. They told stories- ancient promises and prophecies. And they sang- chanted rhythmic folk melodies as someone beat out the tempo on a lap and another blew into a flute. The men jumped and stamped and clapped and turned- not enough room for half of them but that's no reason not to dance-

The boy knowing all the steps even though he's just a tot. The music speeding up and the movements getting more clipped, running into one another- a stream of twirling and leaping. They laugh and pat one another on the back when the dance can go no quicker or longer and they settle down. The man of the house more breathless than most- no longer a young man.

The hint of sweat is masked by smells of wood smoke, dinner spices, and dried fruits, incense and alcohol. The air is thick with love and laughter and solmenity. It is important to mark these days. Later the women cry out age-old haunting laments- the mother sings the sweet and sad air her mother used to sing on these occasions. They remember all who have gone before.

It's late and the guests make for home. The hosts see them to the door. They embrace- palms to backs damp from dancing. Anxious lest those leaving catch a chill as they head out into in the crisp starlit night. Those departing laugh off the concern- warm and merry as they are. Looking toward the heavens, the couple recall a sky such as this which overlooked the arrival of the son some years ago. They catch each other's eye, grateful for the grace of fidelity and for present joy.

The boy is exhausted from the days excitement and is up long past his bedtime. He sits at the edge of his cot to wash his face, hands and feet from a bowl and nearly nods off mid-ablution. The husband sits close to him and supports the child's slight frame as the wife kneels and gently wipes dry the little feet. In love, she also washes her husband's feet before they lay down the resting child. The husband takes the cloth and bowl, kneels before his wife and pours water on her feet too, left then right. He rubs her soles, wraps each one gently with the dry cloth before tenderly kissing the tops of her feet and ankles. He tickles her playfully.

It has been a long day, intensely satisfying and the family are grateful and content. Husband and wife lie down on bedding next to the child. Curled up together in the firelight, her back to his front, they watch the fall and rise of the boy's breath.

"The child grew in wisdom, and God's blessings were upon him... So he went back with his parents to Nazareth where he was obedient to them. His mother treasured all these things in her heart and Jesus grew both in body and in wisdom, gaining favour with God and people." Luke 2

Broken (Sue Wharton, 24 February 1991)

It lay in fragments, shattered, broken, marred:

the vessel crushed – its beauty torn apart.

The pattern that had formed its outer glory

                in dust and splinters split upon the ground.

The shape it once had held lay there no more –

                the etched design of years we’d grown to know –

                the potter’s handiwork returned to nought,

                lay fractured, rudely scattered on the earth.

Anguish held me and torment choked my soul;

                the agony of brokenness – the pain,

                the severing of the known, the shadows of the past

                grief overwhelmed me, shook me as I cried.

The hidden inner parts were now displayed,

                a myriad pieces in the seeing light,

                their covering a mask, was swept away;

                unveiled, their shame and torture laid to view.

Some trod that way and trampled underfoot

                or threw aside the remnants as they passed;

                yet others would deride the crumpled flask

                seeing no beauty in the scattered clay.

Yet in the desperation of my heart

                I see the potter, weeping, stooping down;

                gently he cradles the fragments, lifting them close,

                not one is missed, each piece is sought and held.

My precious workmanship, the pleasure of my hands

                I fashioned you and gave you life and form;

                how is your beauty scarred, your tenderness exposed,

                who plundered the secret places of your heart?

Who savaged the love I planted deep within?

Bruised and rejected you brought sorrow, tears?

Such pain I see, torment and misery,

                deep dark despair – yet you were made for joy!

You were not made to bear this heavy load;

                you have been crushed – but you are in my hands.

The Master Potter gently took each piece,

                and built again a vessel as he chose.

Its shape was softer than before – its tracing fine,

                he breathed his healing love to seal each join;

                it was a patient work, he did not rush

                to force the fractured remnants into place,

                but held each one until the pain had ebbed,

                then quietly joined them in his new design.

I felt the newness of the Maker’s touch

                and saw with wonder how he brought again

                a treasure, fashioned to his glorious plan;

                a new creation, out of brokenness.

He held it now with pleasure in his eyes,

                yes, and with love and set it in its place.

‘You have come through the fire, my little one,

                you have been ravaged – now you’re made anew,

                rejoice to me my child born out of love,

                and know that I was broken once – for you.'