A Backyard Prayer

I’ve been sick.  And when you’re laid up in bed sick, in a social health climate like what we’re in now, you turn toward the window and pray…

Father,

You are the Ancient of Days;

        more ancient than

        the dark cold core of that stone

        over near the lavender twigs,

        more ancient than

        the sands from creation’s distant days

        buried deep below my uncut lawn.

You are Greater and more Mighty;

        more mighty than

        that hardened bulk

        of stamped patio concrete.

You are Light and you are Love…

        Light

        more glaring and warm than

        the Sun at high noon.

        Love

        higher than the tip top point

of that far off pine tree,

        wider than the breadth span

of its lowest limbs,

        deeper than the longest root

tapping waters lowest source.

You are God,

        Unending and Unchanging

        in who you always are.

And Father…

As a race of people;

        as a tribe of feeble humans,

We are all feeling

        like that trampled down grass path there,

        or like the tussled and discolored bark

        scattered about that overgrown

        bedded area over there.

We are all bent and curled downward

        right now,

        weeping like the willow, and

        wondering, like the wind,

        what is going where and

        when it may all settle

        like the rotting pile of leaves

        left in the corner

        by the garage

        since falls last blow.

Spiritually, we are hanging on

        like the flitting flailing fledgling

        perched perilously on the peeling bark

        of that old lilac tree…

        …those who are spiritual at least.

So many folks are not.

So many folks’ lives are broken inside,

        like the weather worn

        and cracked cedar lattice

        atop the fence.

Their defenses are failing them

        like the splintering shingles

        that make up the fence itself.

They need the peace that comes

        with hard repairs.

We all need the peace that alights

        our lives

        like the dove that purrs and coos

        from a block away.

Father, your grace and peace to us,

        please.

It feels like we are ready

        in this northern land

        for winter to recede. 

Come on the scene

        like springtime, Father,

        like the barely-there buds

        on the thorny rose tree

        off the corner of the house,

        like the now tender

        and slowly emerging

        delphinium stocks.

Purify the land,

        my God,

        from the inside-out.

Whiten our souls

        like the blooms

        on the cherry tree

        three yards away.

You have bent us down.

Now raise us up to stand

        like the gull of the sea

        upon the highest neighbors peak.

Set us to soar on wings

        like the eagles on high,

        beyond my strained eye.

Father, you reign,

        so now, rain down on us…

Mercy, like a long awaited holiday.

Grace, like a gift from a forgotten friend.

Peace, like a slow still backyard

        on an early spring day.

Amen, and Amen.