The possessive hummingbird at the feeder in our backyard…he chases off all the other hummingbirds…
Even the oldest of the trees continues its wonderful labor.
Hummingbird lives in one of them.
He’s there for the white blossoms, and the secrecy.
The blossoms could be snow, with a dash of pink.
At first the fruit is small and green and hard.
Everything has dreams, hope, ambition.
If I could I would always live in such shining obedience
where nothing but the wind trims the boughs.
I am sorry for every mistake I have made in my life.
I am sorry I wasn’t wiser sooner.
I am sorry I ever spoke of myself as lonely.
Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.
Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.
Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.
Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.
(Red Bird: Beacon Press Boston; 2008)
This day is going to be a difficult one, for reasons I cannot say, pertaining mostly to my son. I am anxious and crabby and deeply sad. At times I wish I could just wake up from this nightmare. (That was the pervasive thought running through my dreams last night)
I am also worried about my friend M2, the mother of twins, my God-daughters. She is desperately looking for a job. She too is an Episcopal priest. And having been in some 30 searches since January, no church will hire her. It seems churches think a single mom of twin babies won’t have time for the parish. Maybe the churches are right? But maybe they are not. It is tragic nonetheless. Please hold her in prayer.
And I am worried about some of my blogging colleagues. Concerned about their well being as they face tragedies and life changes. Voiceless to help, sometimes words fail, hugs are needed.
Some days it is enough just to get out of bed and put one foot in front of another.
I am sorry for all the ways I have failed to be a parent or a friend or a blogging colleague…may my failures (our failures)somehow, SOMEDAY become nurishment for new life.