Category: Poetry

A Prayer for Our Times

God, who breathed into firstborn soil the breath of life—

Honored to write and breathe a bilingual prayer in partnership with my Spirit-sister, Reverend Maria Teresa Jones.

God who breathed into firstborn soil the breath of life,
your Spirit exhales
and fragrances us–
our communities,
our wounds,
our hiding places,
our bodies and souls
–with the honeyed aromas
of your mercy, justice, and grace.

Breathe on us now, O God.

Season us–
our footsteps
our words
our very beings
–so that in our living and working and worshiping,
we perfume your world with
your radical scent of justice-making,
your healing balm of kindness,
your life-restoring tincture of mercy.


Strengthen us for the journey ahead
so that we might be en-couraged–
have hearts expansive enough
and spirits wise enough
to breathe your radical love
into those too-much-with-us wounds
that expose and weaken
the world’s weary bones.


God who breathed into firstborn soil the breath of life–
here and there,
now and then,
against all odds,
may we encounter
in each other
your peace–
unexpected
abundant
radical
life-sustaining
beyond all human understanding
peace.

Kiss us, O God, with that peace
and send us out
to kiss others–

In the name of Christ,
by the power of your Spirit.

Amen.

Dios que respiro a su suelo primogénito el aliento de vida,
Tu aliento nos efranga
nuestras comunidades,
nuestras heridas,
nuestros escondites,
nuestros cuerpos y almas
–con el aroma de miel
de tu misericordia, justicia y gracia.

Respira sobre nosotros ahora, oh Dios.

Sazona–
nuestros pasos
nuestras palabras
nuestros propios seres
–para que en nuestro vivir, trabajo y adoración,
perfumemos tu mundo con
tu aroma radical de justicia,
tu bálsamo de sanamiento y bondad,
y tu tinta de misericordia que restaura la vida.

Fortalecenos para el sendero en adelante
A ser animados–
Y tener corazones suficientemente expansivos y espíritus suficientemente sabios para respirar tu amor radical
dentro de las heridas presente-con-nosotros que exponen y debilitan
los huesos cansados del mundo.

Dios que respiró en su suelo primogénito el aliento de vida–
aquí y allá,
ahora y de entonces
contra todo reto
que encontremos entre cada uno
tu paz–
Inesperada
Abundante
Radical
sostenimiento de la vida
más allá de todo entendimiento humano
Paz.

Bésanos oh Dios, con esa paz
y envianos hacia adelante
a besar a otros.

En el nombre de Cristo,
Y por el poder de tu Espíritu.

Amén.

She, Created by the Creating One

I wrote the poem below on the occasion of my mother’s death. She often sewed through the night to complete a piece of clothing for me to wear to school the next day—that morning. Looking now on her work through those nights, I glimpse something about God’s creative work on behalf of those in our midst who with determination and courage clothe themselves in God’s love and grace.

Burning Midnight Oil

A solitary light beaconed from the distance
in the wee hours just before
dawn cracked open the darkness.

Burning the midnight oil.

The Creating One in the beginning of beginnings
—sewing and seaming, stitching
roots into the earth, fashioning fine 
spring things to adorn bluebirds and bumblebees
daffodils and dandelions, embroidering soulful
soil with a smile and breathing into it a 
sigh of delight. 

Burning the midnight oil.

A solitary light beaconed from another window  
in the wee hours just before 
dawn cracked open the darkness.

Burning the midnight oil.

She, created by the Creating One
–whirring and chirring, snipping and clipping,
weary-wise fingers urging one more scrap
of this bit of blue, that piece of red
beneath the ever-marching
needle-foot of that old Singer Sewer
Model 301A she kept coaxing and
cajoling into action one more time
to fashion an Easter dress or a pair
of jeans or, one time, a man’s leisure suit.

Burning the midnight oil.

All other eyes in the house, on the street, shuttered tight
while she followed with single-hearted gaze
thread that danced and dipped beneath the
material surface, not noticing the
pale winter moon kissing her hand
as the clock ticked on until she sat back
and embroidered into a girl’s last minute
request a tired sigh of delight.

Burning the midnight oil.

A light beckons; vital 
sacred strands spool on at the unfurling edge 
of a new crack in a resurrecting dawn, fervent
fibers holding us together
—held in our hands—
you and I piecing together hope from
torn and tearing hearts, called by the 
Creating One.

Burn the midnight oil.