I often yell at God while I am running
because I can’t shout for too long
without feeling my humanity.
And when I’m crying out to the Almighty
I need to be occasionally forced into restraint.
For though I believe God wants to hear my heart,
he doesn’t need to hear my pride.
But rather than hide, 
I hurt out loud while I run 
and try to catch my breath again
and try to fill my lungs again
with anything other than this vacuum of sorrow.
I tell God that tomorrow might be better
but based on the outcomes of today I’m not 
so sure it seems to be trending that way.

I like to talk to God while I am running,
because there is something about the loudness of my heartbeat
that reminds me of his divinity.
There is something about the pain in my knee
that makes the pain in my heart feel seen;
there is something about the pavement getting
pummeled by my worn-down running shoes
that resonates with my soul feeling hammered
by the throes of sadness and anger.
There’s something about a run 
that makes me honest…
maybe it’s the pressure in my chest
the constant motion that mirrors the chaos of my thoughts,
and when I’m on that path
putting one foot in front of the other,
I talk to God,
and I tell him what I would rarely consider
saying out loud when I am sitting down.

I tell him about the frustration
of my missed expectations;
at my confusion - did I mishear his words
or did I once again fall for the most elaborate ruse known to man:
assuming the creator speaks just like his creation?
I tell him about my fears
about how I don’t think I’m strong or clever enough 
to juggle both my grieving 
and my two-year-old daughter’s birthday party planning.
Let alone the grieving of my wife
Let alone the emotions of our friends
who are blessings in the night
but also unintentional burdens;
I don’t have space right now to manage 
any more empathy, I’m swamped in sympathy
but I know that loneliness is a weight that sinks 
grief deeper than anyone can see
so I am truly grateful for every text
every prayer.
For though I don’t feel like talking much to God right now,
it’s most likely the words of others
that prompt me to pick up my trainers
lace up my shoes
and once again go for a run
where I yell at God, 
where I talk to him
one step at a time, 
until the miles bring me back home.

Four words. Fifteen letters.
     
        “Let there be light.”

A universe of design, spiraling out from the middle of this sentence;
words that spun the flowers in the fields 
and that mapped every peak of every mountain,
a command so bold as to encapsulate all other declarations ever spoken
by the Creator of beginnings and endings, of Earth and Heaven.

An announcement of decision veiled in permission,
as gentle as an invitation, as final as a verdict,
irreversible in its authority and unrivaled in its dominion:
these words, a force of beauty too brilliant to fully behold.
This light would blaze within a bush but not consume it,
        would reveal a shepherd’s heart long before his reign,
        would serve on bended knee, with a basin and a towel,
        would blind a Pharisee into a preacher,
        will come again in final judgment to eradicate the night.

Four words. Fifteen letters: an illumination of infinite intimacy.

Four words. Fourteen letters.
        
        “Be still and know.”

A universe of compassion, of confidence and contentment,
stillness, like the quiet of the morning dew resting gently on the leaf,
like the fawn with foot raised, ears perked for the softest sound,
like the space between the stars that neither strives nor hides
but simply sings because it has always known what we are
desperately struggling to figure out:
peace is not a destination but a person.

This stillness is not an abdication, 
just as a sparrow sitting quietly is not lazy or behind,
rather it is a trusting in the tethering, in the connectivity of knowing
that though the world may seem chaotic and swirling,
there is a sea whose waves are calmed, like glass
a Spirit-wind that does not whip, but weaves like a needle
into the very center of the soul seeking refuge.

Four words. Fourteen letters: a promise of prevailing presence.

Four words. Thirteen letters.

        “Thy will be done.”

A universe of alignment with the richest treasure of joy
that place where surrender meets satisfaction, where clouds drift
through the sky in holy obedience, where lions lie with lambs,
where worship is expressed in every breath, every word,
every syllable uttered and step taken.
His will be done, continually, completely,
on the cellular and the cosmic level, from every star to every cytoplasm,
adoration overflowing like oil poured out, anointing all it touches.

He is here; he is near, his light has brought clarity
into every shadow, every strip of darkness that might swallow the purity
of this profession: submission is the source of every delight.
Be still, my soul, in this proclamation,
that it is not in the strength of man to accomplish his ways.

Four words. Thirteen letters: a wellspring of yielded wonder.

Oh my heart, hold these words in weighty measure: 

        Be light. 
        Be still. 
        Be done.

Lord of the Long Road,



What must the father have felt,

standing at the gate to the family dwelling,

watching the back of his youngest son

walking into the distance,

        inheritance in his hands,

        folly in his heart?



The vast unknown before them both –

to the son, an adventure, but

to the father, an exercise of trust, a discipline of hope,

a willingness to wait without declaring him disowned.



What marvelous patience… not anchored

in preference, but in promise.

For if you can do the miraculous,

then the greatest work

is to send, and then keep standing in anticipation.



This kind of trust is not naivety,

but a hope against hope,

a steadfast sacrifice that keeps

a fattened calf ready for celebration

should the shoulders of this son ever

come back through this gate.

What joy it is that lifts up

the robe and runs, not to brag or boast

but to hug and hold.

What acceptance is proven

not merely by words but by actions:

	by sandals set apart for the feet,

	by a ring placed on the finger,

	by a cloak draped over the back.



This is love: not to cling to what wasn’t ours to keep,

but to embrace the agony of releasing our treasure

without knowing how or when it might return.



This kind of love is not a resignation to loss

but an understanding that opening our hands

requires a relaxing of our grip on what we want to guard,

	for open palms are not possessive.



The father was not foolish for letting his son walk away,

as if keeping him close would have changed the outcome –

in fact, the father knew that this was the only true path

that would lead the boy back home.



This, then, is the triumph of trust:

	to give the full measure of the inheritance in the sending

	and the full measure of forgiveness in the returning.



To choose to stand by the open gate;

walking out to the same spot morning after morning,

looking at an empty horizon,

and letting the hope rise up again

from the deepest part of the heart:



“This could be the day.

This could be the day that everything changes.”

Lord of the Salt,



I have picked up what I can carry from this work

but have, in dismay, resigned to leave the rest behind.

Though I tarried many long hours on this craft,

you are urging me, in graciousness, to get up and leave this place,

to let what once was be just that: a former work.



Every strength has its season; it is not given to man to endure forever.

Every joyous hope has its eventual end.

And yet, I know now, as I am walking away from

that which I once had so much expectation for,

I am unprepared to truly let go of this dream.



As I yearn to turn my head and look back at what lies behind,

your Spirit presses gently into my mind,



	“Remember Lot’s wife.”



And at once, I see the fire fall.

I smell the cindering of stones and sticks;

I feel the pulsating heat

and hear the agony escaping from those

who were too enamored with their vices

to escape while there was time.



I can taste the salt on my tongue,

the flavor of faithlessness –

a craven longing for one last look

at that which I was told to set down and leave

for the fire to consume.



	“Remember Lot’s wife.”



I think of Paul saying that he has forgotten what lies behind,

straining forward for what lies ahead,

and I prayerfully yearn for that same surrendered release,

	a true acceptance of the loss of all my former ways,

	not just my depravity, but also my weaker delights.

You do not ask us to never look back.

Even the command –

        “Remember Lot’s wife.”

is itself a pursuit of the past,

the calling to mind of what came before.



Rather, what you, in wisdom and kindness,

command us to consider

is something harder and more precise:

not that we would forget

but that we would leave behind

what would keep us chained

to our old selves, our old loves, our old patterns.



For your kingdom is peeking over the horizon,

and you have promised to make everything new.



There is a very present grief at the thought of

leaving this work unfinished, a weightiness that threatens to keep me

here, tethered to this city of soon-to-be rubble.

Even after I have gone a good distance from this work,

I still feel the tug of yearning in my soul,

the desire to go back for that which my flesh hungers.



But surely, if I keep my head straight and focused,

putting one foot in front of the other,

refusing to return even for the smallest glimpse…

surely, this grief will eventually give way?

Lord of the Enduring Word,



I do not know what my final words will be,

or how my life will be measured after I am gone.

I do not know how those who come after

will speak of my contribution;

if they will know my name,

my work, my fears, desires, and dreams.



For some reason, I long for those future people

to think well of how I spent my days.

To receive my creations with the same joy

that I had when making them.



And yet, I do not get to control that moment,

when my work, if it survives me,

sits in the hands of one who has no context

of why I wrote it or where I was at the time

of its crafting.

I do not get to chisel the words on my own tombstone

or speak the words at my funeral.



Surely I can express my wishes, but the decisions

in the moment are beyond my ability to alter,

for when I go the way of the Earth,

like all who have come before,

I will experience the great releasing

of all my burden for the days beyond me,

the cutting of all tendrils of feigned control.



I think of the Psalmists,

writing honestly and passionately,

pouring out their hearts in petition and worship

to God, pleading for his grace and favor,

both in the victories and the valleys.

They wrote to address the tensions of their day,

and yet God has carried their words far

beyond anything they could have imagined.

Not because of their great skill or beautiful melodies,

but because they eagerly sought after

the one epitaph that was worth having –

        “A man after God’s own heart.”



That is the work beneath the work — the character beneath the creating.



O Lord, let me write, let me work for the glory

of your name, consumed by crafting this character

that stands the test of time;

a sense of worship with all that I am;

a living sacrifice on the altar of your command,

obediently directing the entirety

of my short breath of a life

        not for future fame, the empty hope

        of a world I can never see,

but let me use this vapor today

        to speak truth,

        to craft with compassion,

        to create with whatever courage remains,

        all the while looking upward,

        trusting that if I keep my gaze there,

        you will etch into my tombstone

        the only words I ever need:



        “Well done.”

Lord of the Open Country,



I have seen you move in miracles and minutiae.

You rolled back a mighty river

so that my feet could walk across

long-hidden mud.

I reached down as I crossed,

grabbing ordinary gray stones

to serve as extraordinary reminders of your faithfulness.



Now, I camp on the other side of those waters,

just inside the doorstep of your promise,

barriers still in front of me,

fortifications still to be broken down,

work to be done.

And yet, instead of fighting,

instead of racing straight ahead

into the battle,

you ask me to wait,

to listen, to show an obedience of trust

that cripples my strength;

        a purposeful discipline of rest,

        a positioning of dependency

        that puts me at both

        the mercy of my enemies and yours.

	And here, in this quiet camp, I learn

                I’d rather be in your mercy than in my own victory.



This stopping in the open country before Jericho

is not an abandonment of the promise

but a purity of pausing,

a declaration that slowing down

does not suffocate the embers of your holy Fire,

but often allows for the wind of your Spirit

to move through the coals of my ceasing –

        until the walls come down

        without me lifting a blade.



Pitching my tent here, on these plains,

is not a defeat, though it may look like that to some,

but instead a confession,

that I believe I cannot work my way

to glory.



Here, Lord, as I wait,

you come through in both the miraculous and the minutiae:

	minutiae in that I need you to take down these walls surrounding Jericho;

	miraculous in that I need you to take down these walls surrounding my heart.

Lord of the Saturdays,



What stillness. What silence.

When the stone stood steadfast against the opening of hope,

when the disciples all were scattered

and the guards still appeared so daunting,

when defeat seemed to be the outcome

to what once felt like Heaven’s faithful promise.



Here, in the grayness of the gap

between the offering and the answer:

        find me hopeful, not hidden.

        Find me faithful, not running.

        Find me continually coming back to the table;

        not returning to my old ways,

        my old comforts.



Though the wait is anything but comfortable,

I choose to believe

that even the darkest moment of the night

eventually tips toward the dawn,

        that every Friday has a Sunday.



Even if this Saturday seems to be

stretching on longer than I can bear,

meet me here,

in the stillness, in the silence;

show me that every stone will roll.

Lord of the Shadows,



How much in your creation do we overlook,

never see, or simply fail to notice?

And yet, you see it all.



The mountains that stand 10,000 feet tall,

choreograph the clouds around their peaks,

in an intimate dance of affection

paced by the notes of the sunbeams during the day

and the starlight after the dusk.



This occurs constantly, whether humanity witnesses it or not,

because your creation knows that you –

O King of all that has, that is, and that will –

you, alone, are the audience worth pleasing.

And these mountains dance because

they know and trust that you see.

        You watch.

        You witness.

        You enjoy.



There is not a single thing that you have made

that you have abandoned.

Not a single bird that you turn your back on,

or a single star you allow to supernova out of sight.

You created, in part, because you care

And what a privilege it is, therefore, to be made by you.



You are an ever-present help

because you are an ever-present witness.



There is no place I could go

where I could hide from your Spirit;

though the world may overlook, forget, or fail to notice

my craft, my contribution, my character – my life –

abandon you have not, are not, and will not.



If I go to the heights, you are there.

If I go to the depths, the darkness, the down and out,

still you are there.



I may be many things, but unnoticed is not one of them.

You are the God who sees

        who speaks when all else is quiet,

	who hears when all else is ignoring,

	who leans in when all else seems to be pushing away,

	who comes close when all else seems to flee.



My only path toward failure is when I fail to realize that you are watching,

when I listen to the deception that, in obscurity, I am lacking,

as if the world’s witness is my utmost satisfaction,

and without it, I am unknown, and therefore, unvalued.



Are ants within an oak tree,

or eggs within an eagle’s nest,

or bears within a deep mountain cave,

not valuable to you?



No, you delight in your creation

as your creation delights in you,

for what other purpose is more satisfying

than living in the light of the knowledge

of the glory of God

that covers the Earth

as the waters cover the sea?



Though I feel hidden, I will praise.

Though I feel overlooked, I will raise my eyes

to the one who truly sees,

who is with me, intimately and consistently,

no matter where I go.

Lord of the Unready,



This blessing has progressed faster

than I anticipated;

one day, unknown

now – king.

Seen.

Looked to.

Desired,

though I have not learned

to fully rule my own desires.

Thrust into something

I thought I wanted

but am now struggling to grasp.

To claim.



Recognition often arrives before wisdom does

and requires far more character

than is often grown to support its height.



My God, grant me more wisdom

so that whatever worldly gain I receive

does not wreak havoc on my soul;

let me separate the visibility from the calling

knowing that any elevation

is from you and must return to you,

pointing only upward.



You know, O Lord,

that if I lean too far into my own height,

I am likely to tip into recklessness,

a prideful bragging, a swagger sourced

not from humility but haughtiness,

thinking that I, because of my station,

can bend the rules of sacrifice,

offering incense on the altar of my life

without obedience.



O Giver of all good and gracious gifts,

you promote and demote,

you elevate and subjugate,

bringing man to the heights of the heavens

and back again to the depths of the days here on Earth;

what greater vanity could there be than

to believe that I can build my name in any way that

stands up or against your sovereign hand –

Lord, you give and take away as you see fit.



Put me not in a position

where I will be undone by what you task me

to carry.

Though I petition you for elevation,

look beyond my tainted prayers

and work according to your great knowledge,

move when you have formed within me

a heart that is able to withstand the rise,

the burden of visibility.



Anoint me anew, today, to be a child,

not a king – to rest in the comfort

of your kindness, called not to make

my home on the mountain tops

but to walk the normal roads of

ordinary days.

Put the oil of contentment on my head,

and should you see fit to

steer me into some spotlight,

do not leave me there alone

beneath the weight of others’ watching,

but stand by me, speaking lovely words

that draw my gaze back to you,

keeping the eyes of my heart

fixed on the face of the only one

whose expression can cheer my soul.



The treasures of the world will never justify the cost of vainglory.

        So give me you, or give me nothing.

        I do not want the world if it costs my soul.

Lord of the Blessing and the Breaking,



Though I am holding this project, I am aware that it is not much.

It is akin to five loaves and two small fish;

hardly sustenance for anyone looking to be fed.



And yet, Lord, even the smallest mite in the master’s hand can be

magnified, multiplied, and made perfectly fulfilling for that which

you have so intended it from the beginning of your created order.



Handing over this offering, though small, is not easy.

My heart is willing, but my hands are weak;

my hunger is stronger than my hearing,

for though you ask for food to use, I do not desire to

give away that which can seem to be my only source of sustenance.



I am prone to hold on too tightly to that which I think is mine to consume,

not understanding that when I put my meal into your hands

I am fed all the more, whether by food or by faithfulness.



        You do not let your servants go hungry for affection.

        You nourish those who trust you with relief from pride.

        You satisfy my deeper longings: to be full, healed, and awake to wonder.



You know that beyond my bequething is a feast,

more than I can possibly eat, both in sustenance and in Spirit.



But you do not demand my dish,

        you will not grab my loaves or poach my fish.

You stand, asking for anyone who is willing to bring their food

        ready to bless and break what is entrusted into your hands.



Selah.



Help me to know that those words – bless and break – are synonyms

that they are part of the same process;

for whatever is surrendered into your hands will be both

        held by Heaven, holy to God and helpful to us

        purified of the stain of Earth without being stripped of its blessing.



You break what we bring to you so that no man may boast.

You do so, not in anger, but in awe of the glory of your Father,

that when you give back to us what is broken,

we may love and enjoy the gift we receive from you

more than the gift we first gave.



You, yourself, Lord, were broken for us,

offered into the Father’s hands

and returned to us in the power of your Spirit.



Grant me discernment, oh source of Wisdom,

to know when I should approach,

loaves in hand,

and when I should sit in the crowd,

waiting to be fed.



For I am always hungry, but I do not always

have something to share.



But here and now, I do.



My hands are at present full with the items you graciously ordained

that I would be carrying in this moment.

You knew, long before me and long before time,

that someone nearby would be fed

by the blessing and breaking of this offering.



So instead of hiding or hoarding this project for myself,

I give you each loaf, each fish, each element of this work

hoping to see a miracle far greater than a single meal,

as you do more with my less than I could ever imagine or expect.

Lord of the Yoke,



There has been a stirring in my bones

to build an idea that only you could have birthed;

but as I measure out my motivation and

sift through the supply of your skills within me,

I am sure that more hands are needed

to carry this forward than just my own.



O God who carries me,

point me toward a partner who will come

alongside, under the same burden and shared vision,

that like a team of oxen equally yoked,

we may pull this idea toward a fruitful harvest.



I know that making something together –

with another creator who’s created –

requires surrendering control,

        laying down any form of individualization

        to better embrace the dual-nature

        of collaboration;

        the give and take of a soul

        that desires not to be singular

        but to be seen.



It is a vulnerable thing to let someone else

look closely at a creative idea or work.

It is an offering, an invitation,

a doorway to denial but also to development,

sharpening, and a harmony that holds a

richer, fuller note than any one voice could sing alone.



Whenever two persons come under the same yoke,

they are choosing to not only push toward the same direction,

but to go at the same pace along the same paths,

treading the same grooves, steeped in the same soils and muds

as one another.



You, Lord, know what this is like –

        your incarnation laying the foundation

        of all partnership and connective pursuit –

you, who became man, so that man could become righteous,

you, who willingly died, so that guilt and grace could be exchanged,

you, who washed the dirt you created off the feet you crafted,

	brought the perfect partnership of the Trinity

	into flesh and bone. Into hunger, pain, and every feeling known to man;

	that you would become like us in every way,

	the firstborn of many sons and daughters.



Would we, in our collaborative creativity,

aim to emulate your pattern:

of coming near,

of laying down entitlement,

of serving wherever necessary,

of trusting in the greater reward to come.



As we create in communion with one another,

remind our hearts of the true bread and the true wine

that has made every communion possible

through the open invitation to the second strap

of his sacred yoke.

        Teach us the true secret within this holy work of shared pursuit:

        you are always with those whom you have resurrected.

Lord Who Sees in What I Think is Darkness,



Show me your power,

not in the response that my heart seems to desire from this submission,

but the power that is sure, weighted, and working

even while I am unsure of my skills and

unsteady in my perceived positioning.



I call out, day and night, continually coming before you,

in desperation, in the struggle, I seek you out

for I am lost and wavering, anxious that you would hear,

hoping that you would listen, and that you will receive with kindness

my wanting prayers; incline your ear, O Lord, to hear my cry.



Why does it feel like your answer is a hiddenness?

That you are unwilling to share even the smallest

burst of your power to alleviate the burden of your servant?

You, who could provide instant relief and resurrection,

are allowing me to sit in the silence of suffering,

the unknown of my utterances that feel unanswered.

I want to believe that nothing is accidental to you,

and yet, I am hard-pressed not to feel overlooked or forgotten.



Hold me, oh Author of every stroke;

where I see a scribble, Lord, show me the patterns

of steadiness and design,

the deep carving of my soul, the forming

of channels and grooves that facilitate

the running of your grace and mercy

more continuously into the vessel of my heart.



I wait for you, Lord.



You are the only God who can be waited on

because you are the only God who can work despite my involvement.

All other idols demand a sacrificial appeal

so as to prove merit and earn favor,

but you, you alone, work on my behalf,

not because I’ve earned it, but because you are truly sovereign.



	Above all.

	Before all.

	Within all.



There is nothing unknown to you, nothing secret,

Nothing to be discovered or discerned.

You never weigh the better of two decisions

Or make a list of pros and cons.



When I am perplexed, you are at peace.

When I do not know the next moment that lies ahead,

you know the millennium to come, in perfect, vivid detail,

each microsecond categorically etched in the palm of your hand,

for in you, and to you, and through you are all things.



If you are imparting this into my heart through your lack of response,

Lord, let me learn this hardest lesson:

that you are far more interested in providing

        what I need

        over what I want;

that you see my formation as being more valuable

than my earthly vivification; if the death of my current joys

are to bring the greatest good and an eternal delight,

O Savior, subject me once more to the devastation of today.

Lord of the Petition,



I dress myself in splendor, in eager expectation, in an effort

to counter the swirling fear of rejection that has settled in my stomach.



Today, I put my work before the hands and heart of another,

offering this dearly held piece of my soul to someone without the promise

of reception, care, or even a courteous concern.



Here, in this moment of uncertainty,

        before the pitch, the proposal, the ask,

        I sit alone, pondering the examples of those before me

        who went forth in fear toward something greater than themselves.



I think of Esther, who fasted three days before walking unsummoned

into the presence of a king whose law permitted her death for the asking.

She went anyway, willing to perish for the protection of her people;

 	Lord, if this idea I present is to perish, take it and provide me comfort.

	If the scepter is extended in favor, grant me wisdom to ask well.



I think of John and James, stepping out of their fishing vessel, leaving

their father, their nets, their inheritance, and their income

for the chance to follow.

        Lord, if this project I propose is meant to move me

        beyond the comfort of what I already know,

        call me out of the boat of my familiarity.



I think of Naaman, begrudgingly going to a prophet of another culture and religion

to petition for a cure no human hand could provide, and then angrily consenting

to the command of his supposed inferior, only to be healed:

        Lord, if my pitch is met with advice I deem beneath me, grant me abundant

        humility and discernment, and if appropriate, help me listen and obey.



Supply my heart with a courage that

goes beyond my confidence,

that transforms my pride into a prayerful hope.

        And when I do elevate my ego more than is appropriate,

        daunt me in the pit of my soul that I would slow my speech,

        halting any promotion that is not purified

        by the presence of Heaven’s refining fire.



Hear my heart how only you can,

through the noise of my fear and the weight of what this costs,

        for my true desire is to offer this work,

        not for my name, O Lord, but for yours alone.



For if you are pleased with my proposal,

what then can man’s appraisal uniquely satisfy?

Lord of the Mountain,



I feel like Abraham at the base of Mount Moriah.

Looking up, at the soon-to-be place of sacrifice,

knowing that I am walking up without a lamb,

and may very well walk down without a son.



As I gaze up this rocky, craggy ground,

I cannot help but wonder at how this will unfold.

Why, Lord, would you ask me to bring

the proof of your promise?

The one thing I know beyond any shadow of doubt

was your handiwork in my life;

I have not seen the Promised Land.

I have not seen the blessing,

but I have seen the son, my son,

when there should have been no way forward,

        when there should have been barrenness

        there was suddenly a birth.



I have held him. Helped him. Raised him,

never forgetting my gratitude for the gift of his presence,

but I never expected to be asked to release him.

To go three days beyond the servants.

To carry nothing but the wood and the rope

that would tie down and burn up

my greatest blessing.



Lord – I am at the base of your mountain

purely because you have put me here.

I am aware of the first miracle

but I am not yet aware of the coming resurrection

both of my son and of yours.



I am not aware, Lord, that this very mountain

will one day become the bastion of your temple

the place of your sacrifice,

where countless lambs, like my very boy,

will be led up onto the future altars,

and will be laid before you,

        in obedience.

        In hope.

        In trust and teeth-grinding tension.



At the base of this mountain, O Lord,

	before the ram in the thicket,

	before my heart climbs up on the pyre,

	before the Voice slows my blade,

	before the curtain tore in two,

	before the stones cried out

	before the blood washed sins away…



There I stand, at the base of Mount Mariah,

stuck between the promise given and the promise to come.



Help me, as only you can, not to waver.

Make strong my steps, as I once more begin the long ascent.

As I slowly but surely climb ever upward

toward the power of your promise:

        either give me the reward of my faith

        or give me resurrection,

        or give me both.



Count unto me as righteousness

this season of staring up to that commanded altar,

and see from Heaven that my feet did not delay

to once more trod that path

in a joy-soaked

and tear-stained

obedience.

Lord of the Finishing and the Feasting,



I have chased this moment during my labor;

this quiet that comes as the task lies finished before me:

complete, whole, a wall built up by many hands

in fifty-two days of faithful construction.



I was so eager to see this moment reached,

but now that it is here, before me,

I do not know what to do with this finishing.

I feel the need to keep moving,

keep working, keep writing and building,

as if my stopping may somehow invalidate my progress,

inviting cracks back into the foundation of these walls.

I am tired, but terrified of slowing down,

so instead, I pick up the shovel once more,

lift the pen with both arms,

telling myself that there is more to write,

more to build, more to protect, more to finish.



I am unaccustomed to delighting in the feast of the finished,

in part, because a seat at that table seems as if it must be

earned, deserved.

As if rest and rejoicing were only befitting

for those who were not looking for it

or for those to whom the world has deemed it due.



And I feel neither.



Yet, I have completed this work,

I have made something good,

for it is a true and honest offering

of the graces you designated for me

to create in emulation of my Creator.



I stand, listening to the silence of

fingers no longer typing,

of hammers no longer hitting steel,

and I think to myself,

I do not feel as if I can say, “very good;”

so I weep, knowing that even my finishings cannot

begin to fathom the fullness of that first Day 7.



But you kindly remind me that your sabbath

was never meant to shame mine;

that your contentment was actually meant to

invite me into a richness of celebration that comes when

good work finds its ending, when the wall stands complete,

and the tools can finally rest.



There will always be the next thing to build,

to write, to craft,

but there will never again be this moment,

this Day 7 following the last six,

when, as a creator, I can lay down my tools

and sit for a while,

feasting, not necessarily in the work itself,

but in the joy of knowing

that for this brief moment,

I am reaping the reward of obedience,

and, that,

that is very good.

Lord of the Bursting Nets,



You are not a God who leads me into lack,

although at times I do not feel you closely;

at times, I do not hear you speaking

or sense your blessing

or know your guiding.



Even then, when I cannot seem to find you,

I know that you are never out of reach.

You are constantly providing,

whether in your proximity or your pulling back,

never leaving me to sustain my soul.



Remind me once more that

what swims beneath my boat is not beyond your command.

In waters I cannot see into, you are already preparing

the abundance I have not yet cast for.



These days, you are pouring out your favor

Through the showering of the rains of ideation.

You are filling my mind with more than I can carry alone.



While I rejoice at the scope of your supply,

like the fishermen who cast their nets over the other side of the boat,

and hauled in 153 fish –

        one of the greatest, unexpected abundances of their careers –

I am also putting my back into pulling the nets to shore

for I do not want to leave a single blessing in the mesh,

but I want to steward what you have directed my way.



I want to be the servant found faithful with your return,

the multiplier of the talents through wisdom and discernment.

I want to count the fish and revel in the undeniable power

of your provision, praising your planning

and celebrating your compassion.



Lord, take the bursting nets of ideation

And steer me in your great mercy

toward the means and methods of revival.



Do not let these bursting nets end with me,

Do not let me turn away too quickly back to my boat,

as if this was just another normal day.

For I do not need 153 fish,

but you have so given me this catch,

this pity, this kindness.

Let me then count this catch with gratitude,

holding loosely what you have given

and feeding with abundance

those who are still out on the water

wondering if you can fill their nets

to overflowing.

Lord of the Still Small Voice,



It is not in man who walks to direct his steps,

for direction belongs to you, while dependence belongs to us.

And yet

	trust is not to be fully equated with inactivity,

	I am to walk, even through the valley of the shadow of death,

	for you are with me.



You are compassing my path toward the magnetic pull of your glory,

drawing me toward your throne in grace;

cords of heaven, anchored to the base of your throne,

guiding me, like ropes around a falling tree,

toward a prone posture before your holy Light.



You correct my steps in justice.



Not in anger, that I should perish,

not in bitterness, that I should be embarrassed,

	but in justice, that I should be redeemed.



Made right. Restored; re-aligned with the proper path

protected in every step from wandering and walking off

the narrow edges below which every earthen treasure glimmers.



Though I have been walking toward you,

with you – guarded and guided –

I am coming to the end of this path

stumbling, exhausted, weighed down.



I pause –

Settling beneath the nearby juniper tree,

my head in my hands, my heart in yours.

Come near, Lord. Meet me in this place.



Here, where the road seems to stretch on

but my soul is unsure of its capacity,

whisper what I need to hear.

You, who can make the stones quake and fire fall,

could provide irresistible direction,

but what would that accomplish beyond my faithless following?

No, rather than overwhelm me in certainty,

draw me gently forward

with small syllables that soften my heart

toward the next steps you so desire.



Let a patient peace well up within me,

combating the ever-lurking tendency to worry,

my proclivity to anticipate a sense of loss

from whichever direction I choose.



Remind me, in your infinite wisdom and through your sovereign hand,

that loss is not less,

and whether I remain on this dusty path

or turn toward a new and rising dawn,

I have nothing to fear,

for you are the God who meets his servants

	under the juniper tree,

	feeding the soul with sweet securities

	before you ever direct onward;

	whispering lovingly to those who

	have seemingly run out of road.