We are —
Spora,
souls scattered like seeds,
full of infinite
potential,
spirit,
life,
creativity,
growth—promise.
Dandelions,
stretching,
growing,
reaching,
upward towards the heavens,
terrified,
vulnerable,
swaying,
we bloom.
The best of ourselves
cast into the swirling mist.
Divine,
the entire universe,
all of eternity,
placed delicately in every grain of sand.
Yet empty of spirit,
we are nothing more than
dormant,
cold,
lifeless—dust.
Saints,
anointed stewards,
caretakers,
created so that we may create,
given so that we may give.
Abundance ever-drips from the heavens,
so that His creation may forever thrive.
Adrift,
loose from our moorings,
His promises and our purpose
slip over the horizon.
East of Eden,
drenched,
blessings rain down from the stars,
yet like reservoirs we swell.
Confusing blessing and stewardship
with favoritism and ownership,
we strain to build the dams of empire higher.
Cells,
refusing to divide,
spreading like cancer,
suck the rest of the world dry.
Rivers gasp,
meadows bow,
seeds burn,
under the oppressive summer sun.
Lured,
twisted by rhetoric,
poisoned by dogma,
we hoard.
Ever convinced of our merit,
soaking,
weary,
tired,
we strive to stockpile the infinite rain, so
desperate,
armed,
bleeding,
we can die to protect it from the thirsty.
Inside,
without mention,
we feast.
Celebrating endless silos of abundance
accumulated like wheat;
built upon the violent capture
of our Creator’s generosity,
stained by the blood of the innocent,
paid for by the hearts of the ignorant.
Outside,
creation chokes,
as, white knuckled, we
grasp,
take,
grow,
build—consume.
Numb,
hearts drunk,
consumed,
blinded,
by the brightness of the banquet.
Swept away in the undertow,
a slurred whisper pines,
a dull pang pulses,
but the last gasps of our souls
pass without notice,
as they slowly drown in the comfort.
Heard,
cries from the deserts rise
and kiss the faithful ears of our Creator,
the cries of the
hungry,
thirsty,
oppressed,
deserted,
forsaken—loved.
Asleep,
lost,
withered,
hearts frozen shut,
not fit to shepherd,
buckling under the weight of our greed,
we fall like icicles.
Houses of glass,
paper thin,
we shatter.
Creation exhales
as, once more,
water drips through our fingers
and glistens across the land.
Exiled,
stripped bare,
given away
naked,
defeated,
into the barren hands of winter,
so we may
toil,
struggle,
survive,
persist—remember.
Embers,
broken,
torn,
scattered,
fading,
reduced to the emptiness
from which we began.
Inside the pit of our brokenness,
fueled by the shards of our egos,
our Creator kindles a new way.
Awake,
with a whisper,
against the pitch black canvas
of a single,
defeated,
powerless,
yet willing, soul,
an army of stars is born.
Chosen,
set apart,
to call creation west.
In the face of our darkness,
depths of our hopelessness,
expanse of our remoteness,
heaven bursts.
Sparks rain down,
streaking like wires,
all of creation ablaze in redemption.
He who breathes stars,
is making all things new,
and we, the
forgetful,
greedy,
guilty,
undeserving, are—invited.
Forgiven,
liberated from the shackles of our past,
recast
from the ashes of mercy,
reconciled
under doorposts of repentance,
cleansed
beneath towers of torrential grace,
we emerge
on the wave-kissed shores of our souls,
redeemed,
restored,
delivered—saved.
Set free,
in the
purity,
innocence,
stillness,
of an early spring sunrise,
a new exodus quietly begins,
under a moonlit canopy of
forgiveness,
blessing,
hope—love.