You are the God who calls.
You are hiding in the pauses of the winter wind
whipping around the corners of my house.
You are present in the space between the opening petals
of the first spring crocus.
You are there in the silence behind
the crickets chirping on the hot summer evening.
You are in the autumn aching for what’s been lost
when all is fallen.
You call to us from the other side of Eden,
your voice emanating from deserts, dreams,
whirlwinds and burning bushes.
And always on the mountaintop we find you;
in wide vistas and clear air,
whispering to us as we look down on all we know.
I want you to be the God who calls me.
Here hear my late night late life lament.
I’ve missed the train for glory
too many times to count,
a no-show in the parade of saints,
absent without cause in the angel army.
I’m here today to say, “I want to hear,
help my unhearing.”
Let the words of my mouth
speak out the meditations of your heart,
truly, clearly, faithfully,
today and always.