Catastrophic

Things break
Or they're already broken
Most times
You can't just empty out your pockets
Most times
You hope to find
on the clearance rack
a pair of cargo pants
instead

Exile III

Not broken, not broken, 
Even a hurt away from the grave
Is still a foot upon the clay
Even when we can't forget

It would be good
If you'd be so good
To stay

Maybe we climb the treehouse
Spiders and splinters
Through the branches
The bright, bright day

Shelter, you, me
Of warm things and motes
In the light made of pocket knives
And fancy pens,
Flannel sheets, and sprites

With inside voices
Let's not yell or scream
Weep, mumble, curl and tremble
No masters, no fear, it's not a dream

Can we pretend to be safe here?
Sheltered, something I protect
Cherished, soaked clean
That moment, maybe forget?

Every Tear

Pray with Peter, with Mary, with Lazarus, Ruth, and Rahab, and with Fathers and brothers and sisters and Mothers.

Maranatha. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Let the incense from our bowls, lifted high, be a sweet aroma, a sweet, sweet sound, a song in the glorious halls of eternity, an echo in Your throne room. In Your mercy, hear our prayer.

Save our children. Remember to them, and to us, the promise You made in Your waters. Make us whole, save us, in Your Word and by Your Spirit.

Give us the joy of works of thanksgiving – this very supplication – and from this meager fount, our steps and our words and the work of our hands. May they ever please you and shine before our neighbors, our beloved ones, the sparkle of the beauty of Your Son – Your Faithfulness.

Deliver us from the sorrow and the fear of this cold, cold vale of tears. Bring Your people round us. Embrace us in Your people, in this winter of our loss and our impatience and our yearning.

Heal Your people. Bind our hurts, our tired, weakling hearts. Rock of Ages, we cling to Thee. Maranatha. Thy will be done.