The Flow II

stream
Nothing to say
In retreat to a familiar special place to pray
Incontinent of mental effluence
By least resistance…
Pools at Your feet
Consciously…prayer is stifled
Can’t muster a sound
The hurt too deep
too premature
too raw
for licking of wounds
The one of many palms You’ve favored
Begins to sway
Begins to dance
To stir…
The rustling of dry leaves gives You away
by Your Will alone
Only the “One”
And none other
You are undeniable and I feel “shame” though I know better
Ashamed to have nothing to say to You
And I know You’re here with me right “now”
Your mercy thinning out this swirling haze
The shivers speak volumes
Everything I’m not saying
All I cannot say…
You already know
Eyes closed…
I feel Your presence like a choke-hold
Afraid to open my eyes
Thinking I might see You…then what?
How many times at this precipice?
Losing count
So many questions
But they come only just so far
Then don’t seem to matter anymore
They arise often…irrepressible
Somehow through all these muddled thoughts
You’ve made sense of me
endowed sense into me
In a way I cannot begin to fathom
And my many prayers were heard
Though I never uttered a word
The receipt is in my heart
Much, much more sufficient in grace
Than could ever have been imagined
Or anticipated.
Psalm 107:35
He turneth the wilderness into a standing water, and dry ground into watersprings

 

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One thought on “The Flow II

  1. The richness of this unspoken conversation with Father…Doug

    Up to the Lake

    Chuck could think of no other approach that made sense. His son Ben had moved out of the house, leaving wife and twelve year old daughter. Any telephone conversations had been painfully short and strained. Frankly he was surprised that the boy had accepted the invitation to go fishing that holiday weekend.

    On the road by 3:30 AM with coffees and bass boat in tow. The old route up to the lake evoking memories of many a happy morning in times past. Talk ranging from new techniques discovered for trawling, to performance of the home-town baseball team, to Ben’s recent projects at the factory. But no mention whatsoever of the ISSUE.

    Effortless, silent launch of the boat down the ramp at Barney’s Marina. Gear quickly put into place. Ben knew that Dad’s outboard would take at the first pull. Probably Chuck had fiddled with adjustments for a couple of days prior to the trip. And then about fifteen minutes with the cool fresh air caressing their faces until they got to the reeds and dropped bait. Chuck offered a tomato juice from out of the cooler. Cans cracked open and the traditional click-toast exchanged in the hope of a good day on the water.

    Some mallards launched airborne from over to the left, their wings whistling in the early morning light.

    This was their place and their thing. In his mind’s eye Chuck saw a nine year-old freckled boy in the bow gazing at the dancing reflection of sun off the water, and displaying an amazing amount of patience for the sport even at that early age. He knew that this outing would have its settling effect on a young man and father in crisis.

    This was how a Father could get “into his Son’s corner” and show that he cared. It was showing positive results already.

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