Praying the Mass

Preserve my life and keep me from harm, not  only so that I may enjoy it, but so that I may bear witness to your Godhead.

Teach me your good that I may do it, not to be a good human, but to be an obedient child looking always to you for wisdom.

Forgive my sins and make me white as snow, not only to save me, but to reveal what you have deposited in me for your glory.

Accept my sacrifices, not because they are worthy, but because they are all I have.

Hear my prayers, not because they are beautiful, but because words re the only way I know to describe my love.

Give me a new heart and a new spirit, not only because I need them, but so that I may use them in your service in this life and lay them at your feet in the next.

Have mercy on your church, not for its victories, but for its failures--in vain leadership, in hard-hearted exclusion, in sure, self-centered righteousness. Help the church you commissioned mold itself to your intent.

Help us be content with humility, but not satisfied with partial holiness.

Help us to face and repent of sin, but not assume sanctification outside of your specific influence.

May we always be refreshed at your table, but not forget that not only are all invited, all too are children in your sight.

I hide, safe in the shadow of your wing, at the same time warm in your shared glory.

You are greater than my heart.

Credit: Donatello's Mary Magdalen, Opera Museum, Florence, Italy
 

Elizabeth

 

No one ever reminds us you’d gotten old.

The paintings are too kind--

they’ve smoothed your skin,

covered your silver hair,

draped or forgotten your knobby bones and age spots.

I know how you felt.

Not only the erratic weariness and morning aches,

but the unbidden pants,

the huddling, cold shiver,

the squinting, the pause before each stair.

Small things, each of them,

not debilitating,

only ungentle reminders of what time had done.

Add them all to a great, tussling belly.

Urgent, with a job to do.

Bursting to begin.

While your own flesh all too often remembers its own job is nearly done.

Yes, the paintings are kind.

They ignore it all,

looking at you both with Mary’s eyes, with God’s,

and revel only in your exultation.

Bradford Beach, February 28

 

The clouds draw back and steel-white yields to new gold.

Sand that had solidified into rough concrete starts to crumble back into grains.

Waves form mounting regiments as far out as the horizon and advance.

Suggestions of blue wash below their white foam

And curl onto the beach, disintegrating over hills of gleaming ice they made of their own muted thunder through long, cold months.

New wind blows them in, one that today promises hot sand leaking up radiant between grateful toes

and cool, welcome water on bare, grateful legs.

Today, visitors pull parkas tight against wind that still carries winter’s learned chill,

But the big lake is never quiet.

It won’t hide its constant churn the way smaller ones do,

The way even rivers ice over, acquiescing to winter’s dominion.

Yes, Persephone weeps below and the earth mourns, temporarily subdued, life and motion stolen, but not here.

Here defiant water still moves,

Resisting winter’s seasonal death,

Resilient.

Leading the way to renewal.

Already still-cold water begins to wash away the frozen mounds of its own making.

The earth’s arc veers again back toward the sun.

I stand and watch, not moving, but flying through space,

Remembering that even a long winter can’t stop this dance.