Despair has a red shopping cart palled by two old winter parkas as soiled and oily as her hair. They guard sad mysteries of a life cut short long before its time. What of this life lost does she guard so well from prying eyes of voyeur lives which pray they don’t convert?
She sits silently in the shade behind a big box book store; matted dark hair veils a face bowed in contemplation—will drained of willingness—before the alter of a life no soul should ever know.
Before her, sail SUVs and foreign luxury cars natant on the asphalt sea ferrying pilgrims of other faiths, they worship here as well. They come for the liturgy of the latest word or to offer praise—the hottest songs; partaking of the sacred meal, drinking venti, with an extra shot, and eating the most luscious foods that no body will sustain.
Despair has only a few stubby teeth, vacant black eyes, light brown skin weathered and pockmarked; vigilant bulwark enduring life’s most violent storms. A stained and faded green tank top and short-shorts of indeterminate grey offer little relief from burning sun or biting bugs. Despair sits in the cool shadow of the big box cathedral’s shade, supplicant to this livings most unwilling and faithless faith. From beyond her sanctuary taunt big box temples to a life from which she’s been cast adrift.
Sailing past in my old scow, before the anchorage of her despair, I am as any worshiper of that other faith. Yet, from her icon faith calls, I know its strength and depth and beauty full too well. I must stop and worship here, some outward and visible sign of the will to will life’s willingness rescued from her faith’s steep decline.
Of another faith, Jesus speaks to me:
The blessings of your impoverished spirit—the grace to see this icon of despair, recognizing there the promises of God.
The blessing of your life time mourned—the grace to offer comfort here.
The blessing of your powerlessness—the grace to see in her the birthright that you share.
The blessing of your unwilling soul—that hungers and thirsts for what it dare not know is grace to offer that which fills.
The blessing of the grace of mercy in your heart—the grace to do what Mercy wills.
The blessing of God’s pure heart upon your own—to see beyond the s-oily rags to where you share with her God’s common heart.
What peace you share is from God’s own heart—God’s daughters recognize their own.
In the darkest suffering and deepest griefs, palled by the illusion of their prevail, you are surely joined with her in hidden deeper parts—longing for the safe shelter of your Father’s home. Amen.
She sits silently in the shade behind a big box book store; matted dark hair veils a face bowed in contemplation—will drained of willingness—before the alter of a life no soul should ever know.
Before her, sail SUVs and foreign luxury cars natant on the asphalt sea ferrying pilgrims of other faiths, they worship here as well. They come for the liturgy of the latest word or to offer praise—the hottest songs; partaking of the sacred meal, drinking venti, with an extra shot, and eating the most luscious foods that no body will sustain.
Despair has only a few stubby teeth, vacant black eyes, light brown skin weathered and pockmarked; vigilant bulwark enduring life’s most violent storms. A stained and faded green tank top and short-shorts of indeterminate grey offer little relief from burning sun or biting bugs. Despair sits in the cool shadow of the big box cathedral’s shade, supplicant to this livings most unwilling and faithless faith. From beyond her sanctuary taunt big box temples to a life from which she’s been cast adrift.
Sailing past in my old scow, before the anchorage of her despair, I am as any worshiper of that other faith. Yet, from her icon faith calls, I know its strength and depth and beauty full too well. I must stop and worship here, some outward and visible sign of the will to will life’s willingness rescued from her faith’s steep decline.
Of another faith, Jesus speaks to me:
The blessings of your impoverished spirit—the grace to see this icon of despair, recognizing there the promises of God.
The blessing of your life time mourned—the grace to offer comfort here.
The blessing of your powerlessness—the grace to see in her the birthright that you share.
The blessing of your unwilling soul—that hungers and thirsts for what it dare not know is grace to offer that which fills.
The blessing of the grace of mercy in your heart—the grace to do what Mercy wills.
The blessing of God’s pure heart upon your own—to see beyond the s-oily rags to where you share with her God’s common heart.
What peace you share is from God’s own heart—God’s daughters recognize their own.
In the darkest suffering and deepest griefs, palled by the illusion of their prevail, you are surely joined with her in hidden deeper parts—longing for the safe shelter of your Father’s home. Amen.
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