Sea-Glass Prayer

I feel like a piece of sea glass. I know my sharp and dangerous edges are being worn away, but it feels like my clarity of color, and the smooth surface of my heart's mind are being worn away as well. I am so tired, and I want the carefree abandon of those days when my sister and I played in the forest and swung on the rope and climbed the plum tree. The merciful love of my God has lifted my burdens, and the yoke of Christ is not heavy because of His strength. But I am still yoked, and I am searching again for the joy in it.

I don't cry anymore.

I used to cry all the time, and I miss the relief of salt on my cheeks. I don't like that I can't immediately see what a blessing it is to be yoked with Christ, the Lamb of my Father who is perfect and yet bears the scars that should mar my own body.

It seems like such a vain and selfish thing, to consider this time as a student a heavy trial. I am clothed and fed every day. I do not have to watch my children die of disease, hunger, and violence. I sleep under a wealthy North Eastern sky every night, warm and protected from the evil of my world. I labor at learning - not life over death. I am so blessed, and I am weary only because of the responsibility which accompanies those blessings.

God where am I? Why so downcast, o my soul?

A Time To Keep, And A Time To Cast Away

I have to remind myself now to be delighted by those small things that I always used to stop and admire without even thinking.

The way the wind caught my scarf and swirled around the colors of blue in space reminded me of that the other day. It was beautiful - it lasted only a moment, and it had no meaning, but I enjoyed it. As I walked out into the dark cold of a New England evening after work a few Thursdays ago, I heard someone walking toward the library, and whistling. It was the most beautiful sound I had heard since the empty silence of the mountain tops last summer; I've never experienced such a piece of music.

Some things are good to outgrow - frightened insecurity, a dislike for blueberries. But some things we must never leave behind us. I can't ever be too old to catch a butterfly; to enjoy the chase, and the look of her painted wings just as I always used to. I mustn't ever forget how lovely the sandy-smooth feel of the sidewalks in summer is, or how worthwhile a moment is with your eyes closed in a patch of sunlight - even if you have stopped in the middle of a walkway to soak in its glory.

As we get older, we learn to love things like poetry, and stillness - coffee and old artwork, prayer and long discussions. Things that made no sense when we were young. We couldn't sit still - even when we were exhausted, there was no appeal to sleeping, because there was so much to be awake for! Outside, we would run just because our legs had the energy for it. We would throw rocks into a pond just because we liked the sound of its plop or splash. We snuck extra cookies and licked off the cake frosting just because it tasted good. All of our joys were purely delight, and they only lasted for a moment, but that did not hinder us from pouring everything we had into obtaining them.

We knew little of the wisdom of a brown-paged book with its musty smell when we were small, but we have grown to. We now understand why the world sees a diamond more beautiful than a pebble, but by that, we might be stripping the pebble of any beauty she has at all?

Our maturity is beautiful, as our childhood was. Some things we have lost, however we have also gained. I should not mourn for the lost things too greatly, because for everything there is a season. But some things I should not cast away entirely, and I still miss my child's eyes.

Oh God,

Down in a green and shady bed,

A modest violet grew;

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head

As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,

Its colour bright and fair;

It might have graced a rosy bower,

Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus it was content to bloom,

In modest tints arrayed;

And there diffused a sweet perfume,

Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go

This pretty flower to see;

That I may also learn to grow

In sweet humility.

The Violet

by Jayne Taylor

Melt down my silver and gold.

Witness

The windows constructed into my soul

are not to let in Your light, for

within is where Your light resides,

but rather to let your light out,

and be seen by those outside...