I will admit to you that some days, I cannot do it.
Praise or pray, read or be read.
Sometimes, it’s the chaos, I say, the busy.
But then, it’s the hush, the kind that isn’t peace.
It is both lists and listlessness, clamor and quiet
that keep my heart far.
It is not even tragedy or untimely loss that shake me,
it is shell-pink soup ladles and pendants found in drawers that are my undoing–
closed throat and caved collarbone.
But then in sudden and strange moments of grace, it is easy.
Tonight, with the swelling storm and the rain that is saying everything I feel,
falling, falling, falling,
it is easy.
It is easy to sit out here, lightning and all,
with a second-hand prayer book and a brand-new Bible,
It is easy to take in Scripture with a raw and grateful heart,
to want to read it fast and slow all at once,
and not just because it is good medicine.
It is easy to read a psalm about how great His works are—
and mean it,
about His majesty—
and know it like I know my name.
It is easy, on this night, when the frog surprises me on the back porch,
to tell him that he is God’s glory,
and ask isn’t he so glad to be a part of it?
He looks back at me, wide-eyed but suspicious, and I can’t tell if he thinks I’ve lost it,
or if I’m telling him a secret he already knows.
Either way, he hops on into the darkness, into the rain.