AGAIN, MARY OLIVER

 

Wild Blue Iris
Chena River, Fairbanks, Alaska

How, Lord, should we pray?  The Lord might answer, prostrate yourself, fall on your knees, let the cathedrals fill with Gregorian chants, let out the stops, shake the walls and let the world hear your praise!  This is good.  

But the Lord could also answer that: 

"It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak."

This too is good.  And so we have this message through the gift of voice God gave to the poet Mary Oliver, for us to read in her poem "Praying."  A poem that reminds us that we are not often in the pews beneath the great Flenthrop organ and the stained-glass windows.  Sometimes all that is near is the flower or branch and our own small words of gratitude.  Words that God hears as surely as the practiced cathedral choirs.  

However we pray, we are heard.  Thank you, Lord.