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Faith

October 15, 2019

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Faith is not a thing we can capture,
it floats as freely as a butterfly.

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Engaged

Pray the prayer, feel the dough, warm, sticky, full of life. Our Father, time passes, it rises, only to be punched down. Give us this day, smell it baking, see it rise, browning to done. Our daily bread, smell, texture, as it comes out, we butter the roughness. Given, broken, rising, smelling, tasting, crumbs, rough shell, all given, all made.

Home

In my heart I'm always home for Christmas. Its the people who share it and not the place Where you spend it. Its the lights on the tree, the gift of laughter, The wonder of the snow, the light in the night. Not the inside building. It is in the hope found in our hearts. It's the carol which we sing out strong. Not the frame. It is visiting the interior of the soul. Where peace and goodwill dwell. Not the places. It is in discovering, once again, anew. The babe lies within us all, waiting For the right time to be born.

Oasis

Built in the corner, just a glimpse. Something a wee bit wild, green. Birds come, rabbits eat, water play. A little haven of rest in the middle. All around is just flat plain, industrial. This had been meant for me. Yet I have found it was so much more for you.

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Faith

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