The Wicker Chronicles
G. sent me a poem he wrote in response to something I posted here.
He finds me when I am not looking,
the soft footstep at the threshold of my senses
an embrace of apple blossoms humming with bees,
murmuring all languages that have ever been spoken
Oh quickened tongue made of light and earth,
voice of star and root, wave and leaf
He comes to me when I am not seeing,
the honey glow of light from behind the door
Here is the expectant coil of green beneath the snow, beneath the burn, beneath the stone
Here is warm and sun on skin again after night,
after grief, after sorrow
I was touched by its beauty and went to his blog to see what was there. I found a very sad and and powerfully written account of something that happened to him when he was in college. I was moved by his vulnerability and the sadness of the story. I'm sorry to say that this sort of thing happens quite frequently among people who call themselves Christians even as they elevate rules, doctrines, and theology above grace, mercy, and compassion.
I wanted so badly to go and find G. and to put my arm around his shoulders. I would like to welcome him into our community of faith, but I wonder if he would be too wounded to trust us.
This is what we have done.
rlp
Here is another poem by G.
8:48:11 AM 
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