Well worn images of bonafide saints
or white haired women, wizened and wise
with wrinkled hands on bibles or beads,
grandmother, godmother, Our Lady.
little churches, gathered community,
coloured clothes, high hair and cook outs,
hushed anticipation, before the Mass,
before the word, between the devotions,
seeking, ever seeking, to become
like God, the God of love, pure.
His voice, cutting through the chaotic
calming calumny and raiding the depths,
Sanctuary lamps that flicker
in spaces, beyond the edge of the present
in His perfect desire, for us.
Morning prayer as dawn breaks,
evening prayer at the close of day,
the forming of holy habits, rhythms of peace
Embodied in the ordinary, overflowing from their hearts,
Popes and paupers, Ryle and Newman,
the Wesley’s words to His melody.
True beauty demanding attention,
A constant crazing to gaze at God,
to glimpse His face, His ways, His Kingdom.
In pursuit of the seemingly impossible
and yet with Him, within our grasp,
our call, our mission, our baptismal gift,
in total difference to our surroundings.
The hard won joy or pure peace,
so simple to see and complex to achieve.
But bare feet before the tabernacle,
dwelling with Him on holy ground,
and perambulated pilgrimage paths
This is it, our holiness.
Ours because of Him.