Against a background of rich autumn colors--corduroy browns and rusty reds--against the muted fading of light, stands a strange and spindly little tree in the gentle meadow outside my window. From far away, it looks as if wads of toilet paper have been glued to its thin, bare branches, their bright whiteness unnatural and incongruous in the autumn landscape. Crossing the meadow to take a closer look, however, I notice that the old tissues are really clusters of delicate, white flowers, fragrant springtime blossoms, sprouting from branches that are otherwise bare. A friend tells me that the miraculous flowering perhaps comes from the stress of drought that has pushed the young tree to bloom out of season, but I can't help but think of the folly of the Kingdom of God. We have become accustomed to associating the miracle of new life at Easter with springtime buds and baby chicks, yet new life that blooms while the rest of the world withers seems to provide a strange new twist on resurrection glory. The frail beauty of the foolish blossoms speaks to me of love in the face of death, of love that must blossom even at great risk to itself, and of the disconcerting persistence of the holy.
Common Prayer
Wistful pilgrim prayers
scatter in the breeze,
crinkly with good intentions
like restless leaves
on an autumn day.
On the infinite path
to God's ears,
they hover haltingly,
often collecting
in the impotent hollow
of some impediment.
How to gather them, Lord,
in heaping armfuls
for a mighty bonfire
of incense arising?
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