Dearly Beloved, Grace and Peace to you.

                    Not the great tragedies, they have their own orchestra.

But the gentle tear in the fabric, the best of intentions, the dust of all this. The empty glass, the error, the wound, the cross' smaller shadow, finer grain. A peg on the wall, coat on the floor.

Regret's inescapable weight, the sand in your shoe of wrongs you've done, broken china glued a dozen times, a carved treasure box holding wreckage. The grave in the pit of your heart you come closer every day to fitting exactly.

The lone bird, mistaken, far, far over the wrong sea. The world's mosaic finished with your piece still in your hand.

No words above the rectangle of dirt in the grass, even the stone struck dumb. The one who departs with your silence.

The child you raise imperfectly to your cheek, apologizing with such tender love and shame.

And every moment you spent weeping on the bathroom floor.

Secretly you know there will never be time to get this right.

You kiss the Beloved with lips of ash

who holds you and says, “I know, darling.

I know.”

Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve

__________________ Steve Garnaas-Holmes Unfolding Light

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