Your gaze have made it very easy,
praying that is.
Yet, for such as me,
it’s still very hard,
not seeing You across the table.Your eyes follow me.
I know You hear me.
“It’s not You, it’s me”,
as faulting lovers say.Your gaze never leaves me,
I can feel it
in the depths of my being.
I am never alone.You wait,
as I turn to trifles,
or beat down troublesome giants.
You dwell upon my last words,
feeling my joy or pain
through every season of my soul.Though my words can stop mid-sentence
or conversation cease,
still You know the whole.
With the patience of eternity, my God waits.Eventually, I turn back to You.
Your eyes sear my soul,
O, that my heart could return that gaze.On the best of days,
unless You bind me to You, I flit.
A thousand trumpets vie for my ear
and I am torn.New love has a magic,
erasing the world, and becoming all.
Re-ignite that flame in me
To shut out causes, fears and strife.Your Presence felt is strength and consolation,
Your tug is joy
and Your conversation sweetness.
If pain be the messenger
that draws me back to You,
so be it.
Better the torment of an earthly purgatory
than the foretaste of hell.If it seems I sit at our table alone,
the note of sadness betrays the truth.
I miss you and the missing is from You.
You beckon anew.Sup with me.
Dwell with me.
Gaze on me.
I am not alone.
My Christ is with me.By Joann Nelander
Tag Archives: God
A Thousand Little Moments
I fail and I fall.
“Yes, Father, it’s me, again.”
My prayers and tears reach Your heart with plaintiff sighs.I reach for Love, as a baby grasps the finger,
securing You to my heart,
binding You by trifles.
A thousand little moments, like a knitter’s weave,
trivial triumphs conquering like souls,
for made in Your image, I desire only You.Of wooing, my begging be a part.
I turn, my God, to You as a prayer with every care.
Prayer and tears, now, all one.
I nestle to Your breast and am all ear.I listen as beat upon beat,
Love’s rhythm reassures me of the next
and of Your eternal constancy.
I listen, as for a whisper, and fear not
to whisper every care and fretful prayer.I reach for You with every breath,
and sigh when You draw nigh.
You answer with a mother’s warmth,
bending low, picking me up, pressing me
to Your great and consoling bosom.“What is it my child. Am I not here? Haven’t I given you all?”
You kiss away my tears
and delight in the exchange.
I have given nothing but complaint,
yet You are full of smiles.A thousand little moments knit our day.
I cry and You comfort.
I beckon and You bend in kind regard.You draw me into that chamber,
in which I was formed,
that hallowed space,
in which my time began.Heaven and rest contained
in one all holy Name.
Name me, my God,
and I will come into being,
called forth from my darkness
into Your marvelous Day.All our moments measured by Your mercy,
I cry out for a heart made unto Your own,
that I may grow to give Your Love.
Love begetting love, for love alone.By Joann Nelander
Heaven Is For Real
Blasphemy
H/T Fr. Robert Barron, of course and Evan’s Cove:
Fleeting Prayers – Arrows to the Heart
Fleeting prayers
Known but to God
Recorded in His Heart.
Nothing wasted,
all in flower,
bearing fruit,
supplying for the need
of His Church.
throughout Time,
Nothing wasted,
nothing forgotten,
all in flower,
all bearing fruit.
By Joann Nelander
Signal Grace & Man Before God
I was searching for the meaning of “signal grace” and came upon this excerpt which somehow gave me hope for what at times seems the scattered pieces of my life. Countless days lost, after my dreams of offering God the ‘work of my life’, so that at the end of my days, I could hear the words “Good and faithful servant. ”
From Man Before God
by Adrienne von Speyr, mystic:
There comes a moment in every man’s life when he begins to reflect on his place in the whole of the cosmos, on his future, and on the limits of what he can do. But he cannot think about his future without making his past part of the present moment. He sees what he has planned and achieved so far; he also sees everything that has not been achieved, the failed remainder, which perhaps stands before him as his own failure. He remembers days of work, days of rest, his nights, his daydreams, the great deal that he has received, and the little that he has given. He sees that it will not be easy to balance the books because so many seeds have not borne fruit. Many entries are left with question marks next to them; occasionally there is a successful item that could be marked with a round figure. And yet, it is not at all clear that this figure is really round; it is part of a series along with so many other figures that do not come out right.
And now man plans. He draws conclusions from his experiences. He wants to reach farther and different goals. But suddenly he hesitates: whatever plan he makes, he must always reckon with himself He cannot envision any future that fully satisfies him, because he cannot count on any full performance from himself He knows himself well enough to realize that he will always be an obstacle to himself because he does not remain faithful to his best resolutions. Wherever he turns, he encounters his limits. And yet he must go on, and he cannot do this unless he has before him a road, a destination, an image of his future—unless he undertakes something that satisfies him and that he brings about by his own power.
Once again he looks back on his past. He attempts to take a sober look at the obstacles that he himself placed on the path, to draw up an account of all that he has neglected. He tries to do this in a spirit in which he calls things by name and perceives the truth about the forces at work. None of this is easy, because as soon as he gives these failures their real name, he becomes painfully aware of his own responsibility. This failure humiliates him, and now things might seem darker to him than they really are. His confidence in the future wavers. He realizes how much remains undone; how often something was tried, abandoned, and forgotten again. The very first difficulty threw him off track; he simply gave up.
The past weighs on him and paralyzes his new resolutions. He knows beforehand that it will not work. He looks around in search of heroes who made up their minds to do some great work and did not let anything keep them from it. He would gladly be such a person, with the corresponding strength, ability, and perseverance. There is no end to his wishes and yearnings, but resignation debilitates them. He knows that, when all is said and done, he is no hero. Everything about him is futile. Continue reading