I Am Mud

I am such a mess.
The rain falls on my soil,
And for a while I am mud.

No hint of fertility.
No hint of growth.
No hint of flowers.

Mud is self-forgetful,
A confusion of gift,
A profusion of promise.

The day will seed to my substance,
Serendipity and surprise,
Plantings for the morrow.

I shall lie here,
Loving my mud,
Waiting for the Sun.

© 2016 Joann Nelander

The Cross and the Furnace,

I want to spend my day loving You
And embracing life as You send It to me.
Nothing comes but by Your Will,.

Not that I haven’t thwarted Your Will.
I have!
I know I have,
But even as this moment
Bears the imprint of the hammer,
That struck the nails impaling You on Your Cross,
The Cross remained Yours,
And Your All Holy, All Chosen Will,
All of Your choosing
From the beginning of Time.

You are above Sin,
Above my sin and error,
The New Adam,
Obedient to the Father,
A Trinity of Union,
In Love.

By the Will of God ,
And the hand of man,
All infraction of the Divine Will
Was nailed to Your Holy Cross.
In You, I die to Sin,
And rise to live Your Dying
In my day.

In You,
Given for Men
Given for me,
I live God’s permissive Will,
Fashioned for me,
In the purifying furnace
Of His Perfect Will.

In this new day,
I choose the Cross and the Furnace,
I choose You,
Who are forging a union of hearts,
Perfect Love loving Man,
Desiring the perfection of every man,
Loving and perfecting me.

(C) 2016 Joann Nelander

Becoming Flame

I offer You the straw of my life,
O Lord of my redemption.
Send Your angels, day by day,
To glean my field,
To fuel the fire of Your Love.

Did You not say,
“Learn from Me,
For I am meek,
And humble of heart?”
You do not need my riches.
You seek my poverty, my emptiness.

Your Fire penetrates my stubble.
I become like You,
All aglow As light and heat
Testify to Your Presence in the flame
That shoots to the heavens.

I am surrender and trust
In welcome transformation.
I am lost and yet eternal.
In You, straw by straw,
As kindling,
I am become the Flame.

Invite the Angels and Saints

I’ll be headed out the door in a few minutes to attend the Mass. It amazes me that year after year I have been given the grace to participate in daily mass. It is a great blessing especially since I am no saint.  I’m slogging it out here below hoping one day that Jesus will call me and bid me come to Him that with angels and saints I might be with Him forever.

Sometimes at communion, I am overjoyed but most often my feelings are like those expressed by the Little Flower.  Would that my response also be as hers.

What can I tell you, dear Mother, about my thanksgivings after Communion? There is no time when I taste less consolation. But this is what I should expect. I desire to receive Our Lord, not for my own satisfaction, but simply to give Him pleasure. I picture my soul as a piece of waste ground and beg Our Blessed Lady to take away my imperfections–which are as heaps of rubbish–and to build upon it a splendid tabernacle worthy of Heaven, and adorn it with her own adornments. Then I invite all the Angels and Saints to come and sing canticles of love, and it seems to me that Jesus is well pleased to see Himself received so grandly, and I share in His joy. But all this does not prevent distractions and drowsiness from troubling me, and not unfrequently I resolve to continue my thanksgiving throughout the day, since I made it so badly in choir. You see, dear Mother, that my way is not the way of fear; I can always make myself happy, and profit by my imperfections, and Our Lord Himself encourages me in this path.”

IN BAPTISM

The flood waters of heaven
Pour over me.
Your Death holds me fast,
Drawing body and soul,
Down in Your Dying.

Flood gates open,
And yet, the sea parts.
By Your Spirit I pass over.
The soul that gives life to my body,
Now rises,
Your Spirit, giving Life to my soul.

More than a corpse
Raised from the dead,
I rise a priest, a prophet and a king,
Betrothed and free to be
What You would make of me.

copyright 2015 Joann Nelander

TAKE CARE

Pray,
Take care
Who you turn away.

Give thought,
And ‘haps a listening ear.

In truth,
The heart of God
Beats in the beggars breast.

copyright 2015 Joann Nelander