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Franz Wright, from “The Hawk,” in God’s Silence

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consider the lilies.

the way they grow—no toil, no spin, no heartless laboring—ah, how they grow. and yet, they are clothed with radiance. dew drops. first light. the deepest breaths of dawn.

oh whose voice perfumes the darkness of my garden?

(let me hear You. let me hear You.)

consider me, twelve pieces left from feeding five thousand. i found what i gathered, or perhaps, gathered the found, collecting shards of the things i have planted but could not harvest. my Lord, my Lord, how i clutch them back into my chest. they do not fit. oh whose robe touches this disease and brings resurrection?

(fling wide these ancient doors, the very gates to my bones!)

here are the keys to the heart i earth. here are the blooms i picked and gathered. i shall go forth into the valley with my handful of dust, mountains trembling to bear witness to my deliverance.

oh whose breath is love, is song, is peaceful sustenance?

oh Lord, quiet me by Your presence, exult me by Your singing. You are my lambent light. You are my ten thousand fires standing guard outside my tent.

— 

j. p. berame // [consider the lilies] // no. 013020  ig | chapbook

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Joseph Fasano

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I have this deep pain in me, a block about talking to Jesus. Every sentence gets cut off, every notion of remorse produces no tears. I don’t know what to do.

Breathe. God is not asking for you to reject this season because it is painful. He is not asking you to produce feelings or become unhurt. “Be still, & know that I am God” is peace from belief, not wellness.

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ruach

what ushers these tiny leaves across asphalt, small sounds like fluttering pinions? or simply, simply, who moves and grows the garden? i spread my palms and clutch at nothing but the breath of God, the only faithful wind. i long for flight, Lord. take me under Your wings. j. p. berame, first featured in The Lit Exhibit: Rituals (New York City, June 2019); published in Joyful Light (OMF Literature, September 2019).

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In April

Rainer Maria Rilke

—

Again the woods are odorous, the lark

Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray

That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,

Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour

Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings

Them at the windows in a radiant shower,

And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep

By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;

And cradled in the branches, hidden deep

In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

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Here is what the Holy Fathers say about thoughts: "If thoughts that take away our peace assail us, know that they are from hell." Such thoughts must not be accepted. They must be banished immediately. We must struggle for our own good and strive for peace to rake root in our souls -- peace, joy, and Divine love.

Elder Thaddeus of Vitovnica

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“Let God love us into people of love.”

John Mark Comer on Psalm 59

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Anna Kamienska, from “Industrious Amazement: A Notebook,” translated by Clare Cavanagh in Poetry (March 1st, 2011)

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You lighten my darkness.

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“Let God love us into people of love.”

John Mark Comer on Psalm 59

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how small things can impact our lives in massive ways, and how God’s plan for our lives can be so different than our own plan, and how amazing all of this is.  One year ago, at the Easter Sunrise service (which is held at the gazebo in the middle of town), my husband leaned over to me, pointed up at the men and women leading worship, and said, “Next year, that’s going to be you.” I laughed, shook my head, and told him, “No way.” We hadn’t joined our church yet. I hadn’t joined the choir. I was shy. So introverted I would never want to be up in front of people, let alone singing up in front of people. And now. Now, Easter is in less than two weeks and I’ll not only be singing at that Sunrise service out at the gazebo in town, but at others as well. Because God’s plan was to use me to serve in that way, even though it terrified me at first. Because His plan involved changing me–changing my heart–so much so that it would be recognizable to others who already knew me. “You’re so different!” they would say. “What happened?” And so I tell them.  One year ago, my husband and I were mourning the loss of our second babe. We were thinking I would never be able to carry a baby to term. We put all of our baby things into a box and placed that box in a place we wouldn’t have to see it. We held each other close and held onto God even closer. We trusted Him to carry us through, even though we didn’t understand.  And now. Now, our baby boy will be arriving in just over three months. We’ve got his nursery ready for him and as we hold each other close, we hold him close too. He loves his dad’s voice, and books, and when I sing to him, and food. All the food. Anytime I eat he starts kicking and it makes me chuckle. We pray together and read together and sing together and laugh together and love together, and I remember Romans 8:28.  “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” There are so many miniscule things that happened in order to make all of this come together, and it all happened so perfectly that it can only be God.  You see, even though I didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes, so to speak–even though I didn’t think I was ready, or didn’t think it would ever happen–didn’t mean that God wasn’t working every second to bring things together.  It’s all in His time. It’s all in His perfect time. And it’s all coming together for good. For His glory. 

[sky-letters]

consider the lilies.

the way they grow—no toil, no spin, no heartless laboring—ah, how they grow. and yet, they are clothed with radiance. dew drops. first light. the deepest breaths of dawn.

oh whose voice perfumes the darkness of my garden?

(let me hear You. let me hear You.)

consider me, twelve pieces left from feeding five thousand. i found what i gathered, or perhaps, gathered the found, collecting shards of the things i have planted but could not harvest. my Lord, my Lord, how i clutch them back into my chest. they do not fit. oh whose robe touches this disease and brings resurrection?

(fling wide these ancient doors, the very gates to my bones!)

here are the keys to the heart i earth. here are the blooms i picked and gathered. i shall go forth into the valley with my handful of dust, mountains trembling to bear witness to my deliverance.

oh whose breath is love, is song, is peaceful sustenance?

oh Lord, quiet me by Your presence, exult me by Your singing. You are my lambent light. You are my ten thousand fires standing guard outside my tent.

https://www.instagram.com/p/B76Qr-_BQAd/?igshid=4wvz2dw7wzwm

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• haləlūyāh • — the stillness shatters. in the east, a gathering of light fractures the world. let us go. let us go. strengthen your hands, your joints, your constitution. gather your spices, and come away to the tomb borrowed for three days.

do you look for the living among the dead?

come. watch the rock roll away. witness the valley transfigure into a mountain.

why are you weeping? the burning sand laughs in crocus blooms. the blind bears witness to the stale air of the empty tomb. the trembling water breaks forth, terrible in the wilderness, heard by deaf ears. the silence unmutes itself to sing. haləlūyāh! behold, shameless hope! behold, brazen grace! behold, the second man, until the very end of age.

— j. p. berame | first day | @existentialcelestial 

https://www.instagram.com/p/B-2e-evhdN-/

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• tetelestai • — the lamb has come away to the slaughter—the unblemished one silent before the swords of a trembling city. - here are the bones, count them. here is the garment, tear them. and so the lots have been cast, and the other sheep have scattered among the burdensome rocks. - the man of sorrows is upon the hanging tree. from his side, the wine-dark fountain opens, a cleansing for every sin. o behold the pierced one, his last breath tearing the veil, splitting stones, shaking the very foundations of the world. - tetelestai. - the efflorescence of every life we shall ever earth, redeemed. — j. p. berame | good friday | @existentialcelestial  

https://www.instagram.com/p/B-z3qsthVLt/

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• hoshiana • — and so the prophecy: a long road to Golgotha—mournful, dark, and lonely. still, you, traversing the palm-laden path, carried by a small frail beast. somewhere between here and in tomorrow and then the next, the shouts of praise will fade into mere echoes. perhaps, no more. three days of weeping. Valley of bones. a tomb. - Hoshiana. hear my prayer, O LORD of hosts. - even the sparrows find a home amidst the haze of migration, and so your presence is an altar, the loveliest discovery for these tired hands to lay upon. a day in your presence despite my deepest valley is more abundant than a thousand elsewhere, a thousand years, a thousand companions. - Hoshiana. i behold you, the one who have gone before me, us, anyone, and everyone. - Hoshiana. you are in the tomorrow where the light is warm in its wild conflagration. - Hoshiana. You are He who was, and is, to come. — j. p. berame | palm sunday | @existential-celestial

https://www.instagram.com/p/B-xLMxABJFg/

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