Sunday, February 28, 2010

On my own....I fail

"You must be born from above." I cannot be reborn from below, that is with my own strength, with my own mind, and with my own psychological insights. There is no doubt in my mind about this because I have tried so hard in the past to heal myself from the complaints and failed.....and failed until I came to the edge of physical exhaustion. I can only be healed from above, from where God reaches down. What is impossible for me is possible for God. "With God everything is possible."
I cannot forgive myself. I cannot love myself. I cannot leave my anger. I cannot bring myself home nor can I create communion on my own. I can desire it, hope for it, wait for it, pray for it. But my own true freedom I cannot fabricate for myself. That must be given to me. I am lost. I must be found and brought home by the Shepherd who reaches out to me.
by Henri Nouwen The Return Of The Prodigal Son

The Clay by Ron DiCianni ©

Saturday, February 20, 2010

My Favorite One

The younger son said, "I started to walk home slowly and hesitantly, hearing ever more clearly the voice that says: "You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests." It is a light-giving voice that keeps calling me 'my favorite one.'

Monday, February 15, 2010

i am a little church

i am a little church by E. E. Cummings
i am a little church (no great cathedral) far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities- i do

not worry if briefer days grow briefest, i am not sorry when sun and rain make april my life is

the life of the reaper and the sower; my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving

(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children whose any sadness or joy is my grief or

my gladness around me surges a miracle of unceasing birth and glory and death and
resurrection: over my sleeping self float flaming symbols of hope, and i wake to a perfect
patience of mountains i am a little church (far from the frantic world with its rapture and

anguish) at peace with nature -i do not worry if longer nights grow longest; i am not sorry

when silence becomes singing winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to merciful Him

Whose only now is forever: standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence (welcoming

humbly His light and proudly His darkness) .