September Sunday


As I arranged September flowers in purple vases
with the heavy sweet nectar of sunflower, marigold, cosmos
clinging to my hands
I marveled at the riotous beauty
of yellow, orange, magenta, lavender
gifts from the Creator
my privilege to enjoy.
And I thought
how I invited you again
but you didn’t show
and my welling tears
streaked hot with disappointment.
Do you not worship
even in autumn’s glory?
You and I, who shared
wordless understanding
better than anyone else—
now we do not share faith
and perhaps we never did.
When I speak of Him
you boil with rage.
We tried compromise:
shopping, sushi, cocktails
all on the surface.
But my deep ache persists underneath.
You refuse to envision
how I crawl into the lap of the unseen Abba
and find peace and security in his arms.
Jehovah-shammah never abandons.
Though we share soul caverns,
deep fissures and fault lines
crying out for restoration
our healing journeys will differ.
Still I fear for you going alone.
I see the thorny cares of your world:
your plush interiors
your bright beads and baubles
your cheap comfort
and I worry for your choked soul.
I wish you could know this:
You must stoop to see him.
If you seek the Truth
you will understand
He is far more gracious
than you can imagine.
I hope and pray
someday we will share
our heavenly Father.
Until then days of grief
mingle with moments of hope
like autumn’s chill
that frosts brilliant leaves.


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