Awhile back I read the following writing by Rachel M. Srubas from Oblation: Meditations on St. Benedict’s Rule. Since it spoke to me, I thought I’d pass it along. Melody
I know you’re there
ever receptive to my prayer.
Not you but I am the busy one
with the crowded calendar,
inclined to fit you in mainly when
I have a cancellation, as though
your mercy were a last priority,
a rare luxury.
My preoccupied hours and days
go by, and I relegate you to a corner of my mind
until I feel free to grant you full attention.
But I have no fullness to offer.
I give you a hollow stare and feel I’ve become
a passing acquaintance of my Creator.
I speak a few stiff sentences,
then lapse into embarrassed silence.
There — if I dare to linger in the discomfort —
dwells the potential for the prayer I need,
an honest encounter between my hectic heart
and your uncomplicated patience.
I face you for the thousandth time and find
I’m a beginner,
a sinner not in some spectacular act of evil,
but in a collection of petty forgettings
that summon my repentance
in remembrance of you.
Gradually, a miracle flows into me, a stilling
and filling of my anxious, empty self.
Now calmed, now capable of reverence,
I pour my awareness into you,
only to receive much more than I give:
the prayer I pray, the very life I live.