Meditation On The Wondrous Works

Meditation is a serious business, an ancient practice, a lost art in the texting world, in the long lines and crowded aisles and jammed parking lots of Gray Thursday, Black  Friday, Plaid Friday, Cyber Monday, Cash Mobs in the land of the lost Thanksgiving.

Never mind the perfect storm, this one washes everything away, not just the houses on the water but the spirits and faith of the familes far inland. They are transfixed, rushing to discounts and bargains, enchanted,  a billion dollars washed over the Promised Land on one new day, and a  new holy day is born. There is nothing more wondrous than this, say the new priests on their money blogs. It is good, the merchants say. It is here to stay.

Alone again on the other side of the mountain, I  meditate each day on the wondrous works of the Lord:

– Of the donkeys’ bray. Of the foxes’s shadow. Of the buck who laughs at the hunters, watching them in shadow.

-And the leaves of the old birch tree putting on their show against the old red barn.

–  Of the soft clucking of the hens as they hop off their roost. And the mouse skittering for his life across the barn floor, the barn cat sitting on the hay, her tail flicking.

– Of the working dog, in his steady crouch. In the crunching of hay in the mouths of the sheep.

– In the seething clouds, painting the shadows on the pasture.

– In the hum of the sewing machine.

– In the lonely calls of the geese, rushing South.

– In the whine of the big trucks, rushing along the road.

I would be good, be faithful, be wise, but for what purpose?

To enter the Kingdom of Heaven? I don’t think so, not me.

Forgive me, Lord.

I am seeking a different place, the key to another world, the

Kingdom of Grace, the Kingdom of Imagination.