Wise men

The daughter put the wise men in the family room.  They finally arrived at the mangers in the living room two days late.  I understand they were really late anyway.  We are just going with the story here.  I figure they will need more time to contemplate the mystery with us.

The wise men have arrived

At our three nativities.

They will stay for now.

Crash

Sometimes mysteries bring us together in... well... mysterious ways.

The daughter

Is at camp.

The cat

Is sound asleep

In the playroom.

My beloved and I

Are in the midst

Of two separate

Evening things

In two separate rooms.

Crash

We converge

In the hallway,

Survey the basement

Where the gas leak

From an old dryer hose

Awakened us at 4:30

That morning.

Nothing there.

We can*t figure it out.

We return to our places.

Crash

Number two.

We converge on the hallway

Again.

The cat joins us

This time.

We talk about birds

Hitting windows

But it is dark

Most birds have gone to bed.

A complete survey

Of the upstairs finally reveals

A downed shower curtain rod

In the daughter*s bathroom.

Mystery solved

This time

At least.

Library

I forgot about the library.  I dare not check out books with such disorder at home, but the library space is amazing in its order and simplicity, not to mention the view out the window.  It is balm.  I have even discovered the Vish Puri murder mystery series.  They will transport me... to India.

Once again I find

The library.

The voices are low

And pleasant.

There is no background music.

I sit and face

A bank of windows

Floor to ceiling,

Look out on golden trees

Against a pearl gray sky.

I imagine the kitchen painted

In fall colors.

Here is

More order

Than I have encountered

In days.

Here is big space

In big order.

Soft voices.

Library low and pleasant

Leaves gold yellow,

Pearl gray sky

Through wide-paned windows

Floor to ceiling.

Water tower strip

I have never seen anything like it: a gigantic canvas water tower drape, raised and lowered seemingly on whim.  The workmen are not there every day.  There seems no rhyme or reason to the whole project.  Nor can I see anything that looks like decay, or anything that looks like progress.

It seems

Work is underway

On the water tower,

The one with the big bunch of roses

Painted on the top,

The one next to the train station.

I*m sure if I asked the right person

I would find out just exactly what

The story is.

I never know from day to day

Whether the canvas drape will be pulled

All the way to the top,

Or heaped at the bottom;

It is an almost daily strip-tease.

I never know

Whether workmen will be gathered there

Staring up at the roses,

Talking to one another.

I never know

Whether there are people under the drape

In the dark,

And if there are,

What they do under there.

When the canvas

Reveals all

I see no difference

From the day before.

I*m sure if I asked the right person

I would find out.

Still

It is more interesting

To speculate.

The quality of mercy

This reflection started as something else.  Sometimes they have that way about them.  We never spent time in seminary years and years ago now defining God by attributes.  In June I will be leading a provincial retreat  for Daughters of the King on what it means to love mercy (Micah 6:8) (last year*s retreat leader chose to walk humbly).  It is probably not a surprise that I began with Shakespeare, moved to Wheaton, then to Chippie, and landed on mystery.  I am still an Episcopalian.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes (190)

William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene I

In high school I missed the Shakespeare emphasis

That my siblings and my husband experienced.

Still it amazes me that Shakespeare returns

In snippets,

As truths,

Almost as much as the Bible.

This morning I think about the attributes of God,

Mercy in particular.

Before Wheaton I did not separate out

God*s attributes.

I did not consider His/Her qualifiers.

This morning I am stuck on adjectives, descriptors.

Shakespeare offers

Not strained

Like gentle rain,

Twice blessed.

I am not at Wheaton anymore.

Shakespeare would never

Pass muster.

I miss the professor*s dog Chippie.

He would allow me to run my fingers through his fur

A few times during that final term.

He barked at the men in class,

But let me run my fingers through his fur,

Particularly

When mystery was mentioned

As an attribute of God.