There is no statute of limitations on vision.
My old eyes register a darting messenger of
God's blatant, creative joy. Watch the winged
creation hover in a web of air.
Spy a sleuthing intruder
snap-tapping its way
across the wood, tunneling
away and down the outside stairs.
No expiration (yet) for hearing,
cataloguing birdvoice and the
chipclacking of breakfast
at the feeder, the squeaking
insistence at the fountain.
Teach me to number my days, Lord,
to register the ways the wind
ruffles the tablecloth in the morning's
gentle breeze, how cool, shortened
shadows signal this sea change
of a season rippling towards
May I live this calendar daily
not ticking the days toward the end
but aware and alive and about your
business, not counting the days, but
living into your addition, subtraction
multiplication, division, the only
math that matters.
c. Jody Lee Collins 2017
Autumn morning, eyes trained through windows to the shadow show on tree trunks, crayon box colors of Fall falling through space from now visible branches. Creator comes to mind, how He carries us, colors us, covers us with His power, the Tree the strength, raising us Heavenward.
Sap is invisible, pulsing like a sticky river, nourishment in its wake. All I see is cottonwood, maple, and rarely wonder at their strength, never stop to remark, "would you look at the energy feeding those trees!?" Likewise we fuss and worry that God may not be at work while we grow our leaf-filled days, falling we think, and wonder 'where is He? why isn't He doing something?' And all the time His constant reliable reach pushes up and out, earthborne sap that cannot be stopped, no matter how our lives fall out.
There's a lot one can say about the power of being quiet (yes, I see the irony). When listening forefronts the mind other senses muscle their way into place (the ears above all) take in the not-words simply song, hum and tone in counterpoint. No addition necessary; I am mute, yet the Word bursts alive, verse and chorus rise without me. The truth needs no help to stand. Even when I'm not singing even if I'm not yes-ing it. Sometimes you don't get an amen.