A Harvest Home

I don't have much to say these days.

But it's not because nothing is happening. Quite the opposite is true. I just don't feel much like writing and having made the rounds in the blogging world, it seems that I am not the only one. As the days grow both shorter and wetter, as leaves forfeit the vibrant greens of summer for fiery shades of orange and yellow, I find myself drawing more inward. Being quiet. Taking it all in. Listening.

God is busy, but He's very quiet as He goes about His work.

Sometimes for my morning meditation, I'll turn to an anthology of Christian poetry I have. I turned to this poem this morning and as autumn is upon us, wanted to share what I'm thinking on today.

The Pastor Praises the Creator David Citino

Dearly beloved, I mean today
to praise the God who gave the tribes
wine, the crisp flesh of suckling pig,
then told them "Thou must not."

Who gave them swords and ploughshares,
lambs and lions, demons and redeemers.
Who made half of them like pestles,
half like mortars, then told them

in themselves they were complete.
Cool soothing fingers and fevers
between the legs. Reason and gooseflesh,
curtains and candles, lightning and oak,

seven days to live and as many sins,
lungs and mold, books and blind men, veins
and age. Who fashioned them a harvest home,
then created wanderlust and roads.