And I struggle with clumsy fingers around fragments,
Careful of the cut.
This is too important to let lie,
This is too real to not try
But I end in blood and refraction.
What a thing to call a child to,
The sharp, queasy work of piecing some semblance of light from dark,
Of wholes from parts,
Children break more than they make,
And You send us to mend holes in hearts?
It takes steady hands and years of experience to perform such surgery.
We’ve hardly grasped gross motor skills.
Send us as creating, created whirlwinds of reiteration,
With our scotch tape and school glue
Into the fray of a people jagged with rage and hate.
And as we bloody our hands on their hurts and come away with scars of our own,
Make good use of this work,
This labor for wholeness,
This reconciling God to us, us to us, dust to dust,
A work partial until you set your scarred hand firmly round us
And mend us final.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”
(Liturgical poetry for the Sundays between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday is inspired by the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:3-12. Photo by Linnea Wheeler.)