(image by Htc Erl, on Pixabay, modified)
After Hours, Before the Altar
Belly down in the carpet,
crushed rough fibers at eye level,
life’s perceptions shift.
There is no room
for pride in the prostrate.
The cross so far above,
untouchable, the stained glass,
prismed light glowing.
What am I doing here?
Tears surely will not leave
stains on the industrial weave.
An uncomfortable obedience:
in this posture time does not exist
and one can only receive
what’s given. I am certainly
in no position to make
demands, to say “give me,”
and can only choke out
an incoherent “please.”
When the washing of the heart
is done and perspectives of grace
are restored, it is not the janitor’s hand
lifting me up or his voice
saying, “For Heaven’s sake, get up.”
*
In the Presence of Angels
Angelic messengers are
prone to say, “Be not afraid.”
Startling as it is
to have a being of light pop
into your bedroom, or meet
you on the trail, or shouting
in legions in a starry
night, they say this with perfect
assurance. Really, it’s a
back-handed compliment when
they appear, showing up in
those moments of decision,
of unmistakable call.
They appear only when their
gravitas lends urgency
to the news, or the command
is to go questing, to do
uncomfortable, dangerous,
and impossible deeds, or
just to be respectful and
keep your mouth shut like Sarah.
Like Zechariah.
Frail, and built for worship but
inclined toward fear, of course, we
are afraid in this presence.
Living light appearing in
your living room is soul deep
proof that heaven’s own courage
is the only abatement
for fear. Dithering is no
longer acceptable or
your story ends like Balaam.
Like Jonah.
And yet we crave their presence,
something from the infinite,
a gentled other walking
among us, reassuring
that they are fellow servants
with us and we must arise.
Frighteningly objective,
reminding us time and space
are just dimensions like height
or breadth, beyond this small earth
wheeling on the breath of the
infinite Spirit, where we
cannot control, are party
to miracles, always loved,
never alone.
*
What Could It Hurt?
When you told me not to pray for
you, the only thing I could
reply was, “What could it hurt?”
If you believe what you say
you believe, and I believe
what I say I believe, the
worst that could happen is that
I might be wasting my time.
I can do that just by
browsing online. At least this
leads me to think well of you
and with kind thoughts. In this world
we all need kind thoughts.
Just on the off chance that you
are mistaken and there is
a benevolent, loving
Someone out there, would it hurt
you if they knew that there are
people (me for one) who think
you are worth the time?
Because sometimes my prayers for
you begin by holding you,
your image, in my mind and
saying, “Oh Lord, look upon
this wonderful child of yours
breathing potential light. Please,
dear Lord, raise them up to shine.”
______________________________
K.L. Johnston received her degree in English and Communications from the University
of South Carolina. Her poetry has appeared in literary journals, magazines and anthologies
since the 1970s. She enjoys exploring the connections of humanity with the physical, spiritual, and liminal places she has stumbled into in her travels and in her own backyard. You can follow her on Facebook at A Written World.
October 2023 Issue