Inspired by the Psalms

I promised myself that, on completing the Psalms, I would have a go at writing one myself. And I know it’s been weeks and weeks since I finished my Psalm-a-day thing. Forgive me. But, I AM a finisher. A late-finisher is better than a never-finisher, right?

Here’s my Psalm. The third or forth attempt. And far from the lyrical beauty of the Biblical Psalms. But it feels good and right to end my Psalm season this way. To respond to creative expression with creative expression. If you’ve followed the Psalms with me, maybe you’d like to do likewise and end by writing a Psalm of your own to our mighty, amazing, gracious, all-knowing, intensely loving God. I’d love to read it!

 

MY PSALM

I look out across the expanse of this new day and see? I see you are there.

Blue-sky God. Thunder God. Drenching-with-rain God.

I look into the barely blushed petals of a magnolia bloom; you are there.

I look across the countless rooftops of this city, smoke curling from chimneys, trampolines in backyards, dogs yapping at gates; you are there.

I look into the eyes of my daughter as I pull on her jumper, the unblemished blue of trust; you are there.

I look up where the cumulous stacks high like bales of cotton; you are there.

I look at my own hand as it writes, veins like blue laneways wending to knuckle and freckle and thumbnail, and to the pattern of me under each fingertip; you are there.

Everywhere. You are there.

In the sheet pulled above my head, in the weeping behind the door, in the gulping back grief, in the wet cheeks on long car rides. You. Are. There.

Where can I go to escape you?
Where can I rest away from you?

Yet… Escape without you is a solitary confinement cell,
and rest without you is to drink from an empty glass.

Only with you and in you does my spirit know the joy of living.

Your way expands me, tears me open, unravels me, so that even the pain has its beauty.

Even the petals browned and stomped into the soil.
Even the smog and snarl of this city.
Even the bunched brows of frustration,
the storm clouds and the hand that aches in the cold.
Even these see us throw our arms heavenward, praising you.

Because you are right here.

Shalom,
Claire.
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