Misty Mountain Tops

Sunlight streams through pearly cloud-cover

onto the misty mountain tops below,

their silhouettes like layers of ragged blue paper

on a giant watercolour collage.

The sky is clear as day:

empty and open as a day

with no to-do list…

Imagine, how divine,

to just be!

The light pours down

thick beams of blessing

proclaiming the presence

of the one who sustains our very being.

The mountains respond with a silent chorus:

“Glory, glory, glory,

How good it is to simply be!”

And on my lap the baby naps,

perfectly comfortable at 4000 feet in the air

cause Mamma is there,

and no other moment matters

but now.

Blessed Poverty

This heart-scraping poverty,

This emptiness of hand,

This hunger that expects nothing,

Yet dares dream the impossible 

And knows that everything is gift…

This alertness of spirit—

Not the satiated somnolence of riches 

The queasy fullness of so much had

That there is no room for hope—

Blessed be this poverty 

Which enriches our eyes with the sparkle of stars,

The crispness of evening wind,

The breath of mountain air,

Dizzy with birdsong.

Blessed be this emptiness which enlarges our spirits

To receive the grandeur of the universe

Stamped into each tiny cell

Of each created thing

Humble and poor

Gifts like ourselves. 

tiny bricks of beauty

Have you had the chance to do much art lately?

I ask my artist friend as she chats 

confidentially with her toddler on her lap,

which is blossoming with baby belly

under her bright pink shirt.


Not too much, she replies, 

Just surviving and getting ready for baby,

but looking forward to nursing as a time for inspiration.

Yeah, I reply, It’s that quiet contemplative time 

that is the source of inspiration for sure.

An openness to the divine, she replies, 

That’s where art comes from.


I want to tell her that right now 

she is cooperating with the most divine creation there is—

that of a human life—the artistic triumph of the world, 

a piece of art that is by its very nature immortal

but I get interrupted by one of my kids who needs a new towel.


So I can’t tell her that she is weaving with sinews of love

painting with brushstrokes of hope

writing with stories strung on tiny ropes of DNA

forging new paths for faithfulness

strengthening family bonds with tiny bricks of beauty

cells diverse and unique 

splendidly forming into 

a new child of promise.