I had such a longing for virtue, for company.
I wanted Christ to be as close as the cross I wear.
I wanted to read and serve, to touch the altar linen.
Instead I went back to the woods where not a single tree turns its face away.
Instead I prayed, oh Lord, let me be something useful and unpretentious.
Even the chimney swift sings.
Even the cobblestones have a task to do, and do it well.
Lord let me be a flower, even a tare; or a sparrow.
Or the smallest bright stone in a ring worn by someone brave and kind, whose name I will never know.
Lord, when I sleep I feel near you.
When I wake, and you are already wiping the stars away,
I rise quickly, hoping to be like your wild child the rose, the honey-maker and honey-vine;
a bird shouting its joy as it floats through the gift you have given us: