When My Weary Soul Asks ~ How Did You Find Me Here?

Surely, I am near the end of this inward turning
Weary of bone and muscle
Nothing prepared me to cherish fallow time
Or the sacred space of waiting’s gifts

This weariness is not mere distrust
But a divine restlessness
Made known in my inability to linger at the threshold
An inattentive heart brought on
By the chattering noise of my disquieted mind

As I resign myself to the limitations of imperfection
And my tendency to squander the holy

I become present to the mysteries
Accompanied by this humbling
Arm wrestling with the final remnants my hubris offers up
My heart bows low still balking at the posture reverence warrants

But in this place of emptying
Grace slips the bone back into the socket
I detect the end of this current inward turning
And my pilgrim status feels weighty but right
Finally willing to welcome the paradox
As I half-stumble down the improbable path the humbling reveals
Muttering aloud in a passing prayer
”How did You find me here?”