In the night, when ego has fled, self
sinks into bed and soul rises to its Keeper.
Motives awakened, He traces His fingers
across dreams, morning separating night,
joints from marrow, soul from spirit.
Is it strange that He gives talents
and abilities then uses weaknesses,
calls us from comfort into discomfort,
gives us free choice then asks for
In frustration I stop, I have learned
to sit still until my bones ache.
Squinting into the dark sky, I can just
barely see one lone star. The Lodestar
feels distant, hidden and out of reach.
In shades of navy-blue transforming from
pitch-black as the sun on its axis nears
the horizon, I imagine a star-filled sky
on that clear winter’s night and shiver.
Who can count the stars or cover them
with His cloak?
Who can see into the soul’s navy-blue
or pitch-black and on this soul, reaching
beyond the sky’s lofty beauty and the sea’s
rumbling depths, trace dreams never captured, sins unknown, then sketch them into Nature’s composition?
All will be brought into light in His light.
He is the Morning Star and the night’s bright Light.
He is the Lodestar.
Pondering Advent, Originally posted December 2019
Feature Photo: Artist Unknown.