On Mondays I’ve taken to writing psalms. This week's psalm is inspired by my last visit to Austin, Texas. There, John Ray took us to El Patio,* a restaurant boasting the best sugary confections west of the Mississippi (the confection that Louisiana folks call "prah-lines," and everyone else calls "pray-lines"). As fate would have it, I scrawled the opening of a psalm on a napkin, a psalm which I thought to be rather good in the moment. It's gone missing. I assume that I tossed it with the rest of my road-trip garbage--the empty Diet Mountain Dew bottle, the package of spent sunflower seeds, the In-N-Out burger bag. In any event, the loss of that psalm led to this psalm.
It seems that I have lost my psalm, which, in a moment of inspiration, I jotted on the unstained side of a napkin from a Tex-Mex dive in Austin,
is, I suspect, a state of metaphor-- how the regal Spanish stone creates nooks for the nesting of bats and birds, the holing up of nature’s truths like
mimic the natural real, the killdeer, the golden hawk, the occasional frog. They are desperate women, musicians striving, to be noticed, heard,
To be Loved
Sarah said, “is a rare thing, but oh how we love the striving.” This was, I suppose, the honey for a strong word. “Cease,” she could have said. You are
words will not make one more loved, or respected, or pedestaled. This morning I lost my psalm, but instead striving to originate a heavenward thought, I’ll mimic better
sing in harmony still, ancient words echo, pass from congregation to congregation, rattle stained glass and silver chalice. Then sings my soul! My savior
*Cover photo by Jane Ray, used by permission. You can see more of her work here.