Psalm #7 (Here's to Austin)

On Mondays I’ve taken to writing psalms. This weekend, I was blessed to spend time with a few friends--some old, some new--in Austin. We worked during the day and practiced the fine art of Human Care. At night, we gathered in the living room or on the front porch and unwound. It was a weekend that will not long be forgotten. Today's psalm is an exercise in establishing road signs and rock piles, a place for me (and perhaps others) to return to a very good weekend. But even if you weren't in Austin with us, I'm quite certain you have your own porches and altars. These are places worthy of celebration.


Psalm #7

Let us give thanks to the Lord our God!

Under the ancient arms of Spanish Oak, the dancing, twisting arms reaching up, was established both porch and altar. There, a flagrant disregard for dignity led us to over-indulgences. Laughter, confession, praise, wine-- these are the ways that quicken and bind breaths, that instruct in caring for others and ourselves.

We rooted until morning in Adirondacks, the Adirondacks rooted into concrete, the concrete rooted into Austin hardpan, into the things established by the first voice, and we found a language less fore-ordained and more of our choosing, language that danced and twisted and rose like the incense of Spanish Oak arms, the always-up meandering; this, our way to cry "Abba!" and to be answered with a flash flood of one-thousand epiphanies.

It is right to give Him thanks and praise!


Photo by Missy Dollahon, via Facebook.