What have I to offer you? What have I that I might momentarily make visible the invisible? That this broken world might glimpse home? A broken world filled with endless echoes. Groans betraying desire—a desire that swells and swallows like fire. Like a violin, bow and string—friction—craving that ever elusive note that never satisfies but flirts to the point of pain with the soul. Like the lover craving the ever-slipping mouth. What have I to offer that might awaken desire? A chief desire whose theme echoes throughout lesser desires. Alone, I have little to show. Ink bleeds. Exposes my pride. And my fear. My priority to please. And a lack of trust that cripples my bones. And yet you say, “Write.”
Oh, LORD. May this offering be yours. This paper and ink. This flesh and blood. Yours. All yours. Meet me as I press my pen to paper. Meet me amidst the wreckage of my soul. Re-craft this vessel. Let it be at your disposal. I offer you all that I have. My talents and my training. Time poured out. Cultivating, crafting, and creating. My passions and my personality. My story. The sacrifices consecrated by my hands and the hands of others in order for me to write. I give you my brokenness. Teach me to be a faithful steward of those fractures too. I offer you me, remembering your sufficiency through the bread and wine, your body and blood, that refresh and sustain me—foretastes of an unbroken communion with you and the saints in whom is my delight. Offer through me that which might refresh and nourish the souls of others. Infuse through me into this world little glimpses into that future residence where Truth, Goodness, and Beauty dwell, enfleshed—our home. Let your hands through these words make visible the invisible. Awaken desire through these signs and symbols. Breathe through these stories the breeze of your far-off country, a breeze that whispers an enchanting harmony, awakens yet never satisfies desire.
Yours. All yours. Let my heart be sensitive to your Spirit’s voice and pliable to his breath, my whole being nestled beneath his wings. Shape me like a poem—lines scribbled, scrawled, and half-scratched—until every stanza satisfies. And in the meantime, let the lines echo that mythic harp that ever sings your melody.
Amen.
