a thank you letter to God

especially You...

Dear friend.

Surely, in every moment, a choice awaits us. We may not step up to greet it, but there it is, a wallflower at the dance, just as pretty as can be while we stumble over our feet to avoid it.

Last night, on a drive to downtown Charleston, I watched the tail lights of so many unique journeys and understood something about the wilderness of human perspective. The something? Our perspective can be a kaleidoscope or a wet blanket thrown on the light of the world.

And the world tolerates us, still.

Here is a strip of concrete among trees; they bide their time until they retake the land. High above, a gallery of billboards curated and arranged so cynically along the road to promote eager personal injury attorneys. And out in the dark, a vast convergence of waterways, all humming with life unconcerned by whatever cause macabre the humans on the road bemoan.

And still, after all this time, The sun never says to the earth, "You owe Me.” - Hafiz

Because, gosh, the bemoaning.

That’s some perspective.

To offer another, I offer this thank you letter.

Dear World, dear Wind, dear Water and Sky, dear Emptiness and Completion, dear God of all beings, Creator and Guide…

I’m so grateful for the joy and the sorrow. Thank you for golden sun on grass and the smell of dirt. Thank you for fat babies giggling and toddlers screaming in the cereal aisle. For adults— fat or skinny— who laugh heartily, and those who throw their tantrums, too. Thank you for the surprising kindness of men who used to dance disco and the old women who unwind the threads of wisdom instead of keeping the tapestry to themselves. Geez, dear God, I’ve loved how the leaves of young and old trees take their time unfurling and how nieces and nephews also grow into starlight.

Which brings me to my appreciation for your heave and rest, your storm and calm, your red sky at night and dawn. For the persistent spinning and spinning and hurtling through space. For the light and the dark. The noise and the silence.

Thank you for the ease that settles my heart and the pain that paves unknown paths to peace. That laughter that made my stomach ache? I like that. And the sobbing that swelled my eyes? Yes, that, too. Thank you for the unkind words that escaped me and rebounded like a boomerang. I’m glad you didn’t let me duck. Thank you for the loving words I also did not see coming— the sound of You, creating worlds. For the infinite uncertainty and limitless love. For the hand of help stretching out— sometimes mine, sometimes someone else’s— each of us finding ourselves receiving more than we gave.

Thank you.

To my beloved Maker of All Things, seen and unseen, I may not always understand. You, Keeper of the warp and weft, Caller of the dance, Sculptor of treetops and pinnacles.

I’m grateful to perch here for a moment, seeking the boundless.

Come what may.

Thank you for every blessing.

I love you.

m

May your new year afford you with a high perch. And may you look, always, for the face of God.