Praying with Eyes Open

Blessed are those who mourn… (Jesus, Matthew 5:4)

Flash floods of tears, torrents of them,
Erode cruel canyons, exposing
Long forgotten strata of life
Laid down in the peaceful decades:
A badlands beauty. The same sun
That decorates each day with colors
From arroyos and mesas, also shows
Every old scar and cut of lament.
Weeping washes the wounds clean
And leaves them to heal, which always
Takes an age or two. No pain
Is ugly in past tense. Under
The Mercy every hurt is a fossil
Link in the great chain of becoming.
Pick and shovel prayers often
Turn them up in valleys of death.

This poem was written by Eugene Peterson (1932-2018), from his tome, The Contemplative Pastor: Returning to the Art of Spiritual Direction, a book that has profoundly shaped my pastoral ministry, and is still doing so today, as I read yet again at the end of this year.