Home

Home is my center.

The rhythms of my doings
those syncopated measures
are not drowned out,
overrun by rushed triplets
in cut time--if that is musically possible.
I am no fine musician,
I do not practice
everyday
my old flute, or my pitchy tin whistle
or the flailing vocal chords
that blaze out my open car window.

But I practice another song.
Joy.
The song of thanksgiving,
a sweet melody heard in calm,
'midst rest and quieted spirits.

I practice, too, the song
of trust. That melody
is tough.
Not difficult to do,
but difficult to choose.
It is not always cheerful--
it is far from being safe.

This poem isn't shining,
no brilliant metaphors.
It's simple,
to my rhythm that
often changes course.

But here at my sweet center,
the measure of my living
is clear, like water from a spring,
that blessed Well of Life.
I find my space and tree-friends
and then I am free to still
and listen to the echoes
of His promises,
as He loves away
my fear.

"God's purposes are not for me to understand His plans. His plan is for me to understand who He is."
-Ann Voskamp