I’ve understood more about grace while stiff-necked at a desk than I have prostrate between pews, bent over benedictions. I’ve learned to file my prayers in manilla folders, paperclipped with simplest thanks. This is the unassuming language I now speak. It’s easy to feel God in a golden hour glow, near the rush of a body of water. Beauty has a voice deafening with the heavenly mystique.
But write me a poem acquainted with the whine of a fax machine and the Monday migraine dulled by Ibuprofen, and will your words still sing? God Himself walked the day-to-day with humble delight. Certainly, stretched out between feasts and resurrection were blistered feet, sore throats, conversations off-beat. The Holy aching the unholy—is not this its own variety of mystery?
Let us learn to know Christ in the wear and tear of our own humanity.