Move the Hands of God by Prayer

In the silence God invites without words.
My prayers are often noisy affairs
Filled with faces, memories, love
And feelings of sorrow. 

I am often overwhelmed
And moved to tears
By the poignancy of a fleeting thought.

My heart tells me
That what seems insignificant
Holds a treasure. 

God’s gifts often come in disguise
Like the beggar at the door
Who is Christ.
 
The Spirit says minister
Here in this place, at this time;
Reach back through the years
To move the hand of God
By prayer.

I am with God,
The Lord of All,
Including Time. 
I may have missed or misused
Moments to do good,
But God reigns in Eternity,
As present in the Past
As He is in my heartbeat. 

God’s hands are not tied
By the flow of Time. 
He is there
And here
And Eternal Now. 

My lowly prayer,
Clothed in The Name,
Breaks down the wall that stands
Between my need or regret, and blessing. 
Like the little donkey that carried the King of Kings,
My humble prayer
Sets in motion
The flow of grace to love,
To heal, to mend,
To restore and bless anew.

Joann Nelander

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To Your Silence

Here I am Lord
I have brought the world and my day with me
What a motley crew arrayed before You
But not in vain.

We come with a clatter
My noise, our noise,
To the Silence.
The deafening roar
To the hallowed stillness.

Whisper in the chamber of our meeting
Where we tent with You,
Hope for the dying,
Faith to the listening,
Love to the willing.

Listening and Silent

It seems …
I am always talking to You,
That I am always with You,
And have no doubt
You are with me.
Listening and silent.

I am an endless monologue.
You, hovering Spirit,
Wordlessly eloquent abide.
You are Presence and Truth,
Listening and silent,
Thunderously silent,
Save for the stirring of my heart,
And the sometime rush of thought,
Coming, as it were,
From the bowels of my being
With frightening conviction,
And challenging my reticence
To speak aloud
The thoughts of solitude.

Reluctant always  to go about,
And leave the cloister of my heart,
Where in Your chambers I find,
And hold dear,
Private audience with the King,

The world without is a noisy charade.
It woos the pride of me take center stage.
Where suddenly I realize
I have been talking much too much
To my regret.
I, naggingly, suspect
I have diminished
That which was my treasure
And ceased to learn.
Cacophony of me,
I cease to learn and simply rearrange
That with which I am familiar.

Where do prophets, poets and a would-be recluse,
Find a voice if not in You,
Rejecting even audience
To find You in my silence, Your silence.

Copyright Joann Nelander 2011

All rights reserved

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