Empty

Lyric Essay

Sitting on the deck in shorts and sleeveless, I watch our poodle king-of-the-mountain survey three sloping terraces, content to lounge until a squirrel skitters by, tempting him to follow. He can’t resist. A gust of wind tempts the ash tree to shed until it too surrenders, and a cascade of sun-shot gold showers down—a pooling lamé peignoir, a sudden denuding. I’m undone. I have much to shed, so much I long to let go of. Yet year after year, I cling. Too many books, CDs, photos, unwritten letters—too much fear and frenzy, my half-hearted attempts, my moments of pulled-up-by-bootstraps. Baring and paring down—would that this could be my modus operandi. Would that I would allow the Spirit’s fresh wind to blow through my bones and empty my excess—all that is decorative. When angel Gabriel visited Mary to announce that God had chosen her among women to bear God’s Son, didn’t she give herself, overshadowed by His higher will? On the deck, I ponder this in the descending darkness, tempted to leave the chill, but I resist. I sit until I see them in the high distance—tiny bright stars twining through branches, pulsing like hope—and I raise bare arms. “Dear Lord,” I whisper into the holy, “I empty myself of desire. Please fill me with Yours.”

 
Related Topics:  Intimacy with God

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