Nazareth.

I am waiting here, 
waiting for You to tell me when it is time to move.
I am praying here,
in this undefined space,
this open ended, foggy, shapeless moment.
I am in the garden
and Your blood is on the ground.
I echo: Father, Thy Will be done.
This is the preparation,
the moment before the revelation,
full of achey dreams and disconnected passion,
the one without the times and seasons—
for who am I to know?
Plant the seeds, Good Lord,
so that when the whisper comes
after the earthquake and the fire,
my heart and soul and mind are attuned
to recognize the wind that blows where it wills,
to hear You in this holy space:
the Good Shepherd, the Familiar Voice,
the One I took the time to know.
Then will be the time, then the season,
when my earthy heart unfolds inside me.
With spittle on my eyes I will wash 
in the water of Your abounding grace
and watch the fog vanish in Your piercing Clarity.
Sprung forth from the seeds which have been germinating 
and soaking in richly prepared soil,
might I respond with new eyes and open hands
to receive Your quiet invitation—
echoing the Holy Virgin and 
the Courageous Martyrs and 
the Ones who have all known Your Ineffable Light:
“Here I am, Lord.”
In the moment of the call,
I want to be the one who responds generously:
with the whole of my life.
But for now, I must wait: my Nazareth.