"Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love."

By Rita A. Simmonds

At daybreak, 

your deserted place awaits.

It could be your kitchen table

where you drink your coffee

and beg for mercy, thinking about

the challenges ahead.

It could be behind the wheel

of your car as you drive to work,

radio off, no text alerts.

You pray for peace as you

pass the people on the streets,

the cars in other lanes. 

It could be your seat on the train

where you read the Psalms.

The train moves along;

you travel into the depths.

It could be the chapel where you

gaze on His Body and His Blood,

raised, then received.

The deserted place He feeds---

the place of emptiness and need,

silence and request

where at the break of every day

all you offer, He accepts.

 By Greg Cook

Blessed are the powerless, for theirs is a foretaste of life’s end:
The infant, pushed out and into the world’s unfeeling sight;
The schoolboy, knocked around by bullying might;
The lover, defenseless against his beloved’s charms;
The soldier, pierced under orders through battle’s harms;
The advocate, defeated and overthrown by perjurer’s lies;
The washed-up, worthless and without status in his family’s eyes;
The senile, restrained like an errant pet and penned.

Blessed are the little ones, who find their way to Christ.
And eat the crumbs begrudged to them, taxed and over-priced.
Blessed are the honest, drawing hatred from all sides.
The prophet targets he who mocks and derides.

Blessed are the patient ones, who rise from falls each day.
More blessed are the simple ones, who delight in life and play.
O Lord bestow your blessings upon the powerless,
So we may hear You say: “My beloved—My great success.”

Excerpt by St. John of the Cross

 One dark night, fired with love's urgent longings 

- ah, the sheer grace! -

 I went out unseen, my house being now all stilled.

 In darkness, and secure, 

by the secret ladder, disguised,

 - ah, the sheer grace! -

 in darkness and concealment, 

my house being now all stilled. 

On that glad night, 

in secret, for no one saw me, 

nor did I look at anything, 

with no other light or guide

than the one that burned in my heart. 

This guided me

more surely than the light of noon

 to where he was awaiting me

 - him I knew so well - 

there in a place where no one appeared. 

By Carrie Bucalo

You perch before me,

a message on golden wing,

announcing my unexpected salvation.

Is this how heaven comes to earth?

Like black-framed stained glass,

fluttering beside me.

Your presence pollinates

my mind with memories

of people and places long ago.

A sweetness I had lost

comes back to me now,

as you dance on a flower.

You are linked 

with God's own mind...

perhaps you are his clearest thought.

Starting out as a worm,

and not a man,

where did you find such wisdom?

What convinced you to halt your

crawling on this lowly earth?

I've hardly met a man who would do the same.

You found your branch and anchored deep.

Outstretched, you hung

like God himself.

My heart often stops

with the pain of death,

and the question of the tomb.

But you heard heaven and the open sky

in his words:

'Take up your cross and follow me.'

Perhaps I should join you,

encased in this moment.

Will I become something entirely new?

A miracle no one can explain:

Kings and Queens fly with angels,

Maranatha. 

(from Matthew 18: a conversation between a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and a Catholic Bishop)

By Shidare

In your lovely mantel carry me,

my drooping bud longs to see,
but is frozen in heart

by the frosts of fear,

and my hue decays into saturnine.

In your motherly arms take me

into Jesus' meadow eternally green.

Plant me in his palms.

A seed in his wounds,
no longer will I hide his beauty.

By Carrie Bucalo

(Inspired by Rahab, and the women in Matthew's genealogy of Christ)

I used to think

my heart was for me,

filling my veins

with life

and blood

like nothing else

ever could.

But now I'm preoccupied

with keeping You alive,

and my heart seems

placental:

like a beating,

pulsating

lifeline.

Gleaming red

like an altar candle,

the flame of Your Spirit

illumines atriums

and ventricles,

transepts

and naves.

Amid fire and sword

I see where you dwell.

And I rejoice,

over this one part of me,

that sustains the scarlet cord

to your

eternal abode.

My heart holds

the tension of this line,

drawing in mothers, fathers,

sisters, brothers,

and the entire

household.

Even God grabs ahold!

As the walls fall

and the fire burns,

and the hearts of men melt

before the Lord:

Please! Do not forget me,

or the ones I have kept

safe.

Let my heart melt!

For I can barely sustain

your presence.

An ancient treasure,

buried in the memory of time,

your infant gaze

saves me.

By Carrie Bucalo

Why are we so fragmented?

In pieces, we are

only part of a whole.

Like a mosaic,

we peer out at the world, 

plastered in a pose,

thoughtful and reflective.

Being shattered doesn’t

always end in chaos.

There’s space

for everyone to stop 

and pray.

Our faces are calm 

and serene.

Here we gaze at each other

in candlelight. 

We are gathered together,

recollected.

We are not frightened away.

There are others who choose to stay,

inspecting wounds:

smooth, rough, and cracked. 

Mesmerized, 

we are all amazed

by the Artist’s craft,

by the space in the cathedral,

for every color, shape, and scrap.