I gratitude for the flare of sun at my feet,
and the way the trees keep reminding me
that the Way both ever changes,
and is always the same.
I gratitude for the company of saints
long dancing in the garden of Mystery,
and the way I stood near them
in rooms I didn’t know then were sacred.
I gratitude for words dropped to me
by those who lived on earth
ten generations ago,
and for those who invest in light 
that must be wholly given away each day.
I gratitude for those who
still dance in the night
during a war they did not want.
I gratitude for those who
choose to be gentle
when gentleness was something they had to learn
by not having it.
I gratitude for lemon zest and
the grace of dogs,
for the scent of pine and
the company of silence after a long day.
I gratitude for prayer even when prayer is only 
the way you notice the light
in the sky,
or the way you cry out against
what is wrong.
I gratitude for the way that we do not have to wait
until all the conditions are right
to begin any of this.

May we learn to bless the bodies we have,
not the ones we imagine.
May we honor their limits,
and listen to what they say even when we
wish their reply was different.
May we be tender to what is changing
and aware of what holds.
May we let the word gratitude be an old quilt
around us as we give thanks,
not a common word at all.
Give thanks for hip bones and hands held,
for first breaths and last rites,
for seeing through a glass dimly,
but still seeing,
for the chance to feel tired
and complete.

Maybe you will not be called
with the coal held to your lips,
the rush of wings of
ambitious angels
covering you.
Maybe you will not be called
on a night when your name is said
out loud three times,
and you start to shiver from being known.
Maybe the sea will not part for you,
nor will you stand up in a small boat,
command the storm to obey you,
and have the sky fall silent.

But maybe you will be called by
fallen mustard seeds and
open-eyed dreams.
Maybe you will be called by
the ordinary and the striking,
the places where your heart catches
more than once.
Maybe you will find a fig given to you,
or a promise,
or your way home in the
growing dark.
Maybe you will know that
your call is no less real
because it comes with
seeds in your hand
and the taste of fruit in your mouth,
with a sound so soft
it could have just been the breeze,
But wasn’t.

Wild angels are my
favorite kind.
They have no idea where
they left their haloes,
and they let their robes
run through fresh mud.
They don’t stand in formation
and sing with a choir.
Instead they show up and
change tires
on highways,
sit down and have a beer
and listen,
trespass in the park
to sit on the swings
late at night.
They come to hospital rooms
to tell bad jokes,
to airports to carry
heavy bags,
to food pantries
when it’s the end of the month
and the money has run out.
They believe in
Revelation unfolding,
in the sacred scripture
we write between
each other.