I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked. Psalm 84:10
By Jen Hunt, in honor of the Baudhuins departure for seminary, from the archives
Weekly and weak
I return to this shore. Baffled,
Yet balmed to see
Brash sand sculptors mock the tide
With its too-soon waves
That lap, then leave, and lap again,
Till all is lost and
The barren shore rests
Flat, yet moist--
No trace of craft enduring,
Save in soul clay
Kingdom-bent
Here, in the swish and grime
Bare toes, dizzied, curl tight,
Re-righting their stance at the rim of majesty
A chin shakes; knees quake
Ears --and fears—pop! Deafened by the din
Of rattled hearts and cancelled sin
The world’s crimes hang clean
And sweet as slips on wash day
The wind whips through and through,
Sets all in proper place--
Such rare force, grace--
God stretches; I shrink
The ceiling’s not where I think,
Here, where chalk writing leaves
Indelible ink
