God-Sighting

I have told you a little about Pastor Jeff.  I believe he has been called to be a clergyman, and mostly I find his sermons give me something to think about. Today was such a day.  He gave the congregation a challenge--look for a place where God is at work each day this week--a God-sighting.

I accept the challenge.

Since I began my journey to find out who I am (forward two steps, take one backwards) I have tried counting my blessings, finding something to be grateful for each day.  Somewhere along the way I got busy, too busy to be thankful.  Oh, occasionally God shouts at me, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, UNGRATEFUL WENCH?" I reply, "Nothing, Master." but I continue to make my list.  Gratefulness has taken a backseat to fear, worry and callous disregard for what I already have.

When I heard the sermon today, this came home to me--I swear Pastor Jeff reads my thoughts and writes his sermon around them.  I knew in an instant why I am so sad of late...I haven't been taking the time to look for signs of God, just the petition-prayers instead of praise.

I need to get back on track.  I've been lapsing into worldly worries instead of exercising my faith.

OK. Begin yet again.

When I got home from church I put dinner in the crockpot (cabbage rolls, for the nosy). threw in a load of dark clothes and settled down with more coffee and the newspaper.  As we are wont to do, I  scanned the obits to make sure I wasn't listed, set aside the comics for later, turned to Dear Abby.

There it was, so obvious. It was a poem, attributed to James Patrick Kinney.  It brought unwelcome tears to my eyes, convicting me of my own shortcomings.  Not prejudice so much as the things I have left undone for whatever reason, showing me a selfish place in my subconscious that I have denied existed. Would I hold on to my stick of wood when it could mean life or death? No. But do I judge some who I think may be unworthy of my help? God, please forgive me, for this I have done.  What have I held back that would have served God and my fellow humans?


                                                        The Cold Within

Six humans trapped in happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood. Or so the story told.
Their dying fire in need of logs.

The first woman held hers back, for of the faces around the fire
she noticed one was black.

The next man looking across the way saw not one of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?

The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the shiftless poor.

The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood was the chance to spite the white.

The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.

The logs held tight in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.

They didn't die from the cold without.

They died from the cold within.

                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I have had a God-sighting today.  He showed me, in His miraculous way, that the selfishness that I had thought I'd put aside was still lurking.

I promise to do better, Lord.  Where will I see you tomorrow?