Grace intruded upon my habitual sorrow
and marked me for its own
like a pattern of ink under the skin,
like an imperfectly minted coin,
a misprinted postage stamp
or a raw diamond selected for its flaws.
Plucked like a flower
for a vase on a bedside table;
like a wild colt culled from the herd –
lassoed, corralled and broken;
like a shell found on the beach
or an injured bird unable to resume
its migratory route,
I left the broad path
for the narrow and the crooked
and now – no path at all ...
making my way as everyone must
who tramps toward the gates –
yet, with a Companion who by turns comforts,
inspires, fortifies and illumines the way ahead.
O child of God, Grace is beyond your ken.
To whom much is given much is required.