Also while I was out of town, The Porter’s Gate released the first single from their upcoming album, Bread Songs. This one is called “Daily Bread,” written by Lowana Wallace, Kai Welch, and yours truly. This was one of the most exciting songwriting experiences I have ever had. Lowana and I had talked over this idea one night at the songwriting retreat for this project. The next day we managed to snag an hour to ourselves—but we were both so sick of sitting that we went for a walk. For thirty minutes we circled the block on a chilly day in DC, stopping at the corners for me to scribble down lines before I forgot. Lowana was singing a tune, and by the time we came inside we had two verses. Then we found Kai at a keyboard, and he and Lowana worked out the accompaniment while I wrote the third verse. That night Lowana and Kai performed it after dinner, and it went over really well. Two days and some lyrical tweaks later, and the song was recorded in studio. And now it’s out!
A well so deep I could not see the sky from where I sat enveloped in the dark, yet it was there, the sun still riding high, and you were there, remembering the stars.
As if someone had opened up the roof and lowered down a paralytic God to wait with me—what else was there to do?— 'til I could rise, take up my mat, and walk.
Helpless as I, you made no darkness bright. There was no comfort in you, no defense. You worked no miracles there in the night, and when I prayed, you echoed my Amens.
And so we sat there in the oubliette, a broken woman and her broken God, a speck of dust and old, stale crust of bread, until the darkness passed and morning dawned.
And when I rose and saw again the skies, you became whole that sunlit grace to see, who sank to be with me that I might rise, that where you are, I, too, shall someday be.
From nothing you made all that is, and all that is will come to dust. Through every change, we know still this: You keep and care for each of us.
In you we live and move and are, O God, creator of the world. Your wisdom shines in every star, your life in each new leaf unfurled.
Then give us minds to know your works and give us hearts to seek your ways between the daystar and the dirt where we live out our given days.
So may we sing your praise as one: Your works of love rejoice in you, and when creation's days are done, O God, create all things anew. Amen.
I entered this text in a hymn contest on the theme “God the Creator,” seeking hymns for a proposed new ecumenical feast (though not in the Catholic Church, as far as I know): “The primary focus of the feast is on God’s creative action which then calls forth the human response of thankful praise for God’s creating and sustaining action; a commitment to responsible stewardship; lament and repentance for destruction caused by human greed and apathy; and hope for a restored and renewed creation.”
I’ve done plenty before in the “lament and repentance” line, as well as the “responsible stewardship” line. What appealed to me here was the option of “thankful praise” and “hope.” So I focused on that, while also hewing to the contest’s guidelines: “The text should be written in an accessible poetic style that lends itself to singing. It should be contemporary and inclusive and avoid the use of binary language, especially with respect to gender. The text should be appropriate for ecumenical settings, with the possibility of at least one stanza that would be appropriate for an interfaith context. The total length of the text should not exceed four stanzas.”
Four stanzas can give you a lot of leeway on total length, but a simple, four-line tune seemed appropriate for what I had in mind. (I eventually chose the tune OLD 100TH, perhaps best known as “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.”) That means sixteen lines total, instead of my usual twenty-four. I decided I liked the challenge of trying to say something true, but also heartfelt and (I hope) beautiful in a tighter format than usual. I liked the result, but there were over a hundred entries in the contest, and today I received an email listing someone else as the winner. C’est la vie. I can still post it here.
Because the birthday and the wedding anniversary fall in the same week.
I've known you longer than I haven't, love, and wed almost as long as I was not. Most of my life dovetails into this groove, the strongest joint, and perfect in its slot.
Oh, but the wood has weathered, even so. Sometimes it sticks, but jiggle it just right the doors move free. Even these fixed things grow and sink and settle, creaking in the night.
A comfortable sound, not heard afar, I'm used to now, as you are used to me, with each of us forever who we are and neither of us who we used to be.
The nails will rust, boards splinter, shingles part: Time will not touch the dovetail of our hearts.
Sunday’s readings combined the description of the heavenly city in Revelation with the promise of Christ and the Father making their dwelling with us:
Come and make of me your dwelling. Take my ways; inhabit them. Let my earth become your heaven: Make me your Jerusalem.
I would be your holy city, heart of stone made crystal bright: all my frantic rush-hours stilling, windows spilling over light.
You the silence at the center: Here the temple, Lord, is you. Fill my shadows with your splendor, brighter far than sun or moon.
But this heart you gave: I've filled it, left no corner for your berth. Come, O carpenter, and build it; make your heaven of my earth.
Not my handiwork—I know it— ever could construct your throne, nor the walls in their twelve courses. You must build, who are the stone.
Come, and make in me your kingdom; let my old things pass away. Streets and alleys, change and bring them all transformed into your day.
Folio 55r of the Bamberg Apocalypse depicts the angel showing John the New Jerusalem, with the Lamb of God at its center. By Auftraggeber: Otto III. oder Heinrich II. – Bamberger Apokalypse Folio 55 recto, Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek, MS A. II. 42, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=618995
Jesus said to his disciples: “Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him. Whoever does not love me does not keep my words; yet the word you hear is not mine but that of the Father who sent me. I have told you this while I am with you. The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything and remind you of all that I told you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid. You heard me tell you, ‘I am going away and I will come back to you.’ If you loved me, you would rejoice that I am going to the Father; for the Father is greater than I. And now I have told you this before it happens, so that when it happens you may believe.” —John 14:23-29
“Don't let your hearts be troubled,” we hear the savior say; in all our daily struggle he says, “Be not afraid.” But where shall we find courage to do what must be done, who see the way the world is and feel that he is gone?
Yet peace he leaves behind him— not as the world he gives— and here and now we find him. Yes, our redeemer lives, and here he makes his dwelling: Its doors are open wide. Come, let us keep his telling! He welcomes us inside.
The right hand of the Father still stretches over us; our savior and our brother still walks with us in love. His peace shall not diminish: In triumph or defeat his joy is yet within us to make our joy complete.
You speak a word that prunes us: You love us, and we bleed. The mercy that renews us uproots us, thorn and weed. You cut away these branches— they're burned but not consumed. We're only dust and ashes, but you will make us bloom.
You take our cold convictions, the vows we made and broke, wrung through your crucifixion, sung in the cockerel's crow, and turn them into mercy. Your alchemy redeems. The empty nets are bursting; the mortuary teems.
You harrowed earth and heaven to draw us through the dark where thirty silver pennies shine out among the stars. The sea gives up its flotsam, and sweet now runs its brine. The briar crown has blossomed— dead branches drip with wine.
From the sudden storm's tornadoes and the sirens going off and the radar still updating— now deliver us, O God. Yet for safety and for shelter as the danger passes o'er while the world outside's a welter— for all this, we thank you, Lord.
From the asphalt shingles flying or the buckling of the walls that would leave us naked, lying— now deliver us, O God. For the tedium of waiting huddled on the bathroom floor 'til the siren's slow abating— for all this, we thank you, Lord.
From the slumber of complacence under quiet skies and broad that fill, in a blink, with hailstones— now deliver us, O God. For the turning of the weather and the end of every storm— May we come through all together— for all this, we thank you, Lord.
Kate Bluett 