Last night’s yearning to be a “non-anxious presence” leads me to offer my psalm for last Sunday. Peace be with us all.

Mother God,
I am feeling tossed by the ferment
of men
thrashing around in my small lake,
upsetting my vessel,
commandeering it on a Zimbabwe road,
steering it remotely from a secret place,
upending it with their loud philosophizing.

Yours is a “still, small voice,”
indeed,
as I strain to hear you speaking to the waves
I fear,
as I am powerless in the wake:
“Peace. Be still.”

I hope you have the whole world in your hands.
But I fear,
for the moment,
you are not holding those who are reborn:
your unlikely brood,
crammed on the kayak of your church,
like the grandkids headed for the beach:
some trailing along in life jackets
or trying to swim it on their own,
an armada of babies,
sitting ducks
for the next huge man to rock them with a cannonball.

Your voice seems small,
indeed,
when I only want a foghorn in a murky world.
Teach me to rest in your arms,
in you:
my life jacket,
my Nana,
my strangely unsinkable boat,
my peace with me in the waves.