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you listen.
You place your hand
on the pulse
of the congregation,
the nation, the world.
You watch
the seismograph needle
for tremors,
the heart monitor
for spikes.
You scan faces
on the bus, the street,
you feel the breeze
for signs of a coming storm;
you stand at the window,
you pay attention.

you gather
these things –
the way grass collects dew
and puddles collect raindrops –
you hold them before the Creator,
who holds us all.
You lift them up, the way
mist lifts off the fields
in the morning, the way
the tree offers birds
to the sky, the way smoke
rises from a fire
or a candle, flapping
its silent tongue.

Then you wait,
and trust – you must
believe, that somewhere,
unseen, the green tendrils
of a seed once dormant
are waking, that waves
are breaking
down man-made walls,
that tree-roots are silently
rupturing sidewalks:
that something once dead
is alive again,
that something lost
has been found.

Linnea Scobey

Linnea Scobey teaches Latin at Pacifica Christian High School in her hometown of Los Angeles, CA. She is a graduate of Calvin College and Western Theological Seminary.

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