An “Ordinary Monday”
is what the schedule read—
no bloodied saint to commemorate,
no special theme to be considered,
no miracles to recount?
As if any day could be ordinary.
As if time were as green and long as
the season after Pentecost,
as it glissandos like a penny whistle
toward late November.
Nothing gold can stay,
the poet said. But it was certain
he was no liturgist.
Nature’s first green goes brown
before this green season will sputter
like a guttering candle wick.
Here on the Mountain
the mockingbirds have been taught to sing
the name of God
as cooling rain slakes the thirsty ground:
“Joyjoyjoyjoyjoy!”
uninterrupted by anything as prosaic
as Thunder–
who knows he can’t compete
with song such as this.
An ordinary day?
This is the day that
someone will learn that
the most beautiful word of all
is “benign;”
and the baby with splinters in her knees
will pull herself up and
walk to cheers and applause like an Olympic gymnast.
This is the day that
someone’s journey to fame will end
in unexpected places–
maybe even in Tucumcari–
and thirty years will spin out like gold,
well-lived, well-loved.
This is the day that
someone’s last breath
will give voice to ethereal voices
of loved ones long gone,
urging him forward,
and he will step into light,
buoyant,
shedding the fear he’s trailed around his feet
like a forgotten shroud
to step into love eternal.
This is the day that
ashes will cradle a spark
and when uncovered
will set tinder-dry hills on fire-
paradox,
renewing the forest.
This is the day that
friendships will flicker and dim through neglect,
and that “I love you” will present itself
in a dandelion bouquet fisted in toddler hands,
and a random kindness will
ricochet through six strangers,
one to another.
This is the day that
someone will discover
that the God they have searched and longed for
during their brittle exile from mystery
is in the ragged gasp they draw as their head
breaks the surface of awe,
grace in a shuddering gratitude
that floods into every cell.
No ordinary time
no ordinary gift
no ordinary breath
no ordinary blessing
but extraordinary prayer,
which is every prayer.
The Rev. Leslie Scoopmire is a priest in the Diocese of Missouri. She is rector of St. Martin’s Episcopal Church in Ellisville, MO. She posts daily prayers, meditations, and sermons at her blog Abiding In Hope, and collects spiritual writings and images at Poems, Psalms, and Prayers.