Saul

It’s “Poem in your Pocket Day,” so I’ve emptied out the sea shells to make room for this newfound treasure.

 

What Calls You

Back then I wasn’t sure what calling meant. I thought something mystical—God’s hand on my arm, a divine voice speaking my name. Instead, I discovered the colors of cyclamen, how even the meanest weeds burst into bloom.

It works like this—among the books and fires—grace comes disguised as the winter finch, its beak in the seed; the twilight opossum that feeds on scraps—her babies born beneath my neighbor’s shed. Every day, I learn what love is: the finches, the opossum, the child with Down Syndrome who asked, Can I hug you a hundred times?

Whatever idea I had of myself turns on this: what lives on breath is spirit. I discover the power of simple places—silence—the desire to become nothing.  —Adele Kenny

I was taught in Sunday School that our spiritual “calling” is revealed to us in mysterious but unmistakable ways—like the disembodied voice that spoke to Samuel in the dark of night, or the supernaturally bright light that Saul encountered on the road to Damascus. But I’ve experienced things differently in my own life.  There’s a subtle grace to our spiritual awakenings, I think–which is why I appreciate Kenny’s poem about inner stirrings.

Here’s how it works: What calls me, also draws me closer to the things that really matter. I hear its pulse in peaceful moments, when my heart is open and my senses are fully engaged. It makes its presence known in feather-light breezes and gentle hugs, and the mockingbird that’s perched in our palm tree, singing its little heart out. What calls to me are lounging pinnipeds and ripples in a tide pool—mirror reflections of the love we make manifest in our own lives, and on behalf of others.

What calls to me aren’t miracles, so much as everyday wonders. They help me find my place in the world, and speak to me of joy.

What calls you?