Tori Samar

“Waiting exposes our idols and throws a wrench into our coping mechanisms. It brings us to the end of what we can control and forces us to cry out to God. God doesn't waste our waiting. He uses it to conform us to the image of his Son.”
― Betsy Childs Howard, Seasons of Waiting: Walking by Faith When Dreams Are Delayed

“I Have Held Time's Shell”

I have held time's shell
to my ear and heard
the deep, endless, reverberations
of God's voice,
wave upon wave.

But now I stand
at this intersection,
bombarded
by horns and heralds,
herded
by small demands,
propelled
by petty problems,
distracted
by advertisements shouting toothpaste promises,

trying to remember
what it felt like
to hear the tide
of God's voice rolling
wave upon wave.”
― Ben Palpant, Sojourner Songs: Poems

“They say
you get what you pay for.
Sometimes. But
what about bread of life?
What about a cup
of living water?
Could it be?
We paid nothing.
This is the sacrament of love!”
― Ben Palpant, Sojourner Songs: Poems

“A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins,
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.”
― T.S. Eliot