Grace bathes us
Inside and out, most of it passing right through,
Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it
Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space.
We are sieves with holes the size of eyes,
Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse
Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best gage
We have. It tells us when we get close
To grace in more than trace amounts, to a deposit
Of it glowing deep in the mine. The usual
Blip . . . blip . . . blip . . . of the heart’s casual scanning
Crackles awake for once. It’s the sound of a necklace
Snapped, gray pearls pouring, bouncing, staccato all over
A marble floor. The sound of full blown monsoon on the roof,
A genuine deluge drowning out the faucet that has dripped
Your whole life long. The sound of an epileptic finger endlessly
Double-clicking the icon of its worship
To open a new window on the soul.
Time is short, so I’ll be direct: FIRST THINGS needs you. And we need you by December 31 at 11:59 p.m., when the clock will strike zero. Give now at supportfirstthings.com.
First Things does not hesitate to call out what is bad. Today, there is much to call out. Yet our editors, authors, and readers like you share a greater purpose. And we are guided by a deeper, more enduring hope.
Your gift of $50, $100, or even $250 or more will bring this message of hope to many more people in the new year.
Make your gift now at supportfirstthings.com.
First Things needs you. I’m confident you’ll answer the call.
