Innerdialects

_{Some call it prayer.}

I’m reeling at the noise of our earth-

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me, like Hannah, in the steps of Tabernacle Shiloh; praying, her syllables drunk in need.

The Gardener’s eyes are ripe with light. Here, my heart keels. The noise has gotten inside. Hate has made us hate. Indifference makes us indifferent. How understand a garden if I’m at “peace” in a desert-

how taste nectar if we ‘re sold only Bitters?

Oh Gardener of Soul – tell me who I am in this Era of erasing each other: girl from Ukraine, boy on the bus with the knife, man with bullet in neck, one on the roof with the gun; our Punjabi Swiggy man speechless at the flood, oh that KissScam exposing global need for gossip, war mongers, in bazaars rich with poverty of the worst kind – greed

I’ve walked into these Gates of Vineyard Shiloh, – arrest my noise; help me find Earth’s assassin, & make sense of nonsense…

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when He speaks, He leaves conversations in every twig, twine and stem – Words are the vein of leaves.

He converses with an emotion I do not get till the noise in me simmers to a whisper. “Father, tell me who I am..”

He is stronger than hate. Higher than suspicion. Wider than doubt. If I speak in the language of angels, but do not have This, I am a loud clanging cymbal. This changes everything. This is a memory of tomorrow. Its a promise made to a vow.

Am here to stay now, a branch grafted in a Sacred wound that heals in ways I couldn’t have guessed, without this parable of a grafting.

_{Its not a good season now? The Gardener has no request of the sun. He only has a request of you & me. To be Salt & Light, city on a hill. Who else would – except those born in this hour, here, now, asking questions ?}

I am a tree, planted by His streams of living water, here to fruit a season. Yea, for such a Time as this,

a Season of Soul, @Vineyard Shiloh

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