From Bolivian mud

Lord God Almighty, Powerful King,
   Maker and Mover of mountains
   and universes,
we're stuck in a river.
We've been here for over an hour
   and what I want to know is--
   why don't you get us out?
Sure, the scenery is great,
   but I'll bet it's just as pretty
   'round the bend.
Those mountains--
   you raised them up from nothing
   with a mere creative word.
Why are you mute now?
Speak, Lord, and resurrect this hunk
   of steel, fiber glass and rubber
   from its muddy grave.
Move, miracle worker, feeder of 5000,
   elemental wine maker, curer,
   creator.
I know you can do it.
After all, I'm here on your business.

But here I sit.

Could it be
   you're trying to tell me something,
   something I can only hear
   from this river bed?

Could it be
   you have your reasons and lessons
   and character sessions
   better learned mid-stream
   than mid-church service?
OK, Lord,
   I give in.

Pardon my griping
   and teach me
   what I need to know.
In all of this
   I'm still your
   wet but
   willing servant.



(From The Secret Colors of God: Poems by Nancy Thomas, Barclay Press, 2005)