The Spirit’s Whispers
By Colten Biro, S.J.
If only my words were
poised, precise, perfect ballerinas.
If only they could pirouette on a point,
Holding a pose, arresting rapt attention,
Meaning twirling out past paradox of The Ineffable,
convincing the very orbit of the Son to stop and listen,
to nothing more significant—than me.
If only my words were quick, sharp, exact,
halting in the air for emphasis and recognition.
All of which calm, careful, and controlled.
All of which holding the attention of the Heavens,
interrupting an unceasing song of seraphim and cherubim.
If only my words were anything,
but garbled, goofy, grating,
and less akin to rodeo clowns than en pointe figurines.
But they are bumbling and boisterous,
dancing dunces,
threading a thin, thimble-like thought
that the gait of my racing heart
could avoid running into either
lines of bull—or truth too true.
Which means my words, in effect,
avoid bearing my very heart, directly to You.
If only the words, with a gentle extension
and a faint flourish, could entwine:
my desires—Your Will.
my loneliness—Your Presence.
my pain—the Resurrection.
my disquiet—Your Peace.
Completing a grand jete,
coupling cacophonous
concepts midair—and mid-heart.
And yet,
my words
don’t dance
or sing
at all.
So, I don’t speak.
My words don’t waltz, so much as whimper.
And my seat here in the pew feels too quiet
in the muffled silence of the sanctuary.
Maybe, Lord, You have the words
I can perfectly perform,
to cry anything but Abba.
Which for now,
is the only word I pray,
while paralyzed in the repeating echoes
of my pointless pirouetting.