Calling
Calling me to Himself.
I see Him in the dark, threatening clouds
Racing across a blue washed out sky
Just before a storm.
I see Him in the way a fat bumble bee
Hovers on onion skin wings
Darting here, there and gone.
I see Him in a cat's tail as it twitches
With a mind of its own
Teasing the cat, forgetting to whom it belongs.
I hear him calling in the whispering snowflakes
As they fall gently to the ground
Almost inaudible.
I hear him calling in the rushing river
Roaring over stones
Swirling, cascading, dancing in the sunlight.
I hear him calling in the rolling thunder
Strength, majesty and power
No human can contain.
I feel him as I stand atop a hill
With the wind from the snow-capped peaks
So fresh and clean, it takes my breath away.
I feel him in the morning fog
Damp and chill
Shrouding the world around me in a curtain of gray.
I feel him on a Sunday morning
As I pray, He bends down to listen
My soul petitioning for His grace.
I smell Him in the aroma of the rain
Just before it falls
Living water, replenishing a thirsty world.
I smell Him as I walk a sandy beach
The sea spray as it dashes itself against the shore
Erasing my footsteps, as short-lived as life.
I smell Him in the aroma of pinto beans cooking
Taking me back to Mama Grande's house
And childhood memories of Lawrence Welk
I taste and see that He is good
In the flavor of tortillas
Dripping with butter, melting in my mouth.
I taste and see that He is good
In the rich, warm coffee
I drink in His presence when I pray.
I taste and see that He is good
With every breath I breathe
I partake in His goodness
He is everywhere
Calling
Calling me to Himself.