Christ says, “I will let nothing be wasted.”

 “Let nothing be wasted”

“Nothing, Lord?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

Not the weary years,

Not the silent tears,

None of the loneliness

Which caused that deep, echoing silence

in which we could hear you?

 

None of our failures

Which silenced the insistent voices

Of those who might otherwise have found a use for us.

We were nobody and nothing

And in the vast silence which surrounded us,

We heard your signature sound:

A whisper.

 

And the bad days we planted which became bad weeks,

Bad years, wasted to bickering, quarrelling, and anger?

Even them?

 

“ I will let nothing be wasted.”

* * *

The wise learn wisdom from your Word,

The stupid learn it from experience.

I was stupid, Lord.

* * *

The years I wasted in depression,

Ingratitude, bitterness, jealousy, hatred…

Will I still be as fruitful

as if I had spent them in praise and thankfulness,

hidden in the holy places of the Most High?

 

“I will let nothing be wasted.”

* * *

And when I overworked so much that I burned out,

And still tried to read, being too exhausted too read,

Those wasted hours and years?

Nothing was wasted.

 

And I got terrified and perfectionistic,

And revised pieces of work a hundred times,

And have not finished my big book

NOTHING IS WASTED.

* * *

The friendships, Lord.

I expected too much, held on too hard,

Was too impatient, too possessive.

Nothing is wasted.

 

Oh and how many people I could have loved,

How many could I have got to know

But I–I read and wrote and worried

That I wasn’t reading and writing more.

 

I and my sweet Roy.

We could have been so happy.

Everything was, is, given us.

But how we have fought!

Nothing is wasted.

 

And those sweet, adorable little girls

And me adoring them, and wanting to write too

And writing often won.

I was there. With them and with you.

I was there.

Nothing was wasted.

 

And worry, anxiety…

That my in-laws would land up for months on end,

Would stay forever,

Would run our lives, ruin them,

All the eventualities you averted!

But how long did fear rule me,

Instead of trust!!

 

And why did I not get it, Lord,

That love is all that matters

That I can trust you in everything

That you mean good when men mean evil

Why did I not learn to trust you instead of worrying?

* * *

Mess, Lord!
I sweep it up,

Shards, tesserae, beach glass,

Broken vases, fragmented shells, beads.

Take and receive, oh Lord:

The mess I have made of the jewels

You have lavished upon me, again and again.

* * *

Nothing is wasted, He says.

I take what you give me:

broken jewellery, broken crystal, broken children’s crafts,

kid’s toys, never assembled, parts missing,

birthday presents never used, now just clutter,

broken pottery, broken dreams, broken body,

And my hands work instantly, busily.

They mould, they shape, join, and paste,

And from what you thought was a Psyche heap

of broken baubles they create

Such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake,

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium.