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

 

I will “let nothing be wasted” (John 6:12).

“Nothing, Lord?”

“Nothing.”

* * *

Not the weary years,

Not the silent tears,

Not 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?

 

And the times I could have been happy,

But I could not forgive.

And the times I tuned out everyone to write,

Forgetting “there is nothing but love.”

 

And the times when anger and sadness and self-pity

So exhausted me that I slept, oh ten hours, half the morning.

What good can come from them?

 

“I will let nothing be wasted.”

* * *

The wise learn wisdom from your Word,

The stupid learn it from experience.

I was stupid, Lord.

 

“I will let nothing be wasted.”

* * *

And when I overworked and burned out,

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

Those wasted hours and years?

 

Nothing was wasted.

 

And I got terrified and perfectionistic,

And revised pieces of work a hundred times,

And still have not finished my big book.

 

NOTHING IS WASTED.

* * *

The friendships, Lord.

Oh, how many people I could have loved.

I see their faces on Facebook now, and see how lovely they were.

But I allowed little things to annoy me,

And read and wrote and worried

That I wasn’t reading and writing more

Forgetting there is only love.

 

The marriage years I wasted to anger,

And fear that I would never write,

Or self-pity at my lack of help.

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 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.

 

And why did I not get it, Lord,

That love is all that matters?

 

I was there.

With them and with you.

I was there.

Nothing was wasted.

 

From these shards of shattered hearts

I make stained glass

Through which

Light shines.

* * *

I am worried, Lord.

Will I be as good as a writer as I could have been

If I had been disciplined,

Organised, a good housekeeper

Physically fit, an early riser

Not wasted time on anger

Used fragments of time to read?

 

I see you smile. I know it sounds silly.

I  guess I am asking

“Will I be as good a writer as I might have been

If I were perfect?”

 

“Anita, to answer your question,

you will be a different writer

than if you had never wasted time

than if you had learned ‘the power of positive thinking”

than if you had learn to forgive

and run a minimalistic tidy house

and, well, had run.

 

But you will be the writer I intended you

to be from before the creation of the world.

All you lament was in my plan from the beginning of time

Your failures will help you reach a different group

Those of the human race

Who have failed as you have,

And they number more than you imagine.

 “Arise, shine, for your light has come,
See the glory of the Lord all around you.”

* * *

“Mess, Lord!
I sweep it up,

Shards, tesserae, beach glass,

Broken vases, splintered 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,

broken pottery, broken dreams, broken body,

And my hands work instantly, busily.

 

They mould, shape, join, 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.