The Compass Call. 

A quiet hour,
spent alas, not praying,
simply staring,
not seeing the warm paneling
or gleaming cross,
not thinking,

listening perhaps,
for that voice, at times
so hard to hear,
a whisper in the midst
of so many others
that it is hard to pick out
of the crowd, hard

to to grasp
in the madness of voices
that vie for your attention.
All that sets it apart
is it’s gentleness,
it’s patience
as you strain to hear
it’s compass call.

About this poem. 

There’s a lot going on in my life right now. So much it’s like the earth is shifting under my feet. I’ve spent a lot of time in prayer recently.

For me prayer is partially talking to God. But even more, it’s listening. Sometimes he chooses to talk. Sometimes he doesn’t. More often, I think, he whispers in the midst of the other noise. And I have to pick out his voice.

The graphic is from the cover of the first edition of my first book, The Wisdom Letters.

Tom