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[The shepherd
of the sheep] goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know
his voice. They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him
because they do not know the voice of strangers. (John 10:4b-5)
There is a
voice of quiet amid the clamor, a prayer of peace beneath the cacophony and
conflict that commands the daily news.
It is your
voice, Jesus. I heard it on the lips of elders who spoke in ways I most needed to
hear when I felt weak and unworthy, insignificant and insecure.
You spoke of
love, of wanting me, of beauty and kindness and care, of compassion for a world
of hurt. Your voice claimed a space, a room in my heart that was created especially
for you, a place nothing else should ever occupy and nothing else can ever
satisfy.
I sit and
pray each day hoping to descend into that space, to enter that room where you
so lovingly abide that I may hear your voice and feel my heart one with you.
Somedays, the
door opens, tears moisten my eyes and I know what human hearts were fashioned to
feel and know. Other times, the door is closed. I cannot enter, and I realize that
entering is not something I can command but is your gift.
I can only
ask, seek and knock, aching for the door to open that the miracle of oneness may
wash away every hurt I have ever known, every sadness I have ever felt and every
moment I have ever felt lost and alone. All of it swept away in love’s cleansing
current.
This is your
gift today. For reasons known only to your Spirit, the door opens, and I enter the
place of hearing and knowing the Love that does not die and will never cast me
out.
I see my
life, the years and decades, the places and ways, so many more than I know or
can name, where I heard the voice of your love calling me to stay near, telling
me that all the voices that ever troubled me, including my own
self-condemnation, were telling me lies.
And for all this,
I praise you, for you are my only peace. You are my joy. You are my final and
fondest hope. You are the Love I hear in every love and every beauty and every
joy that frees me to live and love beyond the prison of ego and anxiety.
So, help me, Dearest
Heart. Help me hear your voice amid the clamor, conflicts and cacophony that
command the daily news. Help me hear you when my heart is cold and dark, when
the nights are long and sleep won’t come. Help me hear you when memories taunt
and accuse, and when I feel my life has too little mattered.
Help me hear the
inner voice of love, from the place of your abiding, that like the faithful ones
who blessed me, I may speak of love and beauty and kindness and compassion in these
bitter times, when voices of hate demean the dignity of human beings you made
for yourself.
Help the hurt
and broken ones hear your voice and know the love you are so pleased to share,
even with me, right here and right now.
David L. Miller
