Lenten Grace — The Dry Stone

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
~T.S. Eliot from “Burial of the Dead” in The Wasteland

We are created from perfection yet born broken, like a new toy flawed right out of the box already destined for the rubbish heap.  Out of our detritus there rises a thirst quenched only by hope and promise, coursing through roots that reach deep, surging into branches that rise higher despite a drought of faith.

This promise becomes glue for the brokenhearted, a sticky grace that can’t be shaken off, clinging to us though we are dry and undeserving as a stone.

Broken no more, silent no more, parched no more.  The living water now flows through us, a river of relief and shelter.