Evening Winnows.

Where do you need me to be,

In the furnace or the seas?

Burning coals that fire my spirit,

Or crashing waves that sink my feet?

*

Yet here I am, stripped of all aesthetics.

Sifting wheat from chaff, it feels pathetic.

Barns brim with harvest, yet my hands hold no sheaves,

My head bowed low, hidden among weeds,

Silently praying You’ll meet me

Amidst these widening fields.

*

And soon I hear it,

not the rustle of stalks,

not the groan of the winnowing fork,

but a voice calling forth,

low as the wind that parts the chaff from the wheat.

*

This floor is holy ground.

No fire blazes here,

No crowd to see the plough.

Yet in solitude,

I am found by a sound.

*

Make no mistake, His coming isn’t loud.

*

Still, it splits the night,

where He calls me in.

Lays me down like an empty sack,

and I fall headfirst,

spread my garment of self,

over the feet of my Redeemer.

And he gathers softly, my heaps of cares.

*

The night is young;

I listen to His rustles all night long.

I take notes to strengthen this moment like a muscle,

and my lungs jingle with joy like never before.

*

When the winnowing is done,

and morning breathes light upon the straws,

this call will have marked me forever.

For I stayed where I belonged,

Until He called,

and found my place on the threshing floor.

*

Perhaps where You needed me be

was simpy here

In humble surrender, all along .