Mary Oliver

Now I know, Lord, what You were doing,
When You placed that love for the words of the world, and the world,
Deep within me, woven so tightly into the latticework of my bones;
I know what You were doing when You guided my small and eager feet to that library shelf,
Under my mother’s unknowing provision, when You led her to say,
“This one, this one,” so casually, coincidentally, as if it really meant nothing to either of us.
“Mary Oliver, she is famous,” my mother was saying. “You might like her work.”

Yes, I might like her work.

Now I know, Lord, what You were doing,
When I read Thirst for the first time, and thought, “How sweet,” innocently,
Stupidly, without a single thread of knowledge concerning
The pain that would soon arrive silently, and shadow me indefinitely.
I know what You were doing when I somehow never forgot the book,
When I carelessly scrawled the title on this-or-that Christmas list.
“Mary Oliver, she is skilled,” I was thinking. “I might like to own Thirst.”

Yes, I might like to own Thirst.

Now I know, Lord, what You were doing,
When You took Mary Oliver from this world, which was
Hers—gloriously and undoubtedly hers.
You were teaching me to master thoughtful stillness,
To drink in every sight of this difficult, stunning kingdom, this world,
Which also, in Your mercy, might someday be undoubtedly mine.
You were equipping me with all I needed.

You were saving my life.