This Communion Thursday. Jesus, I am waiting for my reward. Patience has limits. The worst sins, the most abhorrent ones, are those I do not commit, the sins of my wayward brother. Those are detestable. As the faithful son who never strayed, not exactly true, but geographically accurate, I am waiting for a party of my own. I feed the calves their grain, watching them eat and gain weight. With the imaginary taste of a slice of prime rib on my mind, I wait. Jesus, help me to be patient.

Our ideas of justice, Lord, they make sense humanly speaking, but they are not right. Help us, Father, to seek and share your different way.

This Good Friday. Holy Spirit, I am waiting for what’s next in the journey of my freedom. When I started this, it was as a runaway from you and Dad. Now I’m watching the pigs eat food that’s starting to look pretty good, a vegan feast that will fill my belly for today at least. I wonder if I soaked and cooked it in water for a long time, could I chew it? In the back of my mind, I push away the question What have I done? I can’t seem to shake the image of a crown prime rib roast at the dining room table where I used to live. Spirit, be with me even here, even now. Are you next to me in the slime? If I try to make my way back, will you help?

Spirit, there is no place we can go where you are not present. Yet we forget and find ourselves in places where we need not or should not be. The journey home to you seems so far, and yet it is only a simple turning in the opposite direction and there you are, closer than anyone ever dreamed.

This Easter Saturday. Father, I am waiting for the return of my prodigal. As a dad, I realize that the child who has wandered away is ironically never far away from my heart. One out of a hundred, your son said.

Spirit, bring comfort and patience, like the coolest water melted from the snowfall above the trail line where we travel by foot, one step at a time.

This Easter. Holy Spirit, Father, Son, I am waiting for a callback from the union of farm workers. I worked hard all day. I’m sunburned. My muscles ache. Pretty sure I stink. My hourly pay is trashed when the killjoy who shows up for the last hour is paid the same as I. When I come to work tomorrow, I’ll show up at 4:00 and see what happens. Fair is fair. This is not the way the world works, so why are you working in this way with these lazy others who barely show up at all?

Dear Jesus, though I see myself as one who works all day, help me to see that I have arrived late in the day and am not worthy of any wage at all. Shepherd to my waywardness, untangle the briars and free me from the snares in which I find myself caught. Bring me back to the family and the flock of God. Give me work and rest at the same time.

Thank you for the cinnamon rolls and coffee of Easter. Thank you for all the hands you used to make them, kneading, rolling, cutting, baking, frosting, brewing, washing, drying, giving them all away. Thank you for the voices that sang, the hands that played, the voice that preached, the ears that heard, for the greeters and ushers and all who served. Every one a pixel of blue in the five white banners blowing in the wind, spelling out the name above all others.

Easter Monday. Back to a normal work week.

Jesus, you are not like me.
I am not like you.
You became like me
so I can become like you.
You tasted the hell of my sin
so that I might dine with you in heaven.
This seems impossible,
for you to do all that and for me to experience any change at all.
Yet here we are, just a day after Easter and the change has already begun.
I do not work as you do. The world does not work as you do.
But good news means you work and never stop working to give rest.
Your way is better.
Help this finite creature move against his old will
With new resolve, turning, yearning, learning
Scaling this heavenly hill to the eternally loving you.