Sleepy day in the truck. I was praying, tucked away in the back, but realized that my praying was turning into nodding (and possibly drooling) so I grabbed my guitar, and perched on the lip of the truck.
I love the little birds that hop and peck on the sidewalk outside the truck. We have a box of Cheerios on board, and I often throw a handful onto the street, just to see their delighted response. So there I am, contemplating the birds, and contemplating the other “sparrows” that flit about the truck, and often nest a while inside. The scriptures draw the analogy between the sparrows and the poor, and it seemed to me to be an apt one.
So, for the first time in a long time, I began to play, sing, and write.
Even the Sparrows
Even the sparrows find a place near your altar,
Even the wanderers who roam.
Even the fatherless are embraced by the Father
We’re coming home, we’re coming home.
The table is set
We will sit down
Surrounded by friends
Birthing and groaning better describe the process than the word “songwriting”. It may sound weird, but songs roll around my insides, and become my prayers. I feel the weight of them, the rush and swirl. I carry them for days, sometimes weeks. So this is what I am carrying now.
The next time I was at the truck, one of our new truck friends brought by a new little buddy of his, to introduce him to me.