I went in search of a place, an image left behind. A carving of a man who carved his name on my heart: Garry. I found his unnamed statue in Shoreline, Washington, miles away from the ocean. A cedar tree had stood there, and died. Someone had carved, out of this trunk, a likeness to this man who opened my eyes to new dreams. Now his wooden eyes stare across a clearing, waiting. He holds a book in his left hand. His right hand is held upward.
Across the clearing and beyond a line of trees I found a statue of a raven. The rain was lightly falling. The water collected like tears under the raven's eyes. His mouth was open, calling.
I want to pray for God to do a miracle in this decade and this century. Like the raven, I cry out... in prayer for friendship between Native Americans and non-Natives, and for Garry's vision of a book that tells how people are reconciled with their Maker, and He reconciles them to each other through the way of Jesus.
This is a good prayer.
Across the clearing and beyond a line of trees I found a statue of a raven. The rain was lightly falling. The water collected like tears under the raven's eyes. His mouth was open, calling.
I want to pray for God to do a miracle in this decade and this century. Like the raven, I cry out... in prayer for friendship between Native Americans and non-Natives, and for Garry's vision of a book that tells how people are reconciled with their Maker, and He reconciles them to each other through the way of Jesus.
This is a good prayer.
