God, I celebrate the yet-to-be.
God, I celebrate the dangerous yet-to-be,
I celebrate the unpredictable,
uncontrollable, imaginary yet-to-be —
for thanksgiving is just commentary
on provenance-proven good-things,
my well-adjusted second half of life go-to prayer,
flavored with self-congratulation
for being one of those gratitude-people.
God, I celebrate the tomorrow’s tomorrow
I may not personally have,
I celebrate the next wild technology,
music that has me wincing
when I would like the sweet rhythms
that make my heart dance,
a child born across the globe
whom I may never meet,
a way of being church that
feels like not one stone on another,
or maybe rolling coins
and pigeon feathers all around my feet.
God, I celebrate
the courage I may pray to grow
when an illness emerges in my body,
patience and healing
for bruising and breaking
and the resurrection
which I would prefer not to experience
except as a theological concept
or a truth about Mama
that wires my heart together.
God, I celebrate the resurrection. Amen