The Bog - A Liturgy for Osage Park

They call this place a bog.
Stagnant. Clogged. Muck.

Though, when you slow to the pace of the bog,
This place so still. So slow. Erupts violently with worship. 

Consider the ants. Silently scurrying in syncopated sequence. 
Consider the fish. Floating freely with the flowing current.
Consider the dragon flys. Webbed wings whispering worship.

Consider the organized chaos of creation
being and doing exactly what they were made to do
without rush or worry. 

Consider the crane.
Stillness seeping from every stringy feather,
Its feet must have grown roots into the silty muck of the bog.

As I sit and consider this so called bog.
Nestled in the middle of the hustle and haste of the humming city.
I can’t help but think the true bog is out there. 

Marriages stuck and clogged.
Relationships stagnant and mucky.

My soul...

Growing roots into the shifting silt of life. 

And yet. 

When one stares at the water.
Murky and impenetrable.
No signs of life at first glance.

You start to see the faintest bubbles.
The slightest stirring.
And ripples start to form. 
Unseen, unknown by the life that created it. 

Isn’t life always lived in the muck of the bog?
Where things seem dead, life ripples throughout eternity. 

The creator accepting our meager bubbles and minor ripples as worship that echoes from the bog and beyond.