No Glory Here

There’s little glory
Doing the things that matter,
The small acts that heal
Or restore
Or remind us of our best reaches
Into the dark and almost impossible.
Fame is an easy shimmering substitute
For the lasting
And usually grudging
Respect or even wonder.
But glory is hard-won
And rarely seen
Until the one who carries
Or builds until it is gone.
The hand of God
Passes over us
Like a loving storm
As it lifts each one of us
Like a sick or frightened child
In a barren endless night.
There’s no greater love
Than the fullness
That carries us home.

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