The Retaining Wall

The Retaining Wall

(“Everyone who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on bedrock.” Matthew 7:24)

Sluggish as an Autumn morning, I climb to
the nearest hill to maintain some masquerade of
control. When life pulls away ahead of me,
when I roll the dice on the universe,
I lose control and cannot predict
how they will fall. I cannot pretend
that suffering is the ache of needing a period
at the end of every day.

I saw someone driving a truck the same model
of my best friend who died over a year ago.
The man inside looked like him and I pleaded
that maybe time had run under the bridge and
looped back in fantasy. I have no control over
who leaves and who stays. I cannot pretend
that my words will make you stay until
the end of the day.

I am not God anyway.

I saw your house where I visited you often.
The new owner is building a retaining wall;
granite block abutting the back of the property.
He has three dogs. One black and one brown with
heads nearly the size of horses. One is white and
rules the yard; a 15-pound Maltese.

It is Autumn in the afternoon and the breeze from
the north
chilled my hands while the sun behind me
warmed my shirt like it was freshly ironed.

If I lose control, perhaps I’ll suffer less.
If I move along the trails made by deer in the woods
perhaps
life will be more effortless.

God does not hide far away.

Love Songs for Everyone

Love Songs for Everyone

(“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” Matthew 6:33)

Demonizing immigrants is not doing anything
for the kingdom of God.
Vilifying gays does not accomplish God’s dream
for the world.
Letting the poor in,
but insisting they sit where they cannot be seen,
is from a kingdom of this world, a kingdom headed by
a Satan who only wants to discredit God’s grace.
Letting the mentally challenged have a place,
but insisting they better never become ushers,
misses everything that God has ever dreamed.

Seek the dream, the one where every tribe, nation,
language, and ethnic group, every sexuality, every
bisected economy of the poor, rich or medial are one;
seek the kingdom, where God is happy that
uncommon odors cannot deny a teenager a place
in the celebration of grace. Open wide the gates,
and do not lock them again. Throw open the windows
and let the unbridled joy seep into the neighborhood.
Let it waft into kitchen windows of those who
wondered why they were never invited. Let it whisk
around the room like Thanksgiving pie baked hours
before its partaking. Let the words learn holy silence.
Let the words learn that tongues do not need to wag.
Let the words learn the happy sound when someone finds
their way to our group who knows nothing of our niceties.

Open your arms wide, learn their faces, repeat their names,
invite them for lunch, sit with their children, play their games,
roll the tonka trucks for the littles to roll back. Tell the adults
there is no qualification for our little group. Some of us
are not sure what we think about God these days. Some of us
are undeterred and couldn’t be moved from faith by the worst
calamity possible. Some are CEOs, some are dishwashers,
some are behind on their rent, some own their homes outright.
But together we are a dream come true, a dream formulated
in eternity past, in the heart of God. A dream that sees the kingdom
full of every possible extraction and opinion.

I’ve been poor, I’ve been broke, I’ve been okay, I’ve been saved.
I’ve been well-off, not really rich. I’ve been waiting to be a part
of something like this.
There are no greater riches than the grace we find hidden
in the lives we once had bidden adieu to. Isn’t it time to
hear their stories, affirm their humanity, celebrate the divine
that dwells in them as certainly as we think it does in us?
Isn’t it time that our worship is simply full of
love songs for everyone.

To Memorize Their Names

To Memorize Their Names

(“Whoever gives to the poor will never lack, but whoever shuts his eyes to their poverty will be cursed.” Proverbs 28:27)

After the doors closed, we
counted the coins
and divided them among
everyone assembled in the
backlit room. The odds were
less than even
that everyone received their full share.
We were nice to each other, but it was more
necessary that we remind ourselves there are
not races, no curses that keep us from poverty
when we need the food that will save our souls.

Even the Almighty cries for
the paucity that deprives a neighbor just
a door away from our prosperity.
I am another privileged one who figures
I’ve done good enough to deserve the amount
that has mounted up in my bank account.

After we drop off the canned goods, we expect
to be patted on the head like a good dog rescuing the
baby from the well. We didn’t even stay for dinner.
We didn’t even stay long enough to memorize their names.

After the Words

After the Words

(“In the same way let your light shine in front of people. Then they will see the good that you do and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16)

After the words are finished,
before the meal has begun,
during the early hallway of evening,
we might have time to compose another
sonnet, or, better yet,
sing something we all know by heart.

Before the night drops the dew,
after the moon glows undone,
during the late slant of afternoon,
we might find the time to fill a plate or two
for the neighbors who ran out of money before
they ran out of food.

We don’t need a new agenda,
we don’t need to push hard.
We don’t need an invitation to
start a party among the unknowns.

Before the sun drains the dark,
after the birds announce the morn,
during the corporeal rays starting to warm,
we might find the ones we left here
are poets and prophets who,
have callused hands for sermons and
chef’s hats for the daily benedictions.

We don’t need a host of angels,
we don’t need another spire.
We don’t need a well-written tome
push us closer.

We only need a word, we only need
the silent seeds sown with no one watching.
We only need reminders how free it seems
to feed our neighbors, our kin, our global

Language of love divine.

How Multiplied

How Multiplied

(“For there will never cease to be poor people in the land; that is why I am commanding you, ‘Open your hand willingly to your poor and needy brother in your land.’” Deuteronomy 15:11)

There is not much but there is
more than I can carry. I could load it all on
my back, but how far could I go?
I could leave some behind, but who would
hijack my best intentions?
Come journey with me, we will share the load.
Come circle the sunset, come draw the morning rain.
Come as I follow the siren call, the angel’s refrain,
and we’ll split everything we find with anyone else
we meet on the trail. Why would we
keep more than they need? Why would we look the
other way?
I’ve pretended to be happy,
I’ve acted like I was not hungry.
But, truth be told, I still have unbidden tears and
my stomach craves an answer. Have you
felt the same way too? Am I the only one?
Do you wake up on days when everything is provided
and still feel like a pauper on the street?
Do you ever doubt the direction life has propelled
you, the trajectory of unnecessary missiles?
There is more poverty than simply lacking dollars,
there is more hunger than missing loaves of bread.
I’ll open my hand, I’ll help you up to the trail,
we can climb the waterfall we discovered as a couple of
adolescent boys when we were to afraid to ascend. We know
the rocks will be slippery,
but we need another adventure, a reason to sigh.
Or we’ll just walk in silence until it is time to eat again,
and we’ll claim our bread and wine, and we’ll
invite each passerby to share our meager provision
and we’ll see how multiplied we can be. We’ll
see how multiplied we all can be.

I’ll Listen Closer

I’ll Listen Closer

(“He makes sure that orphans and widows are treated fairly; he loves the foreigners who live with our people, and gives them food and clothes.” Deuteronomy 10:18)

There are signboards on the corner
that write off every unrecognizable name.
But every name has a mother, every appellation
a definition. Every pair of eyes sees the
spectrum,
every mouth speaks its native tongue.

I’ll speak slower if I’m hard to understand,
I’ll listen closer if your words are sifted through the colander.
I love the unknown rhythm your words make when
you punctuate your sentences with a countryman.
You smiled when you showed me the videos you
made with your newest drone.
Your wife interpreted for me that, yes, you could
fix the problem with my MG.
I tried to pay you, I did. You laughed and I
think you said
it was nothing. But it was more than that and
you deserved even more than I offered.

You tinkered like a magician,
you laughed like a penguin,
you talked like we were brothers,
you sang without knowing the words.
I believed you like a clergyman,
I smiled like an old friend,
I talked like we were comrades,
I sang without knowing the words.

Now I’m older, but not by much,
and you are just the same.
Our languages are mixed,
our friendship exists despite the
placards that try to send you home.

Pathways Converge

Pathways Converge

(“Don’t withhold good from someone who deserves it, when it is in your power to do so.” Proverbs 3:27)

Help me learn the language, help me
hear the sounds that mean another soul
could be seen if only I opened my eyes.
One song fades as another one begins,
pathways converge and we are brought together again.
I know you never liked what he did,
you know he wished he never had.
He knows every shattered choice he hoped
would fadeout like the ending of a radio song.
He felt like he was stuck in adolescence,
like he was still trying out for the football team.
He would paint his eyes a different color if
only that would change his view of things.

Help me discover the buried treasure, help me
correct the judgments that make me close my hands tight.
I have done worse, I think, than he thinks he has done.
I would buy him dinner, I would share a drink with him.
I would convince him nothing he did would prevent
me from being his friend.
I would not publish a single sentence he said.
I’d give him my heart as a receptacle for him
to place every shivering thought. I’d ask the
only questions that matter, questions of hope and
none of the statements that would shatter the
aging walls of his tears.

Help me learn his language, help me listen,
help me give what I’ve been given. Help me
receive his fearful confidence. Help me see it
through his eyes.