The Circle of Mercy

The Circle of Mercy

(“God encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction with the encouragement with which we ourselves are encouraged by God.” 2 Corinthians 1:4)

I dreamed how many times I had fallen,
how often I was afraid of stepping over the edge.
I dreamed of tainted love that caught me napping,
of uncertain words of dread. I sweated sometimes
just remembering the sadness I felt and the sadness I caused.

But I also dreamed how two lifted me up, two who didn’t
mind walking next to me in the pit of my despair.
I put them on my calendar, today and the next,
meaning to thank them for breathing life into this
stumbling soul. I never meant to try to go it alone,
though that could be inferred from the way I hid inside.

I found them later that day, ready to shake their hands
and encircle them the way they had enfolded me.
But their hands were already busy lifting another from
the abyss where they had fallen. It’s not that they were
too busy for me; they invited me to come and

Join the circle of mercy along with them.

Rolled Up on the Couch

Rolled Up on the Couch

(“We were made like that man of earth, so we will also be made like that man of heaven.” 1 Corinthians 15:49)

My feet are cold standing on the floor,
the thermostat is working, I just set it too low.
What I would give for a larger footprint
that kept me warmer while the rains plot patterns
in the mud.
I woke up early, two minutes I think, and I napped
for an hour waiting to write. My head aches,
the same as it has for 17 years and I wonder when
I will ever be able to jump for joy again.
I don’t mean to sound self-occupied or whiny,
I don’t mean to take all the attention.
But I’d rather be back in the middle of things
thinking I made a difference or two. Instead, I’m
holed up,
rolled up on the couch waiting for the echoes
to pass like yesterday’s thunder. I’m waiting to
play something experimental, keyboard configurations
of things so stable they are candidly spotted under
timed-sequences of tune. I want to cross over on
the bridge to another beginning, an angelic singing
of possibilities. I want to say it without feeling
damaged, but the past catches up with me, the future
pulls away and presently I am stuck inside a
cyclone of consequences that I’ve almost owned.
I’ve left most of my justifications on the side of the road.
One day I will not sink beneath the weight of pain,
I will rise above this gravity’s habits of resistance,
and simply be wrapped up like I once was before
I placed my feet on the floor wanting warmer mornings
and longer passages of joy.

Space Now Between

Space Now Between

(“God blesses you who are poor, for the Kingdom of God is yours.” Luke 6:20a)

Somewhere between complete confidence
and the quilt of unknowing
there are thoughts that once were strong as
mud-bricked walls. They have not fallen,
but they speak underneath my consciousness
and call me to listen above their current frequency.

Somewhere below my previous expectations
and above the poverty line there were verses
of poetry I had not written. And if I did, I swear
the meaning would be hidden. If only I had learned
the song long ago. If only it was committed to
the filing cabinets inside my mind.

Somewhere away from manufacturing
and toward clear crisp creation I faced a
new situation where want became the previous
shortcut I always took. Now I walked close to
silence, the stillness of innovation unmeasured
on the page.

At this point I would honestly say that finances
frightened me
like fire consuming my innovation. I pictured a
some day that would be a sunnier day without
the halting breaths between words. Today
I cannot tell you what will break between
midnight and noon or what phase the moon is
as it circles like a hula hoop. But there is space now
between what I know for sure and what I will never
discern
for sparks to ignite an avalanche of blessing
on the mountain slopes beneath my feet.

And We Frolicked

And We Frolicked

(“Prophesy to the breath. Prophesy, son of man. Tell the breath, ‘God, the Master, says, Come from the four winds. Come, breath. Breathe on these slain bodies. Breathe life!’” Ezekiel 37:9)

It was a strong wind that lifted the crossword images
from the river to the sightlines from the shore.
We were scratching
jigsaw puzzles we bought for Christmas.
The sonic booms tried their hand at prophesying
new faces of the moon. All they ended up doing
was scaring the dogs huddled underneath the tables
in the living room.
There was an exhalation that warmed the journey
we expected to run in the morning mist. We were
dead on our feet,
deceased upon the heels of our discontent.
We ceased moving and wallowed in the mud
while waiting for the wind to come our way again.

We had been looking for our necessary mood when our time
finally ran out. We were dry as corpses, broken like
long-held fantasies of winning back our losses. That
was the day breathing and the sun turned to sand.

But there was movement in the air, we could feel it
though we could not hear it. There were wild geese
honking up the sky in their v-shaped migration. And the
wind stirred between us, lifting us lightly above ourselves,
entering ourselves, unwrapping ourselves, reviving our
selves in ways we had wished for so long. We missed the
ways things once were when the trees caught the breeze
in their branches and shared it with the forest floor.

The wild geese stirred the wind again and like a burst
of unbounded joy we opened anew to as breath
entered us, centered us, reoriented us; we saw anew and
thanked the spirit. We heard anew and knew the tune. We spoke
too soon, so we quietly listened as our skin felt the touch of
wildness we had been pursuing for years. In our stillness
it caught up with us, and we frolicked like we had been
born again.

Love Surrounds

Love Surrounds

([“Love is not] rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful. 1 Corinthians 13:5)

Take the time like it matters,
preserve it like messages from the mountains that
love lies waiting for the forgotten and the unseen.
They had flinched when the words cascaded toward them,
sharp accusations and suppositions and nothing an inch worth
of truth. The implications were clear though the cause was not.
They only felt good once they lowered him a peg or two.

But love lies waiting like a rescue hammock, it meets the
expectation of summer sunny afternoons. Though others gave it
stingily, one gave kindness first place and made room for others
whose hearts had been silenced by those who forgot they
did not know enough.

But love surrounds the wounds left behind by
judgment without cause. Love asks how the hurt began and
listens to the stories even over and over again
until all facets have been exposed to its light.

We thought we had caused their irritation, that we had
manufactured words in a smelter and fashioned them into
swords. But that was not our plan. We formed
platters to serve everyone. We kept hoping to
manufacture a moment in time where the blinders fell
off and we were comfortable to see each other as we are,
even if we had never seen that way before.

Some did and found the scars still healing. Some bound
them anew with bandages and care. We filled a bowl with
water and washed their hands while we waited for
the rest to arrive.

I Think You Already Know

I Think You Already Know

I think you already know by now how
our hearts are entwined. I think it is easy so see
the secrets we have not hidden, the scars we have not
covered in shame. But I want you to know, if you did not
know by now
that my heart is healed because of your love.
My anxious thoughts do not invade like they once have,
my depression occasionally paints it dark, but then I
remember
the way you have taken me by the hand and walked me
back into the light.

You have let me cry when crying seemed unreasonable,
you have made me laugh on days I would rather pout,
you have touched my face with your hands and I cannot
draw back.
I would never draw back.
There is so much love in that touch, in the warmth of
your fingers on my face, that I breathe more slowly and
find the place of grace you have created for me.

I don’t know how all this works, I do not understand eternity.
But one thing I think I know, our hearts were born this way,
our souls were dancing together, interlaced and finding
infinite positions to touch each other with such joy,
such passion, such joy, and such love. We usually know it without
saying a word.

I would do anything for you. You have done everything for me.
I would end the nights of frightening thoughts, I would kiss your
lips with loving warmth, I would hold you close when the
words from outside your mind demean you in acrid proclamations.
I would heal every bruise, every heartache, every undeserved
lashing upon your heart that you never deserved.

Oh, my soul, I cannot describe how you have brought me to this
healing. I only hope you know, my dearest of dear, that I will never
stop loving you, never stop holding you, never stop hoping for your
hand in mind as our hearts wrap around each other even though miles apart.

The Silence Spoke Volumes

The Silence Spoke Volumes

(“(He) gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” 1 Corinthians 11:24)

The moment was intimate, the silence spoke volumes,
yet we felt like strangers, caught beneath the weight of his words.
There was a line that went out from him through all of us,
there were tears unbidden for we knew not why they came.
There were days we were so obtuse we missed the meaning
by miles.
But tonight we felt so helpless, like we should have grasped the meaning,
we should have joined in the metaphor,
we should have pieced the parable together.

We did take the bread, that was the custom. It was his words that
caused our confusion. We remembered the words that
admonished us before for missing the point. What should
we say now?
We were better off silent.

It was subliminal, it was suggested and silent but
when the bread was broken, we could not understand
how the body was his bread, how the bread was his body,
and now, the silent part, we were also broken and given.

Our throats were frozen, our words garbled, our vocabulary
suddenly so limited we could choose no coherent response.
We sat in the moment and could not dream a future without
him breaking bread with us again. Was that what he was hinting?
We could not conjure a memory that would invade our quiet
misunderstandings.

You asked us to remember, a simple act we thought we could do.
We had not planned on you leaving so soon.
But, if you are given for us, break us open like bread to
spread us across the meadows and plains to help others
remember you, here and there, again.