One Word at a Time

One Word at a Time

(“When Jesus saw their faith, he told the paralyzed man, ‘Son, your sins are forgiven.’” Mark 2:5)

You felt like a bramble bush and a whirlwind within,
a storm on the horizon, darkness surrounding every
thought and you fought the demons that told you that
things would always be the same.

You used to talk like the thaw of April;
you used to listen like the Spring rains.
But somewhere everything stopped working and
elsewhere things spoke like you were the one to blame.

But this time there were voices more like goose down;
there were offers of hope like the rising sun. You had
no better choice so you entered their hope and
rode their words multiplied by time.

The road was dusty with spots of mud left
from the brief showers overnight. You hoped
you might get through the day without fearing
the gaze that unwrapped your soul.

You didn’t know when it began, or how it
happened
that paralysis had frozen you stiff. You only
knew that if someone looked into your eyes
they would see how dark it all was within.

You arrived together and they ushered you in;
the day was nearly spent and the hour was getting late.
The journey had worn us and we were weary,
yet the moment ushered us in, lowered into the crowd that
surrounded the words you had hoped would be spoken.

You had no idea, no point of reference to
unhear the words that dislodged the shame that
misplaced you at the edge of every crowd. You took
them in

One word at a time.
And you learned that walking was another way of
discovering grace.

Still Smelling of Fish

Still Smelling of Fish

(“Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me! I will teach you how to bring in people instead of fish.’” Mark 1:17)

The day started with warm breezes wafting in from
beyond the hills wading in the shallow waters of the lake.
We knew the fishing would be good. Our nets were mended,
our food was stocked, and we were ready to stay on the water
for the whole day,

And it exceeded expectations

We were about to dock on the sand after a few more casts
of our nets. We were ready to head home after
sorting the fish by kind and size.

Then they heard words that did not register. There was the
noise of the freshening breeze plus the crosstalk of fellow
fishermen asking about each other’s haul.

We heard him say “Follow me! I’ll teach you how to catch people.”
We were not clear we had heard right but we looked toward the
voice
and recognized him immediately. We had heard him teach the
last two days at the beach. We lined up like birds on a wire and
were awestruck by his words about God’s Dream for the world.

We had little idea what catching people meant, but he was
magnetic
and we were ready charged for a change of venue. But my
brother and I
dropped our nets where they were and decided to take the risk.
We followed still smelling of fish.

That Bad Wind Plays

That Bad Wind Plays

(“I have come to buy your threshing floor. We must build an altar to the Eternal there so that this epidemic will be lifted from the people.” 2 Samuel 24:21)

Do you hate the way that bad winds play on the scorched ground
where corn and grapevines once thrived? Do you think the smoke
from a burning bull well appease or please the divine? Would God
desire something more than just an altar built on a threshing floor?

Oh David, whose heart beat for God, did you believe one more
sacrificed cow could end what looked like anger from the throne room
of the eternal one? Could God have listened even without the
sacrificial altar built on the mud?

You paid a pretty penny for the privilege, but you had a lot more
in your stockrooms at home. You didn’t want the altar to be
an act of charity
but a sort of penance paid in cash.

Did God hear you because of the burning flesh of cattle,
or because of the hope in your heart, though there was nowhere
close to sacrifice your offering? I think God had a
soft spot for you David. I think God saw beyond your
cultic reasoning and would have answered your empty-
handed prayer.

God would have answered that heart that, full of remorse,
couldn’t bear to see the plague spread any further. Did you
know
the temple would be built on this sludgy ground? Did you
realize it would fall and later would be full of crowds making money
off the religious acts of the poor?

The plague stopped that is true. Even with the later
load-bearing walls of a magnificent temple, all God wanted
was enough faith to come to him with humility and truth.

But You Stayed

But You Stayed

(“Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee.” Matthew 27:45)

You had as much pain as the others,
maybe even more. Did your hearts break open,
did you chest heave in grief? Did you ever think
of turning your back to escape the tragedy you could
barely stomach?

The men ran. They hid. They cowered. Yet you remained.
Was your devotion dearer, your loyalty deeper than reason
should allow. And yet you stayed until the end.

Why this strain of pain? Why this pulling out of every
organ and the lungs elongated so they could not breathe?
Why the mockery? Why the crowds demanding his death?
Yet you remained.

Were you unsettled. Did you cry on each other’s sleeves?
Were there words you remembered like “why have you forsaken me” or
“Father forgive them” or “Into your hands I commend my spirit.”
Did you puzzle each moment and wish you could be a cloud to
cover him from the curses?

And what about Mother Mary and John who stayed near? Did you
shiver when he gave them to each other? Did you wonder that,
in his anguish he would still remember his mom?

You leaned on the rocks of the ravine where you watched him die
on the opposite hill of skulls. And the darkness fell and the atmosphere
chilled and a fear you did not expect, a fear for all your nation,
bid you to take in every moment of this gruesome spectacle.

In three short years he turned your gloom into gladness.
In three short hours he moved you from questions to sadness.
In three short years he opened your eyes to primal love.
In three short hours you wondered if these things would still live
above this midday of sorrow.

But you stayed. And you waited to see where he would be buried
so you could anoint his body properly and meet the divine opportunity
to tell those hiding men that the tomb was empty and the day had
just begun.

I Feel This Shroud

I Feel This Shroud

It happens too often and I feel this
shroud will never be lifted, a burning cloud
that has sifted every memory until they lose
all meaning.
Once I could count on the smiles across from me,
but now I look away wondering if I will be
unfurled.

I try to take it in stride and stop reading the thoughts
of nebulous origin. My worry does not serve me well.

Those old connections are frayed, and I stand displayed
as if everything inside me has been revealed without
my permission.
The mountains were steeper than I remembered
and my steps smaller upon the muddy ground.

I’d start a conversation, but I run out of words to say.
I’d sing an old song, but the copies are aged like autumn.
I’d play along just to fit in. I’d list my reasons for awe
that I once displayed like a badge on my forehead.
Tonight I just can’t see how this loneliness can
lift any time soon.

But I also am weary of writing these tomes of melancholy.
They are true, I know, but so are the bright eyes that
smile back when I was looking down at my feet.
My conversations end with awkward pauses hoping I
have not repeated
phrases from just a week ago. While others are
building planter boxes for a future Spring
I sit darkly writing and wishing something would bloom
again.

Do you remember when I could walk down the
hallway to the auditorium and everyone would know
my name? Now I saunter and wish I could feel the same
as those days at eye level when everyone was my friend.

I should take a nap and start this day over again.

Never Be a Day

Never Be a Day

(“You changed my mourning into dancing. You took off my funeral clothes and dressed me up in joy.” Psalm 30:11)

I have seen the pockets where you hide away your pain;
I know you’ve prayed for darkness to cry the day like pain.
You have wanted to dance again and feel guilty when you abstain.
You’ve wished you could drink an elixir to make you love again.

Every time you peek out from your hidden cave you’ve made,
every time you let the sunlight catch your eyes,
you hope and imagine it will be different, things will change this time.
But within days the gloom sets in again and you knew you shouldn’t
be surprised. You cannot even count on sleep to be your friend.

With me you can hide if you want. Or I will turn down the lights so
you can let your tears drop unseen. Or I will reach inside your
pockets and remove a stone or two. I would heal it all if I
could.
I would change the wounds backwards in time before the
first evil befell you. I would mend the seams where the
violence
caused your voice to cease its beautiful song.

If I could I would hold you forever; if you let me,
I would blow away every sore and scarred place you
hide so well. The days would shine again; your eyes
would take the lifeline and sparkle again.

So, when I ask if you are ok, you can share one of those
pocketed stones with me. There will never be a day
when
I will turn away from anything you show me.

That We Would Stay

That We Would Stay

(“He told them, ‘My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’” Matthew 26:38)

Sadness makes me slumber and pain makes me crazy;
and I could not choose which one I would lose when you
told us you were grieving far greater than we understood.
Perhaps it was the wine with dinner,
perhaps it was the dinner itself;
Or maybe it was the evening fog climbing the mount to
the garden where we had come.

All we wanted was clarity and all we had were pronouncements
we never quite understood. But we could hear it in your voice
that sounded vacant and your eyes red with pleading.
We had spent time with you before, just the three of us and
you,
but tonight was different and the air was heavy with discontent.

I promised to do anything for you my future and present Lord,
but though my spirit willed it, my will was drowsy and heavy
with the construction of a home on what felt like sinking sand.
We wished we were angels and could wing our flight above
the garden to watch out for the coming gloom.

Crushed with grief you said. To the point of death you said.
And we barely heard or understood. It felt like the nets of
safety
were badly torn and every evil was about to fill the massive
holes
that kept classless horror at bay. And all you asked us was to pray.
All you asked was that we would stay.