A Pretty Good Day

A Pretty Good Day

(“Then he said, ‘I tell you the truth. You must change and become like little children. If you don’t do this, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Matthew 18:3)

Splash is a sound that slaps the salty sidewalks on
summer afternoons. Children take the water seriously,
pointing the hose at the nearest victim. Giggles turn the
corners round the houses of everyone who has come out to see
the joy that fills the street.

They were mostly grandchildren dancing like fountains,
toddlers tasting the sunlight as they hugged the water
spraying over them. They had not learned

(Like so many adults do)

That it feels so much like earning the days that
are given for free. They invite us to misbehave for just
a triangle of time each day.

Children take what is offered, unabashed liberty.
They point the water hose at each other and the liquid
looks like diamonds bouncing off the sod.
The day turns late, the shadows grow long and parents
whistle for children to come home. One more slide down the
wetted grass, one more mouthful of water from the hose,
one more dousing of your crush, and one more towel to
dry everyone off

All in all, it was a pretty good day.
No of a certain age needs to be taught to play.

The State of My Brain

The State of My Brain

(“The Lord makes our human spirit like his lamp inside us. It shows us what we are really like.” Proverbs 20:27)

I’ve got enough time to read a chapter or two,
to turn on the overhead lamp and see what the words say.
I’ve been reading from the day I knew that one word and
another
could take me to world without moving a muscle.
A man down the street asked me what kind of books
I liked the best. I was eight or nine and I said “adventure”
though I wasn’t entirely clear what the word meant. He gave
me two books, one about the thirteen original colonies and
I don’t remember the other one. Maybe a Hardy Boys mystery.
I made weekly trips to the library; its front steps were marble.
Sometimes I walked since it was only six blocks from home.
I would take a volume of an encyclopedia and start reading articles
in alphabetical order. I wondered who wrote all this candid information
and how they knew so much stuff.

Reading captured me as a teen. I read all of Shakespeare in one summer and most
of John Steinbeck. The next summer it was Ray Bradbury along with the
poetry of Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Rod McKuen got an occasional look.

I read early twenty century playwrights and imagined their words in
my mouth.

Ten years later I was a newly formed follower and read books on
prayer and spiritual gifts and how to manage your emotions by concentrating
on Christ. Truth? I found myself falling woefully behind.
There was a method to pray an hour a day. I managed 15 minutes.
There was a way to speak in tongues, and I mumbled them well. I
never got my mind swept clean from thoughts that invaded constantly.

Today I read memoirs and liberal theology. Today I quiet my mind
with music before I read. Today I talk slower and less certain.
Today I am not sure of my purpose, but I do not shame myself
for the state of my brain.

Follow the Messengers

Follow the Messengers

(“The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.” Proverbs 18:10)

Beyond the borders there is a square of
safety for me. I had studied the rural forms
for nearly 20 years and found the remains of
remote islands on the run. The tables were turned,
the tallest cedars burned and returned decades later.
All I could see from miles around atop the largest hill
on the grounds of a dozen acres of refuge, were angels
winging their way to me.

I discovered my identity in the motion of their wings and
the song of their mouths that echoed like childlike giggles
up and down the face of the canyons and the depths of the
muddy river running candidly.

I started listening to the way the wind blew through the
narrow windows of the tower and I could swear the birds
had stopped their chirping so I could hear the way the sun
made the grass grow. So I could hear the leaves inching out
toward the sky.

There had been trouble outside the fences,
there had been blockades keeping the stockpiles empty while
the children starved. They insisted it was legal the way
they turned away international aid. They imagined they
owned the soil where the tears of the mothers watered the dust
where innocence fell.

The angels moved past me. I was not their project and now I know.
They were moving me to move with them;
they were sent to melt the hearts of so-called kings who devastated
tens of thousands for an incomplete retribution. They have
nowhere to run, so let us run to them and leave our watchtowers
behind. Let us follow the messengers whose words are peace
and whose ways are love.

The Next Page of the Book

The Next Page of the Book

(“Depend on the Lord in whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.” Proverbs 16:3)

So much depends on how we carry our load and how
heavy it sits upon your back. There are some who would
steal your soul
to upend the work you’ve done to wake up where you are.
The mistakes you’ve made only take you closer to
learning what is no longer needed. The image of God you have
needs to be erased so only the naked reality remains.
Half of it was prayer, half of it was doubt,
the day remained misunderstood whether cloudy or bright.
He was sure there were few who knew or understood the
ransacking his brain had endured or how late the scars remained
after the pain.
He wasn’t sure about healing, or what it meant. Too many
wounds
were self-inflicted, others were done by those practicing their
religious vows. He wasn’t sure what was worse, or whether faith
was still part of the picture at all.

He understood little the longer he contemplated what remained
and the change of scenery hadn’t paid off anyway.
He was distressed it came to this; he was silent about
all the rest.
He had been depending on divine intervention for so long
it felt like his breath in winter, vapor vanishing in the air.
He had been hoping for renewed inventions but his hopes
were too high
and they seemed to fly past his field of vision.

And yet anyone looking at his surroundings would conclude
the plans had come together full. He knew that. It was
all in his head. And he knew that now as well.

He decided to turn the next page of the book he was reading.

Above the Weakening Waves

Above the Weakening Waves

“Jesus said, ‘Come.’ And Peter left the boat and walked on the water to Jesus.” Matthew 14:29)

I’ll be the first to admit the whipping wind almost
was too much for me. The day turned on a dime and the
evening screamed like a child with a lost toy. We were
afraid

we would never get home. Once the storm hit, we
threw out hope like a lifeline cut in two. We could not see;
the waves crashed, and the wind was a banshee. No one
predicted this, no one had it on their radar. The radio scanned
for boats nearby but all we heard was static etched by lightning.

Fear rose like a monster from the waters. Our throats were tighter
than the rigging we hoped would hold.

We thought he was a ghost. The tempest tainted our vision.
But we heard the words urging us toward courage and we thought
we knew; it was so familiar. I steeled myself, shivering in the wind.
“Could that be you?” And then insanely I said, “If it is,
tell me to join you on the water.”

All he said was, “Come”.

I cannot explain it, or why I asked. But putting my feet over the side,
I touched the water, and it was solid under me. I was dizzy with
wonder; my breath escaped into the waning storm. I could see
him
as I had seen him so often before.

Then the wind whistled, the waves spit, the boat still rocked like
a jazz band warming up, and I saw it from the corner of my eye.
My feet slipped. “Help” is all I knew how to cry. And “Lord, save me!”

I felt my hand in his, the strength grasping me. He told me my
faith was small, but I thought
I had endured pretty well. It was the storm that spun me away.

But his presence calmed me and calmed the wind and waves.
Like a morning after thunderstorms our hearts were overcome,
believing, hoping, wondering, stuttering a new faith
that danced above the weakening waves.

The Dream of God

The Dream of God

(“God’s kingdom is like a treasure hidden in a field. One day a man found the treasure. He hid it again and was so happy that he went and sold everything he owned and bought the field.” Matthew 13:44)

It was a normal day, and by normal, I mean he took the same route by foot
that he always took, walking five blocks west, crossing across the park and
lingering briefly at the fountain (it always seemed to know his name), then
continuing north the building where he worked for 25 years. He still hadn’t
quite figured out what his job was. Or better put, how what he did intertwined
with what everyone else did. They had departmental meetings, but only one
department at a time.

He was not bored, he was hypnotized. The same walk, the same pace, the
same project, the same people, the same “how are yous” and “hope you’re fine”
every day had cut a highway through his mind that all the electrons followed;
a racing oval without knowing the perfect ending. All that was missing was
the checkered flag.

One Tuesday (he knew it was Tuesday because that’s the day he bought a
coffee and croissant from the vendor at the park. One Tuesday, croissant in hand
and the coffee warming his mouth, he traversed the park one more time,
the itinerary well remembered and rutted through his brain. Just as he was about
to move from the grass to the concrete of the roadway something caught his attention.

He thought it a toy. Maybe a dime-store keepsake. It might be from a child’s
Halloween costume or a young salesman’s sample case. He picked it up and
held it in his palm.
Blue like a stellar jay, more blue than his grandson’s eyes, darker than the sky,
but brighter than the water’s flow; its weight told him it was more than glass.
He had started the day like every other Tuesday. The sky was the same as yesterday,
the stoplights blinked the same time as they always did. The same doors
opened to the office buildings that never changed, not just day to day, but
year to year.

He set the jewel down, and with his well-groomed fingers scratched a hole
in the dirt deep enough where it wouldn’t be discovered. He marked the spot
with gps location and continued on to work.

But the sapphire, that precious treasure, stayed hidden within his churching mind.
He had never seen a thing like it before. He must have it. He must make it his own.
Leaving work he walked back to the spot where the gem was buried. He wrote down
the coordinates and the next day went to the bank, asking about that spot of land.

Though surrounded by a public park, this bit of land, this mini-acre, was private
land and the owner had long ago wished it sold. The man, gathering all he had,
made an offer, and, accepted, he sighed the papers and rushed to the site again.

He was apprehensive. What if someone had come across his treasure while
he was gone? He gently moved the dirt away from the treasure, and there it was,
gleaming as the late afternoon sun danced on its facets.

He laughed. He danced. He held a party. He left his job. He fed the homeless
man who sat outside his building. He stopped by the hospital to see his
adversary and wish him the best. He took his wife to the club, and bought
his children the biggest, brightest books they had ever seen.

This is the kingdom. This is the joy. This is the beauty of God’s dream
for the world. Lean over. Pick it up. See its beauty and dance…simply dance
at your good fortune. God’s dream of peace not war is upon us.

God’s dream of light not dense is here.

God’s dream of sense taking the place of lies has begun.

God’s love that heals the sick and the sorrowful is fully formed before us.

God’s dream of circles of people owning nothing but the need to share
everything one on one to each other.

Nations dissolved their boundaries; missiles were decommissioned and
turned to playground equipment.

Churches closed because the celebrations just never ended and spilled
out on the streets. This is the kingdom that no empire of the world can defeat.

The Spirit Does Not Shout

The Spirit Does Not Shout

(“Jesus answered, ‘The person who sows the good seed is the Son of Man.’” Matthew 13:37)

The Spirit does not shout,
she does not garner support by surrounding herself with sycophants.
She is agrarian, sowing seed like the Son of Man.
She does not make demands, does not insist your property
be remanded in some sort of trade for later projects without
your permission.
Her position is always within and without, her invitation
can be heard in the ways the leaves rustle in the freshening wind.

The Son walks softly,
he does not break the broken reeds and leaves the flickering wicks
to find their light again.
He is domestic, but untamable. He is accepting and oh
so
challenging. He invites every lonesome wayfarer,
he picks up the fallen braves who were called cowards
for all their fighting. He wields a sword full of words
planted in the fields prepared by quiet meditation.

They do not shout, the Father does not condemn,
they do not schedule rallies to rile up the red-hatted minions.
They tell the truth, the truth is love, and faith is expressed through love,
and so is
missed
by some who only want noise and accusations. They prefer gunshots
to the light touch of divine inspiration that lies before them in the
fields gold and ready for harvest.

Through the cycles of suns and setting,
of births and dying,
of beginning and ending,
are the voices that speak like velvet to the
fainting hearts and hammers to the pious folks
who will not give up their seats.

The Spirit does not shout,
so be silent, let go, and leave the puffery behind