The Visitor

The Visitor

(“Be devoted to each other with mutual affection. Excel at showing respect for each other.” Romans 12:20)

I like the way you glided in under the radar.
You came in peace.
I came outside.
I was grumpy.
You were friendly.

You looked for answers and accepted my
question marks.
All they wanted were receipts to prove my
intentions.
My lethargy was the power of inertia
that held me in pieces on the floor.

My wings were weary; I had flown well
into the night.
I put that candle in the window hoping
that you would see
the fainting flame that called for something
deeper than miserly friendship.

You asked no questions,
you waited for me to talk.
I had run on sentences and nothing really to say.

Did you bring anyone with you or did you
travel alone?
I have been a solitary one ever since
I shared my opinion
once over the limit.

Did you come because the wick was fading;
did you bring a notebook to take notes like a
beat cop might do?
But I see your hands are empty and there is
soup on the stove. Can I serve us a little bowl even
though conversation is limited to weather and sweaters
I haven’t worn in a year?

But you made the effort so perhaps I should offer
something more than broth in a spoon. If you want the
truth,
you’ll need to stay awhile. I’ve uncovered
passages below myself I never knew existed.
I am not the same man you knew
55 years ago.

Caution’s Tale

Caution’s Tale

(“I remember the loyalty of your youth, your love as a bride—how you followed me in the wilderness, in a land not sown.” Jeremiah 2:2b)

I’ve become more cautious, no longer the giddy bride
that was always up for a day in the sun. Today all I can say
is that I’ve hidden myself behind the clouds. But even overcast
I think
you can find my shadows on the ground.
Or did you trace my calls to discover
my secret abode?

I followed through barren and bountiful times.
I assumed I was still lovely, still attracting the
best vows like the ones at first. My confusion came
when other loves of yours started searching for
every member of the family who had ever dropped
off, slowing their stride and veering into unknown pastures.

I could list my reasons for making a cave out of this haze.
I could tell you everything you already know and I still would
not be certain you had heard. Love was all around me to start,
until I slipped twice and more and the only ones knocking on
my door were the ones who picked up the stones I had
dropped along the way.

So, take a picture of me up here behind the clouds;
focus your camera on so much social anxiety that I would
prefer to be hidden this close to the sun.
There was a day I would have taken a chance and called out
the name of someone walking on asphalt below me. Today I
put on my shades and look the other way.

Do you still think of me the same way even though I’ve
hidden myself so far away? Do you want me to empty
myself of every discolored quotation that was served at
my table? I know you allow my doubts, but will you allow
me without the risks I leaped over to prove my worth?

I can’t promise anything and I may still take cover behind
the cumulus and under the sun. I’ll keep my eyes open, though,
and my mind still speaking caution’s tale.

Leaning Off Kilter

Leaning Off Kilter

(“The Lord God has put his Spirit in me, because the Lord has appointed me to tell the good news to the poor.” Isaiah 61:1a)

I was leaning slightly off kilter. The day
started this way.
Cautious and crackling, my morning
dragged on. I heard the words.
I woke to them circling consciously
salting my soul. They floated from the
ancient prophet. They landed in the lap
of peasants and kings. They were the onramp
to the freedom highway. They were at the end
of the map I seldom saw.

I was feeling like some foul weather. The day
continued that way.
But the words propelled me. Sitting still I
nearly flew. I imagined the power that good
stories can bring. Maybe the words would
chase away the fright of midafternoon.
And maybe the evening would arrive richer.
Maybe the pennies I saved could mark the spot
where I heard words first. Maybe the story
would woo me to sleep. Maybe I will dream
of the next adventure along freedom highway.

The Dot My Pencil Made

The Dot My Pencil Made

(“I live in a high and holy place. But I also live with people who are sad and humble. I give new life to those who are humble. I give new life to those whose hearts are broken.” Isaiah 57:15b)

Do you see the dot my pencil made;
Can you see the spot my tears undried?
I jotted down the training notes that taught
me to curtsy like a little girl in the face of
the divine.

Can I tell you a secret; will you hear the words
I display?
I never shouted as loud as the rest of you; I didn’t
think
god was hard of hearing.

But in private I ached, I bent, I tormented myself
into believing I was as alone as the graphite period
at the end of a meandering sentence. In public I made sure
I stayed on my knees at least as long as the
last one to leave.

My diaphragm jackknifed and my lungs hunted air
that was so spare in my unforgiving sadness. I was
suspect the whole time. Depression recruited me stronger
than the hands laid upon my head. The last time
I asked for prayer to take away my blackness

They decided to cast out demons and left their hands
hanging at their sides.

Do you see the laser on the wall;
Can you see the light so tiny it nearly faded?
I called in my reinforced bunker for the help
I craved. And though my tears continued

Like something that, if it had been you,
we might share a beer over consolation that
god had placed you there.

Until I Reached Home

Until I Reached Home

(“Also the Spirit helps us because we are weak. We do not know how we should talk to God. But the Spirit himself talks to God for us, while we cry and cannot say any words.” Romans 8:26)

I keep my lips ready to voice the mysteries I
cannot
understand.
And so it looks like I am merely whistling as the
world turns
around.
Tears peek out underneath my eyes,
my diaphragm contracts like a cat on the roof.
Words are swallowed up before they ever
meet
the air.
With my mouth wide open I find I have
nothing
to say.
I cannot define the places or the pieces that
I always thought would be easy when the
tragedy
hit.
But words escaped me and God must have been
exasperated with my limited vocabulary. I had
very little left to
express
these
canned prayers I had heard from others so often.

There was a moan that started within me,
from my gut to my throat. It pushed all the
meager
words
out of the way as it escaped through my mouth.
There were tears that carried the entire alphabet
down
to
the bottom of my shirt. There were no more
poses,
no
bowing or standing with arms upraised. In fact,
I was walking when the spirit took
my feeble attempts and presented them to
God,
a bouquet of longing and song of redemption.
I uttered no words but was satisfied until I
reached
home.

Irrigation

Irrigation

(“So I have learned this rule: When I want to do good, evil is there with me.” Romans 7:21)

Something has clogged the pipes;
the clear water pours out cloudy.
Every moment we desire purity another
argument is made to wrap ourselves up
into the longer way home.
I am the rope in this infernal
tug-of-war.
I could send more money if I drank
less whiskey.
Who can cut the ties to the shell of myself
that disturbs my best intentions like a shovel
of greasy dirt.

I could play all day if these shadows
would allow. I could have that conversation
we have been hinting at for years.
But something sways everything I try to say it.
I could repeat the melodies I once memorized
and sing them like hope on the horizon.
But my memory is faulty and something
tells me I’d start a fire if I pointed out the
muscled desires that wrestle me so far from home.

To tell you the truth I am afraid of people
and the time it takes to discern what harm
they might impose if we got closer than now.
Do I look fine and does my face disguise the
battle inside? Have I fooled you as well as I
have fooled myself? Or can we both admit
the gravitational pull that sucks us below the
waves of grace?

But the current that threatens to tear me away
from myself
is weaker than fresh-water eddies that
carry me deeper into the heart of it all.
I’ve been cut off by parentheses, first and
beyond. But, opened by two swipes of a pen,
I can read again the paragraphs highlighted in
blue and green. I’ll read them again to
remind myself that mercy is almost always found
just around the corner and just inside our foolish
assumptions of death. The waters bring life
and irrigate my waiting mind.

Expand the Joy

Expand the Joy

(“Such people are too stupid to know what they are doing. They close their eyes and their minds to the truth.” Isaiah 44:18)

Tell it to me truthfully; let your eyes tell the story
from end to end. Do not avert them, do not close them.
Keep them open so the light can fill you with truth. I
know you haven’t slept well in days. What is it that
keeps you up, that spins your mind so violently, that
makes slumber an impossible dream?

When did it start, this disassociation from the light?
How soon can you return, can you come back,
can you discern the poems written to bypass the
guards on duty in front of you brain?

You sectioned it all off like voting districts the
shape of dragons. The confusion threw you off your game.
When did you get the idea to fashion an idol out of
a narcissist that stole all the gold? How did it finally
happen, these new accolades you gave, this
brunt of the joke?

Long before when we knew our pathway so straight,
we could take in the full light of day and make a party
of it. But now the darkness has bought you for a song
and a dime and will not refund a millisecond this time.
Will you feed your idol with promised votes for every
scheme it deceives you with? Will you dip your toe in
the water on the shore that was created to wash your
eyes clean again? Your idol did not even conceive stars or
the planets and could not deliver the healing it promised.

Come where the sunshine bleaches the dark pattern baldness
that tied your worship up in with rubber-band hands.
Let the light burst your bubble, the echo chamber that
changed your faith into futility. Turn panoramic,
and get the bigger picture that idols can never fill.
It’s easy to wrap our worship around something that
hands out promises like Christmas candy. But look
in your hands. Are they sticky with sugar, or are they
calloused from trying to get back over the fence?

You’re welcome here, the invitation still stands.
We can walk the meadow in the sun and then
walk the urban sidewalk where the homeless
gather hoping for someone to see them, to see
them clearly, to sit with them nearly an hour.
That’s what changed my eyes, and that’s how
I expanded the joy I had sought so long.