When My Day Will Come

(“The Lord is not slow concerning His promise, as some count slowness. But He is patient with us, because He does not want any to perish, but all to come to repentance. 2 Peter 3:9)

 

anger and wrath of a warrior god will swipe away the remainder of the
uninitiated from the gravity of earth. They will be judged most righteously;
you expect them to be taken silently in the middle of the night.
You try to scare people into faith, but faith that warns of all-consuming
heat
simply will not last past the end of summer.

in the end times. Every storm is not judgement from an angry god.
Every traffic accident you survive but leaves someone else dead
is not worth your words telling everyone how God saved you.

eons to God.
We do not control time, we barley know how to respond to it.
If we clean our house faster, we have more time by the end of the day,
but what do we do next? And here I am, 71, and I can remember
a girlfriend from 50 years ago, and most of her phone number. I can
remember baptizing a friend in a duck pond and 5 am and can circle
back to that memory almost any time I want. But the future comes
more slowly and with less options as I age. Fondness and regret are
the twins of the past. The future moves me to weariness and anxiety.
But God, our patient God, dwells in every microsecond, all at the same time.
Even the dreams I have take me to a short workable future or to a past
where shit was given in place of truth.

and another one, looking out the window and wondering when my day will come.

It’s My Turn to Pay

It’s My Turn to Pay

(“Defend weak people and orphans. Protect the rights of the oppressed and the poor.” Psalm 82:3)

Once the day began with thought it would be better
to stop ignoring the troubles of our neighbors up the road.
We should have surrendered long ago and
stood with them in the rain while they waited in line
for untimely help. We covered them in
random songs we learned along the way.

I’ll meet you for breakfast; I’ll drive by and
pick you up by 8. It’s on me, by the way. It’s
my turn
to pay. I’ve heard what people say about your
downward turn of luck and then they walk away
like they are best buddies with God. They spew
undeserved cantons of excuses on the ground.

We hoped to persuade the unequal ground that
your pain deserved protection and your lack deserved
more than a presumptive hearing.
We surely would serve you something more substantial
than the soup we poured into casual tureens. Maybe we
could stand outside in antiseptic sunshine and convince
the onlookers of your full humanity. We would squarely
with you as we ascended the pyramids of eminence.
We would write the epitome of verses that covered the
curses that excused puffed-up rhetoric that left you living
behind the ghost town facades.

We left our assumptions behind this time. We warmed
up your coffee, we shared our hashbrowns, we picked up the
bill
and left a hefty tip for the server who called you by name.

I Think I Understand

 

I Think I Understand

([Jesus said] “Do you love me?” Peter said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” John 21:17b)

I can’t help but wonder what you might
ask of me.
I’ve finally figured it out, though, that you
do not want to shame me. You meet me here in this moment,
ask me a question about where I live now. Not how I lost it
back then. Not how guilt forced me to forge my way to the one
thing I found comforting before you ever tapped me on the shoulder.

I barely understand you most of the time.
And when I do understand something inside starts off
dreamily
but ends up, quite frankly, wishing I had not heard.
What do you call a casual friend who knows every move
you’re about to make before you have even given a moment’s
thought?

One: I wasn’t ready for the question.

Two: I acted like I had no clue.

Three: I needed to warm my hands by the fire. I swore with
            the maiden who insisted she knew.

And then you had to walk by and look at me. I did not have
time to hide. You were already beaten to an inch of your life
but, that look, that gaze that was a blade to my heart, was a wavelength
that caught me unawares.

You have no reason to think I love you. But you knew my answer
buried deep under the rubble of my shame. You deftly pulled the words
from my tongue like
1,2,3,.
And I felt ready to cry again upon my confessions of love for you.

I turned away when you needed amity; I damned myself the moment
you saw my reddening face. But you never insisted,
never elicited an apology from me. I think you could see it
in how I shrunk back quietly to the previous comforts I practiced
before I knew you.

You told me to feed your sheep, and I felt I had nothing to give.
But I will care for them as if they are mine. Do you trust me so,
given all my stumbles in the dark?

You won’t let me wallow in the past,
you never held it against me at all. I think I
understand
this part.
Why heap shame on a man whose entire face
shows such deep wrinkles of self-administered guilt?
I think I understand.

Undiluted Beauty

Undiluted Beauty

(“Do not be so certain you have won. Do not speak with your head held so high.” Psalm 75:5)

Do you know what I do not;
Is your power so great you have brought it to the battle?
Do you take counsel or do you put your head inside a
soundproof booth to keep your personal plans alive?

I used to need to be certain. I figured I was truly right.
I met every argument with a counter more wise,
I heard every disagreement as a disguise keeping
people from candor. I was the conveyer of truth,
my arguments were leakproof as they left my mouth.

But my soul hungered for more. My soul left me to
wonder why the surer arguments started to leave me empty.
I could hold my answers in a single hand but the truth
was numerous as all the grains of sand. How could I
be that foolish;
how could my doctrine be so brutish?

Are you still grasping dearly to parchment paper
copied hundreds of years ago? Do you remain sure of
the single verses you have plastered across your walls?
Has your mind ever changed? Has your fight ever ceased its
battles?

Under this sapphire sky are seashell eyes waiting for
freedom and unshackled fire within their soul. They long
to see
a day turning to night as the pastels of evening paint
the horizon.
They long to hear undiluted beauty and see the symphonies
of love from an orchestra of joy.

What shall we feed them this time? What recipes will we use?
Have we chosen saran-wrapped sandwiches from the deli counter?
Or are we willing to freestyle some bread and fixings, humble
ingredients, and water springing from underground. Shall we
admit we don’t always know what to do with so much fresh
produce. But we will feed you just the same.

Carpet Swatches and Paint Chips

Carpet Swatches and Paint Chips

(“You must turn away from evil and do good; you must strive for peace with all your heart.” 1 Peter 3:11)

I heard the thunder in the late afternoon which is
unusual
for us in the Pacific Northwest. It just rains but
rarely sends lightning across the sky.

I guess I wouldn’t argue with someone whose
experience is different than mine. Not worth it of course.

I heard the arguments that went late after the
board
meeting about a net result of nothing. It is just a
few minds thinking they know it best and the best must
be implemented soon and perfect.

Evil approaches to darken the beauty that comes out
of the light.
Evil tries to erase the artistic soul full of words,
or colors, or shapes, or falling waters. We spend
so little time
letting even a single petal from a rose make our
breathing hurried in awe and reverence.

We would rather have our way pushed through like
a bulldozer building a dollhouse. We decide that
carpet samples
and color swatches
are chosen by majority vote. Which is what happened,
because a quorum had showed up. But one of those
who stayed home
kicked over the five-gallon pails of pain on the unvarnished
floor the next. A tantrum over a shade too soon.

We could not call for a new meeting; the walls were half-painted
before he
decided to throw his weight around. Peace was
interrupted like
an improvised explosive device. Invisible shrapnel
struck everyone gathered and nothing was ever quite
the same.

It seemed insane for a scrimmage to balloon for such
a simple tune. But we agreed, after piercing words had
already met their marks, to wait for the moon to cover
the night
and the sun
to dry the mud and then
we would look at the paint on the walls again.

With empty paint cans strewn across the long floor,
we saw the walls and their adobe pigment in a brand new
light.
Even the naysayers, heads hanging down, agreed the hue
was perfect and said nothing else.

We prayed the dissolution would not linger. But
sometimes you cannot head off the storm. Sometimes
evil breaks down the artistic impulse and insists
an exact pigment exists, a perfect reflection of hue and
light.

But some phone calls just never did sit right.

My Practice Session

My Practice Session

(“God wants you to silence stupid and ignorant people by doing right.” 1 Peter 2:15)

I must admit my practice session did not go well.
Right notes
in the
wrong locations.
Rests where they did not exist and a
panic I would miss the next measure of
quarter notes on the upbeat. I would try
to catch up with the voices by the next
turn of phrase.

But they brag on me just the same,
and I feel the shame of someone who receives
what they do not deserve. If only I spent more time
on the difficult passages,
taught my fingers to move in ways they were not accustomed to.

I am my own worst critic, but I know they can hear the patches
where I fumble, where the time is broken into shards on
the ambient air. I would rather show up to rehearsal with
every bar perfected like the vineyard’s best wine.

I suppose I can hide my fumbling fingers beneath the
beats of the snare that fills the voids where I forget
where I was headed. Maybe by the end we will be an
ad hoc wedding of the drum kit, bass, and my tentative
tempo. The staccato notes run away from me sometimes and
the drummer only stares. We laugh when it is over and
start again to see if we can keep the time.

I say all this only because I feel the need to let you know
I am much better about making it up in my head than I am
about transferring it to my fingers. My handwriting is
nearly illegible. I hope my beats will be readable.

Of Prayer and Song

Of Prayer and Song

(“Are you hurting? Pray. Do you feel great? Sing.” James 5:13 [The Message])

How long the day when the sun refuses to shine
on the dark pain you carry like a bag of sand.
I know the weeks are molasses crying in the night,
and the months struggle by as time strangles your
every word.

And now we pray. Will relief come? Set the weight
down on the ground
and see what answer comes. The Father is fond of you.
The Mother creates comfort for you. The Son soothes the
disquieted heart that runs apace of your mind. And now we pray.
Quiet. We wait for the word that empowers us for later in the day.
The day passes and we turn to face distress with renewed promises.
And now we pray. Within. The Spirit within takes our embers
and turns them to incense; an aroma of good things to come.

How light the day when the sun peeks from behind the clouds
and the flowers seem to wave to greet you as you bend over them.
I know the weeks fly fast, laughing until sunbreak,
and the months are filled with coffee with friends and a
few songs we’ve known since we were kids.

And now we sing. Will we remember the words? We pick up
the first note
of our earliest songs. The Father dances to our music.
The Mother harmonizes to set the song ablaze. The Son improvises
to prove he is still human just to remind us. And so we sing.
Lustily. We sing the first words that enter our minds.
We whirl like tops, dancing and transforming our heart-songs into new tunes.
And now we sing. Again. The Spirit pays attention and carries
our songs like afternoon wine; a vintage better than we had ever known.