Overgrowth of Grace

Overgrowth of Grace

(“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again. In his joy, he goes away and sells all that he has and buys that field.” Matthew 13:44)

There is more underfoot than simply the understanding of
sand and soil. Someone sowed the gems into the ground and
another one found them. Hidden became probable and
discard became possible on a sluggish walk back home.

He did not own much and owed more than he gained.
His accounts were in arrears even though he had watched
them like a hawk after a field mouse. He never imagined
the daylight would lead him to see what someone else had forgotten.

It had not occurred to him that luck had a hand to play.
It always had been a day to day of just scraping by.
It was not a lack of effort that caused him to walk that day.
It was just another moment when the thoughts were imprisoned
in his head.

He was never cloud-high, his feet always reached the ground.
His mind was one day dark and one day fire, and mostly full
of memories he wished would return. He endured the hoary
downturn that made up epithets that never rhymed.

But this day he stubbed his toe. This day the overflow
made him stop short and look. The sun was refracted
through the late mist and just as he stopped walking he
bent over to see the treasure below. Who had hidden this
there?

He rooted through his pockets; he examined all his
balance sheets and decided to buy the land that had
bruised his toe. The well-enclosed walls of his soul
opened like the first morning of the week.

No one had predicted this and no plans were made,
but happenstance surrounded his sodden walk and, like
a jackrabbit from a coyote, shot him from the old
illusions to his present overgrowth of grace.

The Waning Day

The Waning Day

 ^(“He will take away death for all time. The Lord God will dry tears from all faces.” Isaiah 25:8a)

What will we become after we have waited for
the setting of the sun? How shall we meet the long
shadows of the waning day? Time sped up while
we were busy carrying the hours on our backs.
We would rather not walk in the rain.

We took the time in parcels, portions meant to
be divided at a moment’s notice. We wrote the
return address in red and green to be satisfied
it would be seen. We were hedging our bets and
circling zip codes and licking envelopes stamped
with names we thought we remembered.

You must forgive me but I’m trying to capture
as much radiance as I can
before the lights go out and the air turns brief.
We wanted to share the relief that the coming day
was certain to bring.

Grief can make you feel invisible. Grief can
continue long past the due date other have
scribbled for you. Grief is silence in a world
that seems to have nothing to say and says it
from the start of every day.

But there is a love that is stronger than death,
a light brighter than a cloudless noon,
a hand wipes the tears and wounds away.
Greif and hope can exist in a single heart,
learning to cope with loss and future at once.

The door is open, the latch is unlocked,
The moments will come; days will last
from circle to circle and round and down,
the tears will be dried and the songs will

Remind us that every sunset had its day.

Another Color, Another Hue

Another Color, Another Hue

It seems it is time to wander
through the afternoon, looking for love
or something to call mine.
I had settled in for the evening when
the phone buzzed like an area code for
somewhere I had forgotten. I could have taken
things slower if only there were more people
to gather around a central theme.
Morning turned a cold shoulder to me
so I am depending on the afternoon to light
me up like a few friends sipping beers.

The days pass too quietly for me,
the moments full of melancholy that
masquerades as perpetual motion.

It’s true the days get in the way of
lightly wondering where the next smile
will grow. I did not invite this pain;
it shows up voluntarily. Truth is,
I probably could not find an interesting
sentence even surrounded by a handful of
friends.
But I still must fill the afternoon with something.

I turn slowly back to myself when the
loneliness comes like fog hugging the coastal hills.
I could sing you a lifeboat full of courage if
only my voice would not crack like ice, like rain.
Today is dressed up with nowhere to go. It merely
twirls and winds its way until the sun begins to set.
It brings the meandering morning to a close. I will
look for something new, another color,
for coming from so far away.

The Next Person

The Next Person

I pulled it down from off the shelf and
almost had sticker shock.
But I had nothing in my pockets and
had nothing left to lose.
You should have heard the double
dose
I incurred by waiting so long to be
heard. I could have waited till the
stores had all closed to inspect
the empty way they made me feel.
I had enough money to start the day
but unforeseen fortune had scraped it
away.

I knew the pattern that started a half
a century ago. I could feel the peaks
and valleys
laughing at my need for mediocrity.
Could we just agree that the facts
did not add up to our expectations?

I once believed and now I’m agnostic;
I once performed casual exorcisms
in my living room. I first heard someone
calling for Grandfather and corrected their
theology.

Now I shopped for sparklets and hunted the
the aisles for new hues to paint the day.
I might purchase them with credit if I cannot
find a way to earn my keep. I’ll walk the
steep sidewalks like a penitent. I’ll stay
close to the ground.

I put it back on the shelf and left it for
the next person behind me.

Like a Morning Glory

Like a Morning Glory

(for Theo)

You took me on adventures when you were 10.
I carried the backpack; you carried our bed. We plotted our
path to hidden countries in the basement. We got McDonald’s
ice cream and pizza because you did so well on your science exam.

Now you are 18, an adult, a fully formed fascination with life.
You carry the world like an explorer investigating the causes
of sky-birds who flew just above your head.

The earth is yours and all its fullness. The questions wait for
your examination. You carry them like postcards in your pocket.
You have rarely feared their answers; you waited for a solo voice.

I’ve seen you dance so certain that the floorboards captured your feet.
I’ve watched you sketch a friend or a new plant.
I’ve listened to you sing and tuned it like saltwater taffy.

Let the tailwinds send you higher, let the warm sun playfully
extract your laughter. May your curiosity carry you abundantly
into dog-eared chapters you will remember and remember again.

I can’t name them all, but you will, I’m sure. What do you
call that tree with heart-shaped leaves? How many colors are there
for daffodils or tulips? Can I transplant these peonies?

Let the wonder guide you; let it outsize the questions you pose,
the oceans you cross, and the friends who break bread with you.
I know the music will always lie just under the place where

Your heart beats for the friends you’ve made and the new ones
to come. You can change the world; you can spark it with hope.
You can share the taste of the river of life for every parched soul.

Your song continues, the new chorus is being written.
Sing it surely, sing it long. Leaving home you’ll find
the home will always return to you. Take your time.

May God’s hand guide you, may the rains fall warmly on your path.
May the blessings of constant sunlight capture your eyes.
And may this day, so full of promise, open like a morning glory budding.

February to August (a scrap)

February to August (a scrap)

 

The silence opened up an abundance of
opportunities. To spend the afternoon with a book
seemed like the closest thing to a best friend. To spend
the day with a best friend seemed intentionally out of reach.

The seas are unchanging, but the seasons turn steadily away
from hands reaching out for another golden sip of sunshine.
Not every day is a success story. Some are simply times of
waiting for the moon to rise.

He opened a playlist of bands from the 1960s and it moved his
writing forward in lurches and screeches. Lyrics crept in
and he pasted them slyly into his unfinished poem. No one
could blame him for his mini stolen phrases.

He looked out the window where neighbors watched ICE
kidnap the family across the street. That was mid-February
and nothing was colder than the way they dragged their
unwarranted catch into the cold and out of the blue.
It stopped him for a moment, this August afternoon in
Minneapolis. He wondered what he would do, and what
he would have done. He pointed his castaway moments toward
another stage of life and wondered
if the silence was
large enough to take captive every aging
beat of his heart.

A Sturdy Life

A Sturdy Life

(“So ask the Lord of the harvest to send workers out into his harvest field.” Matthew 9:38)

Wonder meets wonder in the eyes of
the downtown walkers habituating themselves to the sun.
It was the same as it had been the day before,
warm on the sidewalks of lazy ambition. The storefronts
had been blinking themselves open for the mid-morning rush.
Eyes to eyes the morning warmed on to the apex of the day.
Many believed the dream was just around the corner,
other had not given in a moment’s thought.

Meanwhile in the neighborhood nearby a man returned
the dogs he had been watching for his friend who returned
from another state on a week-long vacation. She walked out
the door to meet him in black slippers down the steps
and onto the concrete walkway with grass planking through
the cracks. He drove away and u-turned at the end of the block.
She waited for him to pass by again so he would
remember her waving goodbye.

What is the greatest number we can enliven; where are the
rulebooks that instruct us in the gardens of our incubation?
How many friends do we carry from childhood; how many
still fascinate our minds? Do we still remember their
phone numbers, or at least the area code? Can we still feel
the slatted stoops where we listened to Peter, Paul, and Mary
and comedy records in the afternoon?

I wander daily through current applications and past
evaluations of joy we left half exhausted. We found
ourselves filled, though, the next time we renovated our
restlessness again. Hope against hope, we believed that
behind someone’s eyes, we might see the promises
we daydreamed about.

All in all, it’s been a sturdy life built on words we fashioned,
images we sculpted, and the cities we founded in our brains.
Here’s hoping the sacred music that spun our days opened the
light for each other across our spatial habitations.