The Territory

The Territory

Uncertainty is the territory I’ve inhabited
for half a decade now. I love the Lover better,
(or should I say, to be true to the letter, I think
I do)
But have more questions in the face of so
many
who fancy themselves arbiters of answers.

If a salary was assured me, I would lock myself in a room
overlooking the River,
and half the day read and write, or write, or read,
or talk on the phone to friends long in my heart
and far too far away. Their territories are separated
by years of success and certainty; promises kept longer;
homesteaded sojourns of generations.

I would spend the other half
wandering the River, while talking on the phone
to everyone I’ve ever offended, one more time,
to be sure my amends are certain.
Then I would do what I have never done,
and call the ones who offended me. I would make
certain they understood, and, without threat of
salary’s loss, I could speak freely until the moment
when the light went on, without the urge to hide
getting the best of me. And, for the one who said
I want grace for me and judgment for the other,
he would finally see, if he apologized to me,
how much grace I truly yearn to offer.

Uncertainty is my zip code, if you desire to visit me,
take off your self-assurances and tell me you’ve struggled
lately in life
a lot like me.

The Cold

The Cold

(“He loosens the bonds made by kings and binds a waistcloth about their loins.” Job 12:18)

Here we are upon the Columbia shore,
cold gripping our breath, quiet settling like
frost upon our hearing. Days and years pass
along with memories of rebukes once lasting
past the seasons of snow.

It was your words once bound my head with a
cheesecake shell tightened like lug nuts.
It was your face asking questions out of place
in public where everyone could hear.

I remember it well, and sometimes my gut
recalls what I have forgotten. But the
cold is quiet today, and the frost is likely to
stay just a few days longer.

My sins may circulate in the wind, if not the papers,
and I have read them well, signed them, and bound them
over for your consideration.

I never requested teeth for teeth, just a hand raised
when I asked if you would like to rephrase your questions.

Your sins circulate as well as mine, but there is no
autograph accompanying the crime.

But today, for once, the quietness is no intrusion,
the cold holds no foreboding. Just a silence showing me
my hands are uncuffed,
and a shiver that says I am only shaking because it is
winter.

Reconciliation

“And the seven years of famine began, just as Joseph had said. There was not enough food in other countries, but all over Egypt there was plenty.” Genesis 41:54

Joseph had interpreted two dreams for Pharaoh. Both told of seven years of bumper crops followed by seven years of famine. God used Joseph to tell Pharaoh to save up the excess during the good years, store them, and use them during the years of famine.

Let the Glory Show

“Smoke from God’s glory and power poured out of the Temple. No one was permitted to enter the Temple until the seven disasters of the Seven Angels were finished.” Revelation 15:8 (The Message)

I am the first to admit that the book of Revelation can be like walking through a bog with a heavy mist falling. Beasts and dragons, flying horses and bowls full of judgment whirl through its pages like an Arthurian legend. One thing is sure, though; this book is about Jesus.

Look at Me!

“But now, if you’re willing, look at me. I won’t lie to your face.” Job 6:28

“Look at me,” Job cries out to his friends. “If you’re willing.” It is said the eyes are the windows to the soul. I wonder if his friends had actually avoided eye contact with Job as they tried to “comfort” him with their black-and-white theology that had an answer for every ailment. Their theology was sterile, without the human touch that fleshes out mere theories of the Eternal.

Short Sale

Short Sale

(“Judah said, ‘Brothers, what are we going to get out of killing our brother and concealing the evidence? Let’s sell him…’” Genesis 37:26, 27a)

Cash or credit,
credit or debit,
loan or purchase,
wallets and purses,
merchandise, to be
precise,
humans hanging by
shoe size along the
avenue.

Coats like tapestry,
swatches like elbow patches,
rainbow halos and
dad’s favorite boy.

How can we kill
flesh and blood?
We would rather sell
and get some good

Profit for our return.

Merchandise,
pay the price
for modern slaves
(far less graves)
sold for jealousy or
pleasure.

It does not matter,
haberdasher or tailor,
we market our brothers,
our sisters
like meat pies,
a thick slice of human dignity
lying in the pit waiting
another merchant with money to pay
our way; we pray we are not
misunderstood again.

II.

The sun sets across the bony landscape,
the fever of afternoon breaks with the sweaty evening breeze.
The tunes and wind-chimes whistle the sandstone
and we stand up to hear the next bid for our soul.

III.

You sold out too cheap as if the fashion had passed
and the next season’s garments could not fill the racks fast
enough. Blacks are in; relax, pay the tax and take it home.

Reds are passé, blues retrograde, with green in between
sawdust and the moon.

When the priceless are bought for an ad jingle’s song
the rest are marked down to sell before the doors close again.

IV.

Sizes vary, try them on to see. Colors fade, match in the mirror
before you lay the cash upon the table. Created with delicacy,
hand-made, hand-blown upon the morning sky, crowns replace fedoras,
rubies replace the replicas of dyed-in-the wool jewelry passed off as
one of a kind.

We are hand-made; may I remind you? We are the Master’s Mark,

Meant for celebrations on the meadows, not sale barns full of
auctioneers making a buck off another’s creation. We are poetry

Filling the aisles. We are portraits

Faced upon endgames. We are sonatas

Piped into the space-time-continuum. We are theater

Absurdly loved by the Author, Producer, Director;
wardrobe laid out by the Father

Who decreed His favorites must never be put up for sale.

Prayers are Echoing

"Prayers are Echoing"

The air hums like the rattle around
high voltage wires. Each cubic inch must be filled with
flights of angels passing through this protected space.

Deliveries and consolations, announcements like
fireweed unmistakably framed.

Lift me from this tiny occupation, my linoleum tile
upon which I dwell. I am not well, though I am
painfully in love with everything You say.

Friends want to heal me, doctors ignore my calls

Sometimes

And prayers are echoing off the angels’ wings
like flowers in a toddler’s grasp.

I know He has answered; I know it though pain
wraps my head and rings it like a tornado siren.

I can live with the pain, but can I perform my obligations,
fulfill my occupation, earn an honest dollar?

I long to step back into the darkness alone,
or at the coast somehow for a week out of every 7 days

And cry myself to sleep, and awake to the ocean breeze,
and cry myself to sleep again before lunch is served.
I cannot think for more than 2 hours at a time,
and do not know if it is a crime to take pay for so
little return; pennies on the dollar, a seedling from
an entire orchard’s produce.

The air is humming, the angels watch and attend,
sent by my Master’s hand. How then, can I complain

At the end of the day when friends want to pray

Away the pain

That remains after they have said “Amen”.

"I'll Catch Up With You Later"

“And said, ‘Let us break camp and travel on together; I will accompany you.’” Genesis 33:12

Jacob and Esau are the classical portrait of the consequences of deceit and one-upmanship in a family. Esau is the older of the two twins and should have received the birthright due the first born. But, in the famously told story, he sells it off for a “pottage of lentils”; bean soup.

"Of Birthrights and Homemade Soup"

“Jacob gave him bread and the stew of lentils. He ate and drank, got up and left. That’s how Esau shrugged off his rights as the firstborn.” Genesis 25:14 (The Message)


My mother was really a pretty good cook, even though my dad used to joke that she didn’t even know how to boil water when they met. I would always look forward to the day after we had mashed potatoes for supper. She would whip up the best potato pancakes from the leftovers; fit for gravy or maple syrup. And her chili always made you think of a mountain cabin on a frosty night with a fire roaring in the fireplace.


But her homemade soup was another story! We had a huge chest freezer that sat in our garage. Every leftover from every meal that could not be immediately recycled was stored there. Containers waited out the freezing conditions filled with peas, carrots, extra ground beef, roast or pork. Frozen corn; canned, fresh or creamed joined the ranks. It didn’t matter if there was only enough for a mouse-size serving, it went into a plastic container and off to the cavernous freezer.

Then, when enough cartons had accumulated, Mom would decide it was time to make homemade soup. I usually found a friend’s house for supper on those occasions. She took everything that had been frozen out of the freezer and into the kitchen. I don’t think she ever labeled anything, either, so it was truly pot “luck”.

Into the pot they would go; the frozen veggies, from month-old lima beans to something that looked like spinach. It didn’t matter what animal it came from, every meat product from previous meals was thawed and thrown into the pot as well. It might have made a bit of difference in the flavor if Mom had used stock, but she started with water right out of the tap and boiled it all together. And it was horrid!

It always had little circles of oil collecting on the surface and no flavor was immediately distinct. It tasted like, well, what your whole meal would taste like if you just mashed it all together, poured hot water on it and spooned it up. It really was not fit for human consumption. But, Mom and Dad were raised to save everything, and they did just that. It taught me a bit of gastronomical discrimination!

That is the sort of meal that Esau gave his birthright away for. He was the elder of two twins and legally was heir to their father’s entire estate. But he was hungry. Instead of waiting, or at least trying to find a more palatable meal, he gave away his entire future for homemade soup.

It occurred to me that we often do the same. We are each born with a “birthright”. By birth, God has fitted each of us with talents, abilities and potential. Sometimes we must wait, and sometimes we must pass up lesser opportunities, but, given time and focus, we can develop our God-given birthright into something significant.

But we are often much too hungry now to develop the good thing God has for us. And, furthermore, we are also willing to accept the “lesser value” others put on us. “You aren’t worth any more than this bit of lentil soup”, we hear from others, and we begin to believe it.

Instead of listening to Father God and believing that we do, indeed, possess the birthright, we believe the “little lie” and give in to negative thinking about ourselves. We settle for unhappiness when we could have the joy of knowing we have an inheritance given us by God. We settle for momentary pleasure when we could have the fulfillment of knowing we are being used for something greater than ourselves.

Even apart from being born again, every single human being has a birthright. Every person born on this planet is heir to the gifts granted by God. For those who follow Christ, this birthright extends to eternity.

We are heirs to something greater than mere talents or human accomplishments. When we are “born the second time”, as Jesus describes it, we are invested with a birthright that takes us into the very heart of God. We are given a treasure chest of God’s best, a veritable inheritance of love, joy, peace and the rest of the outcome of being part of God’s family.

But, like Esau, we sometimes are hungry and let that hunger dictate our destiny. Esau must have thought his birthright had very little value at all to trade it for homemade soup. Perhaps he didn’t value himself at all.

If we would only learn to take upon ourselves the value with which God has measured us, we would live boldly and proudly for Him. Knowing the birthright we have as sons and daughters of God, why wouldn’t we let the gifts He has given us leap out and affect a world that is so often devalued?

We are the ones who can stand up and say, “You are not useless. Your life does have meaning. Don’t listen to those who call you stupid, puny or incapable. Turn a deaf ear to those who say your failure penalizes your future. You have a future, You have a birthright. Go, in the name of the One who gave His life and make a difference with His gifts working within you.”

Me, I still won’t touch Mom’s homemade soup, but I’m grateful to be raised by someone who knew the value of a person. What I found in Christ I saw exhibited in my mother first. God has made you for something. Your worth is proven by the price God paid for you. Stop undervaluing your place in God’s plan and get busy with the birthright promised by Your Heavenly Father.

Within My Sorrows

Within My Sorrows

I don’t mean to complain, it’s simply become a habit,
a well-worn path, a late morning communiqué.
Cranky is as cranky does and I’m doing cranky like
I’ve fastened it on my lapel.

It’s not that I revel in the drudgery; there is some evidence
I delight in smiles more than the four walls bearing down on
late afternoon winter like the closing credits of a movie
you wish you hadn’t paid to see.

I didn’t mean to be short with you; my skin is always tingling
and hair-triggered. I don’t mean to be famously gun-shy,
hiding so I don’t have to wave at people I have never met.

I cannot get it back, the lad who I was when the world was in front of me,
every decision a step toward the candy-store, every morning a reason
to try something new.

I pray, perhaps with my faith that has flinched. I pray,
while I scan the keyboard for happier letters to write.

I have less money than I need to make it till I die,
I have enough friends, but cannot find the money to
bring them next door or a day’s drive away again.

I play, perhaps with less abandon and passion. I play,
fingers curled around the guitar-neck, fingers ready to pounce
the black and whites. But nothing new fascinates me and my
old riffs rarely satisfy.

I don’t mean to complain, don’t want to be hypnotized by
tomorrow’s rainstorm. My day passes before I think of anything
that would fill my joybucket surely.

Here are my tears, My Lord, My Love, I am sorry I have less faith
and have not found the happy by riverbanks or back-porch friends.

Here is the remainder of the day and the one cent curiosity
about tomorrow. I will lay it on the page, a photo of rides around the bend
now too lazy to find.

I wish I was a loveable curmudgeon, but all I have become is
a cry-baby who can find nothing ahead to smile about.

I know the sun dwells beyond the clouds, and cannot bear to
give away the little hope I have remaining as I walk more disappointed
in my day than any reader.

I know the Savior dwells within my sorrows, and I drain the cup dry
holding to the love, the Creator of my days.

of Blame, Curses and Comfort

of Blame, Curses and Comfort

(“But Jacob became upset with Rachel and answered, ‘Don’t blame me! I’m not God.’” Genesis 30:2)

If I could raise your son from the dead,
restore the years when you thought he never would return,
remake the words you nosed him further and further away,
recast your rants to a wayward son
into invitations home for mom’s goodsome pie

I would have done it they day before he died.

But I am not God and you are not the Director of Activities
for the Heavenly Hall of Callings.

Your grief turned curls like anger,
Your sorrow blackened the bookends where cures
for every ailments went unread
after you thought I knew nothing of faith.

Your present points became past precedent as you
planned the future for one who could not do what
only should be asked of God.

Your demands were unprecedented and your prayers
against the ones you loved
resounded like curve balls cursing the very air through
which they flew.

If I could renew your mind from the dead,
restore your memories of what we just said yesterday,
or 10 minutes ago,
remake the sword into a plowshare,
recast your spear into a pruning hook
to prepare the fruit you and I might have eaten
round a table of mutual questions

I would set the table myself while we consoled
by twos and more, the loss of a son too early.

Lukewarm?

Lukewarm?

“Behold I stand at the door and knock. If anyone listens to My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him and he with me.” Revelation 3:20

It is very uncommon for someone to ignore someone knocking at their door. There are reasons, I suppose. Perhaps someone sharing religious pamphlets, or a door to door salesman. But let’s assume it is someone we actually know. Unless there is a definite reason, we will always go to the door, open it, and invite them in.

After the Rain

After the Rain

(“In times past, God let each nation go its own way.” Acts 14:16)

After the rain has washed the summer dust
from the crop-lines,
and
after the day and night are divided, half and half,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell tolls in digital tones
I may wake refreshed again, without lying on the
couch again,
wishing the night was longer until morning and
morning washed lasting the dog-eared vellum from
my dreams.

After the snow has melted the winter ice
from the curbstops,
and
after the day and night are divided, even steven,
12 dark, 12 light,
and
after the morning bell buzzes battery powered,
I may swing my feet onto the floor, without much more
than the normal last photograph of a dream that took me
on vacation where friends remained as they were since
30 spring and autumn changes.

After the light opens the very last flavor,
whether pumpkin pie or watermelon ices,
after the light has closed and locked the doors for the night
I may sleep in peace with the rest who
have taken up the offer of grace beyond measure,
(it has been His pleasure to wait until we all could hear)
and press my feet upon the warm floor, into the
the dream that puts pain in its place and leaves every
reverie right.

Coughs Make the Headlines

Coughs Make the Headlines

(“But I answered him, ‘Should a man in my position flee?’” Nehemiah 6:11a)

“Strike the shepherd and the sheep will scatter”,
it matters whether we run when the pop guns
boom and pow outside, alongside the hillside
with depleted ammunition.

Scare tactics, I fear, sometimes appear undiluted
and disperse the best to worst of us with recorded noise;
or a single voice claiming authority higher, notarized
with posturized signatures along the bottom line.

Lock me out, lock me in, claim to have the power to
mock my sin and I sink to my knees with the icy
river that runs head to toe at nearly-true scoffs;
coughs make the headlines when there is no other news.

It matters who I follow, I no longer wallow giving flattery
to the rumors, unconfirmed reports of a worldwide takeover
of my conscience, my health, or the nation we all know that
God decided was his very own baby boy and girl
(forget the rest of the world), and fight for the right to
tell them all how wrong they’ve been since we have been
better all along.

But I lose my focus and here I stand, a new stanza to remind
the patient diners of the good plates served where urban myths
are dismissed before they get through the doors.

The Last Laugh

Abraham was a hundred years old when Isaac was born, and Sarah said, “God has made me laugh. Now everyone will laugh with me.” Genesis 21:5,6a

Our daughter Sarah was unexpected. We have two sons about three and a half years apart. We were happy with our two boys and had decided we were finished having children. So, with Michael starting his teens and Jonathan just turning 10 we had no thoughts about more children.

A Note from Jesus

“And from Jesus Christ—Loyal Witness, Firstborn from the dead, Ruler of all earthly kings. Glory and strength to Christ, who loves us, who blood-washed our sins from our lives.” Revelation 1:5 (The Message)

It must have meant the world to the Apostle John, nearly 90 years old and exiled on the island of Patmos, to receive a personal vision and visitation from Jesus. Many have spent their lifetime trying to unravel the times and seasons of which the Book of Revelation speaks. One thing is for certain, as with all other Scripture, it is primarily supposed to make us better acquainted with Jesus Himself.