To Tell the Truth

“An honest person has respect for the Lord. But a person whose paths are crooked hates him.” Proverbs 14:2

Whenever my mom suspected I had lied but had no confession forthcoming from her oldest son, she would almost always say, “You can keep it from me, but God knows if you are telling the truth or not. And, your ears always turn red when you lie.” I had to agree with her about the God bit; it was reasoning that I could not escape. The red ears I still wonder about, though. Whether or not they turned color when I lied as a child, I am exquisitely aware when I feel their blush now, all from her attempts at motherly interrogation.

HeadLong

HeadLong

(“Therefore, you are to store up these words of mine in your heart and in all your being; tie them on your hand as a sign; put them at the front of a headband around your forehead.” Deuteronomy 11:18)

I wasn’t sure it was true until I ran
headlong
into the
headlights
coming at me down the wrong side of the road.

I tried to swallow every truth they fed me;
forced down the sour, calling it sweet;
swallowing poison, singing their visions
and swore upon my future grave everything
I thought buzzed up or down my mind
was what they taught me: God was all
tangled up with me.

I wasn’t convinced I could believe until I
turned on
the song
turned down
by half the town that hated simple ballads.

I tried to perform every ditty they taught me,
reworked lyrics to frame the obvious,
toned down the volume to fit the audience,
eventually lost my words and threw the
lead sheets to the wind. I never understood them
anyway.

I memorized, not proof-text and address,
but words like dancing, rules like common sensing
(permission before fencing along my neighbor-line)
I packed my wits for the journey with pictures
I had taken along the way. It seems the portraits I
captured of my Companion smiled more often than
the pictures others had given me with their letters of
introduction.

Head-on He struck me, call me brainDead now, or
merely foolishly aging, but I’ve renewed my license to
write with His picture hanging on the wall. Like a movie
where the hero has amnesia, now I’ve forgotten every bit
of advice that kept me from singing like it came from
anyplace, any space other than
straight from my heart.

Needed to Hear

Needed to Hear

(I was constantly “rejoicing in his whole world and delighting in mankind.” Proverbs 8:31)

“luckily” I said and
suddenly wished I was dead
for the measurers of words and
literates of faith deemed my usage absurd
(having conferred earlier in the day and deemed
potlucks unlucky, changing the term to PotBlessings
and FaithMeals, which made rhyming even a more
miserable lot for a poet who prefers free verse
without messing
with metre and rhyme much.)
Still they cringed as if lucky was unheard of
in the vocabulary of faith.

I had overstirred my welcome.

She sat just outside the door while the plates were clattering
in the tiny back kitchen, children chattering, but no one noticing
she had left. The PotBlessing was nearly over and nothing else mattered,
except the girl outside who didn’t need to be flattered, she just needed to hear.

He hurried home to take his turn at the remote, (it was
always his turn at the remote), while children, 3 of them and
2 years apart nearly exactly, family planning went well;
while three children grabbed his arms, legs and neck before
he even removed his coat. His eyebrows narrowed, his skin was cold,
he needed a beer before now, before the day exploded upon the 3
and the 1 he knew since elementary. They all just needed to hear.

He was plain, she was shy, they couldn’t sing, they never applied,
she was hungry, he was thirsty, they loved too early, they had no reply
to the looks that always went through them,
the words that never included them,
and they moved in down the street in the adobe apartments,
no one adopted their premature family. The collected food stamps
for a hobby, and raised another round of invisible children
who sit outside church potlucks

Wondering why people kept cringing over words like “lucky”

They just needed to hear, early and never-too-late,
just once in their life
poor and dry, or rich and raining,
we all need to hear, know it or not:

“Baby, you’re amazing.”

Hunger and Hard Times

“He put you through hard times. He made you go hungry. Then he fed you with manna, something neither you nor your parents knew anything about, so you would learn that men and women don't live by bread only; we live by every word that comes from God's mouth.” Deuteronomy 8:3 (The Message)

There it is, spoken to Moses. It was God who put us through hard times. It was even He who made us hungry. It is just so easy to blame the devil. Why not? God surely doesn’t want me to suffer, to hunger, to go without or to appear needy.

Embarrassed

“So love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength.” Deuteronomy 6:5

This verse does nothing less than embarrasses me. Simply meditated, there is no reason to hold back true, whole hearted love from the One who has given me life itself, let alone all the other blessings alongside living. The first three verses of Deuteronomy Six set it up for us exactly that way.

But Your Words

But Your Words

(“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will certainly not pass away.” Mark 13:31)

My magnificence, my manuscript,
my masterpiece, my sheets of handwritten lyrics
and longings double spaced on the old Underwood
were boxed away once I left home for the first time
and from the time until reminded what words meant to me
once I inked them out of mind; it was 20 years.

Sometimes I bragged about them, sometimes bereaved over their loss,
sometimes remembering them, my tour de force, other times
(considering the source) I knew they were derivative,
clunky as bricks and cheap imitations of the poetry gurus
who always caught my breath.

But Your words, paper or heard, can still bring tears
where other words quickly incite new fences around
my acreage.

But Your words, always and now, know the corners of me,
better than the mourners of me who have conditions for my improvement,
who have eyes fixed on my every movement,
who never dissent, but with a turn of phrase, a well-placed accent
distort the courage I crave.

But Your words, spoken unfeigned, wash over craggy blocks
of desert cliffs, the heart held siege by drought, until
shadow and sun, until green leaves appear. The tears
are merely the heart’s irrigation.

I have lost more words than I have written, but never
have forgotten the face that inspired them,
the planet motions that conspired slim volumes of day.

But Your words, laughter or sad, are truer than faces I’ve forgotten,
tracing hope like a halo, a love so fearful I sometimes shudder
and wonder why I think even one word I’ve uttered
is worth remembering

When Your words, thunder and still, find the wound
and without lecture, pierce the callous and soften
until I hear better what I have heard so often.

Checking In

Checking In

(“Let me pass through your land, I will travel only on the highway; I will not turn aside to the right or to the left.” Deuteronomy 2:27)

You tried to catch my chin again,
turn my sideways to burn red
instead of loving the trees and the blooms that waved
overhead just above the disagreeable
critics who heard the blues
and said
there was no life where they used to play like gardens.

But you insisted, with my chin in your hand,
that my little backyard roses and lavender
did not match your meandering horticulture
of vines and wild blackberry invaders.

Until a visitor knocked and inquired about my name:
Their smile hand happy old-time twang
brought me back to center again,
“We’ve heard of your garden, sir, and
I have to say,
we would love to stay and afternoon there,
someday.”

I turned my chin and started down the path again,
but first I touched the hands that had turned me aside,
and asked,

“If you would like, sir, I will check in on your garden,
next time I pass that way.”

Righteous, dude!

“Since, then, we are made righteous through faith, let us enjoy peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” Romans 5:1

“Righteous, dude!” Yes, the surfer slang doesn’t come close to what the Scriptures mean by “righteous”. But, on second thought, maybe it conveys the feeling one has upon realizing they have absolutely been “made righteous” in God’s sight.

Cross-Examination

“Cross-examine and test me, get a clear picture of what I’m about.” Psalm 139:23 (The Message)

There may be a script out there where a defendant in a crime drama can’t wait to get into the witness chair. And, there may even be a scene where he is begging to be cross-examined after his own attorney’s questions. Perhaps there are two kinds who would beg to be cross examined. Someone who is absolutely certain of his innocence and unafraid of courtroom shenanigans might say, “Come on, let the Prosecution do their best.”

Not One in a Hundred

Not One in a Hundred

(“Many people spread their coats on the road for Jesus. Others cut branches in the fields and spread the branches on the road.” Mark 11:8)

He showed up exactly as they expected,
(minus, of course, trumpets, fanfare, military men
and glistening sword).
He rode in exactly as they held their breath,
(minus, a horse, a donkey instead, maybe well-fed,
and the first one to drive it off the lot.)

They rolled out the carpet, a green rug,
branch and leaf, fanning the air, a dozen close friends
shooing away the thrill seekers and autograph hounds,
making sure it all sounded proper and respectful,
no camera flashes, no popcorn stashes, no big gulps
(reverence, say silence, shout amends, foe and friends
alike, ascend the hill quietly; face it, piety should not leave you winded).

“Hosanna,” they shouted,
(Cohen wrote Hallelujah better)
not one in a hundred doubted
this was the day the chain letter
broke,
the fetters no longer choked the life
out of the shouts they had hung on
willow trees just until they were dry.

Whirling, the turbines of time swept their expectations
from dusty Palestine to scholars, politicians, pundits and
poets like me, scratching rhyme after rhyme. We want
Jesus in His prime to announce His intentions and
silence the pretentious so we can nap awhile.

Instead, days like today, and weekends like they
had then,
He lays Himself down, pierced hands and thorny crown,
quieting our hopes and devalues our collection of
autographs the saints have signed (just after their prime time
recording).

Instead, He takes us silent, and, while the universe holds
its breath for what seems a century or more,
when we are no longer looking,
opens the door and peeks past death straight into the eyes
of our definitions.

Barbed-Wire Sunrise

Barbed-Wire Sunrise

I sing of freedom’s ring,
blazing blue and bullfrog green,
the mist that burned off the river so fast
You would swear the sun itself was a living thing.

I ask for friendship’s song,
toasted cheese and clam chowder,
board games, ground fog and pepsi all night long,
couches and blankets, quilts on the pasture hills
waiting to see the eastern glow, dawn’s early light,
we held hands, or laughed, or talked like philosophers
with white beards sitting on outcrops while
the rest pretended to listen.

You do not wish for innocence when
courage pushes you over barbed wire fences
one leg over the other
onto the next hill and still confused
that fences existed at all.

I want to early sing
again (late spring or summer early)
between the seams of yawns and dawn’s
late scene, peeking between clouds thin layers
like a paintbrush coating the hills with
the colors of the day.

I still wish for innocence since
age has made me wiser and I dare not snag
my new blue jeans on someone else’s fence
or risk the trespass my neighbor might not forgive.
But just want to play all night, scouring the cupboards
for the next late-night snack to take with us

To search the sky for the dawn again
(don’t ask me why, we never did then.)

Like Little Children

“Then some people came to him bringing little children for him to touch. The disciples tried to discourage them.” Mark 10:13

The Pharisees had tried to corner Jesus with a question about marriage and divorce. Truly an adult topic, they wanted to trap Jesus once again with their questions. Following their dialogue the disciples ask Jesus for more explanation after they are back in the house. It is at this point that some people brought children to Him.

God's Food?

“Make sure to offer to me my offering, my food, my food gift as a soothing smell to me at its appointed time.” Numbers 28:2

God speaks as if the offerings we give Him are His “food”. The people were commanded to bring animal offerings which were burned on the altar at designated times. Every day of the year two male lambs were brought, and on every Sabbath two additional lambs. An offering consisting of two bulls, one ram, seven male lambs, and one male goat was brought the first day of the month. Passover and additional feasts had their own sacrifices.

Greenery and Golden

Greenery and Golden

(“How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” Psalm 119:103)

Golden smiles and green spring day
light the tunnel we feared once blocked
at the exit.
Barricades of imagination sent us off
in false directions burrowing like fat gray rabbits
next to a church’s foundation.

A trumpet call, silver above the average clouds;
a fire bell, red and racing to the scene;
a storm siren, yellow and knocking down each player
drinking the last yellow sign of sun.

But one white silence, black like type on vellum,
and the whispers of honey can melt glad and sticky,
like peanut butter on white bread, added bananas,
and the dime-size bee’s work, glue and clover,
wins us over. Running our tongues between
lips and gums
we are not ashamed to laugh out loud
when every cloud still refuses to break for us.

What the Sweet Words make for us are
golden summers when our souls were frozen,
greenery whistling in the breath between
consonants and vowels, the crimson ambrosia
chosen at a moment’s notice long before light
ever was refracted.

FlatLine

FlatLine

(“He said to them, ‘If anyone wishes to come after Me, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow Me.’” Mark 8:34)

Sweating with reason we approach less glibly,
but still fashion our requests as if incantations
make the flutes whistles, the bells ring, the lights flash
and the toys come tumbling out of the royal vending machine.

Our slight religion has taught us to at least keep our eyes closed
while dropping down our coins.

We are sorry, we dropped the truth on the ground behind us,
hoping those keeping up the rear would notice the saplings
and hang their hats on our optional branches.

Permission to speak honestly? I’m like all the rest.
For a while there I was convinced my own sweat
could be measured to demonstrate devotion,
and the sheer number of groves that still are growing
while my garden lies bare
are the proof I took enough time to die.

But I watched a reality show today where
the lackluster owner of a dying investment was told
to
“work at it from here again”, circling his chest and
hoping, having spoken, for passion.

I ran the dipstick deep into my heart and found what I suspected:
flatline. I’m not joking.

I am angry I do not have the passion to die for any cause,
let alone the Love of Early and Late who erased my hatred
and entombed my dark-esteem.

My pale expression is fear grown polar and sorrow over
following yesterday with energy and hidden shadows,
toddling today like a recovering addict who has nothing left to confess.

I have waved from parades of innocence, and now stand on the sidelines
watching cheerleaders and firemen, boy scouts and the battle of the bands,

Unrecognized by anyone
anymore.

Some Introspection

“God is gracious—it is he who makes things right, our most compassionate God. God takes the side of the helpless; when I was at the end of my rope, he saved me.” Psalm 116:5, 6

I can never be reminded too often of God’s gracious love. I am uncertain whether I have a particular difficulty in remembering His love, or whether we all lose the confidence of His compassion as quickly as I do.

Picnic Impossible

“So He suggested to the crowd that they sit down on the ground, and, taking the seven loaves, He gave the blessing, broke them, presented them to His disciples to distribute, and they handed them around to the people.” Mark 8:6

I love shows like “Restaurant Impossible.” You know the drill; a promising restaurant is now failing. The management or owners think they have the best food in town, but behind the scenes we see a kitchen infested with roaches and a cooler with rat droppings. The wait staff is snobby to customers and the décor looks like a 1970s dorm room. Along comes the master chef and with just a few days, a limited budget and a bullwhip of an attitude, transforms the dingy dive into a 5-star eatery.