Working at Peace

“Work at living in peace with everyone, and work at living a holy life, for those who are not holy will not see the Lord.” Hebrews 12:14

I admit it; most days I am working on showing that I am right. In my business, you have to. I am a pastor, and unless I present true truth to people, I am in danger of filling their minds with toxic thoughts. I also teach drama at the high school. If I am wrong about stage directions, or instruct my students incorrectly about good character development I probably won’t be asked back next year. (No, actually, this is a tiny town. Anyone who raises their hand gets picked. But, you still get my illustration, right?)

Of Discipline and Family

“If you are not disciplined—and everyone undergoes discipline—then you are not legitimate, not true sons and daughters at all.” Hebrews 12:8

My daughter-in-law posted a photo on Facebook this week. The “pose” takes place in living rooms all over the country sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Our son Michael is lifting their four-year-old daughter, Anika, up in the air as she strains forward to put the star atop their Christmas tree. It immediately evoked memories of lifting Michael when he was young; same situation, same position.

Unedited

"Unedited"

(“The sun of righteousness will dawn on those who honor my name, healing radiating from its wings. You will be bursting with energy, like colts frisky and frolicking.” Malachi 4:2 [The Message])

I felt the fog and saw the fresh lather
left overnight on the morning grass.
I sleep past sunrise and waste my worries
looking for swooping angels to snatch me away
from the dim displays painted within this chipped
and gilded
frame.

I don’t ask for more than the promise, although
I cry for lack of enough notice to plan ahead for the
spans ahead of silence, stumbles and hesitation.
I prefer thunderstorms to icy mornings.

I can blame more things than one,
and add to the list if forced by hand,
but the steps I’ve taken are my steps alone;
some simple half-steps slowed by fear, many
appear leaps until eyes have turned elsewhere.

I can write my melancholy on the sunniest day,
pen it, paper it, erase it, crumble it, resheet it
and write it the same all over again.
Why change what I write with the first thought
when the changes are my inner edits to
take the edge off.

I can write my melancholy on the giggling beach,
pen it and paper, like I’ve just stated. The afternoon beams
are the reason for my tears (why would anyone cry on
a day like this?). The afternoon wings me to slower dusk
when tears are hidden by the longer shadows of inattention.

Later than years and further than time I know
the damage is done. Deeper than seeing and
stiller than wings on the soft sky I know
the change will come.

You saw my tears, yesterday, didn’t you?
You had no idea what to say, and wondered
(as I do, my friend) why I would cry when
loved and laden with gifts.

You did not cause them, nor the slivers
from backyard growing up fences. I’m waiting
for the sunlight to take me from pretense to
senses of immense joy on the wings of Righteousness
written
once unedited.

Three Shelves

Three Shelves

(“’And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you?’ says the Lord of hosts.” Malachi 1:9)

Isn’t it a heavy commentary, filling at least three shelves on a pastor’s bookcase,
saved up for, referenced over and over the first ten years, then unopened after
finding the groove and exploiting the popular. We refer to the Hebrew,
missing the irony in our entreaties. We explain the Greek, and for another dime,
you can buy,
on your way by the hospitality booth
a stapled tome squeezing the last life out of our
twisted recitation of reverence.

Isn’t it a well-dressed diorama, perfectly stuffed with bleached newsprint,
bones connected to calculated concrete to supply the effect which we
just have not found yet,
still underground yet,
and we will add them as soon as we find them,
and we will show you how we still know you would
see it our way.

Isn't it a bulldozer honor, the emcee rises with appreciation on his plate,
appointed to speak, well. Appointed to speak well of the one who led
them so far this far. So far, he’s only talked about himself. “And so, Moses,
here is the card we all signed.” The bulldozer turns, grunts and sits quickly;
the leader is frozen, and it is well past noon until anyone takes another breath.

Isn't it a pale righteousness, the hurt and washless occupation we cover with our
second-hand masks. Dad gave it to Mom, Dad died. Mom gave it to me, Mom died.
I believe, I’ll scratch my chin, I’ve given it to my kids: all three…first with pride.
But now I feel the blood leaving my face; the disgraceful way I never controlled
my passion, my smug, my rhetoric, my hugs meant to welcome, then turn you
to invest in your own

Second-hand masks to hand down with a shrug. “After all, a man of God
told me all about them.”

Every Day

“Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” Acts 2:46, 47

I am about to go home and sit down to a marvelous Thanksgiving feast prepared by my wife and daughter. The last few years it has been just “we three” for the November holiday. We have two grown sons; one lives with his wife in Minneapolis along with our 4 year old granddaughter, and the other is in Guatemala finishing his last year with the Peace Corps. Normally we would invite a handful of people who have nowhere else to go, but my headaches are only exacerbated by adding more people to the mix.

Best Intentions

Best Intentions

(“Then he said to me, ‘This is the word of the Lord to Zerubbabel saying, “Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit”, says the Lord of hosts.’” Zechariah 4:16)

I would have let it go, never said another word.
I am certain, I am sure what began would end except
none of us could destroy the word, we could not destroy
the soup heated up on your parent’s stove the night
before you left,
the night before you faded from my view.

We spiraled like drain water, missing each other in a vector
of years and places. I married mine, you found yours;
your baby girl was first until my son entered. We shared
our showpieces year by year; beautiful blossomed and
handsome glowed between impervious and genius and
sad.

But we never went, you and I, a year without
taking stock with phone calls catching up on
each new crisis, never disconnected once the conversation
was done.

--words misspoke, words unfastened--

No one is the victim, no one is to blame but
we both are the wounded and, we both share the same
painting we began before sailing on winds that clouded our vision
and left us here with this decade of silence and question marks.

I have counted each sorry, and measured each misspeak,
you have been kind and I can count your wounds,
but I carry a bucket (I have noticed yours, as well;
wooden, unpainted, leaking and ripened);
but I carry a bucked borrowed from a forgotten sandcastle
spilling over with the words I would say to you (and him).

You’ve heard them, and spoken them to me before,
but now the words (they cannot be destroyed) seek
the one unguarded moment when we both can react

Like the air never heard how the years marred our
best and failed intentions.

When the Wind

When the Wind

(“Suddenly, a sound like a violently blowing wind came from the sky and filled the whole house where they were staying.” Acts 2:2)

The sand stretches its aggregate collection across
the desert where horizon greets bluing sky: quietly.
The desert has its own silence that waits for the next burst
to rearrange dunes southern and scoot stones in the other direction.

Heat rises from the accommodating desert floor, stored overnight
while the air froze motionless and skies expanded curtainless
for eyes to take in the old-fashioned light of stars perhaps
flickering their last quiet millennium.

No one observes the processes that take longer than the
lifespan of a man,
but the evidence left behind suggests more life in bands
of history jammed in practice-cake layers.

The flash floods widen the floor and deep,
the accelerated water feeds the sleepy saguaro
and wakes the watching Gilas for one more life-giving
drink.

Waiting is a better virtue than making,
praying is a better chart than late complaints.
When the wind arrives, give wing;
When the fire descends, then sing;
when the Spirit fills, then everything is burning
(bushes and hearts and thrones and plans)
until the desert blooms with grace like Eden
again.

Single-Mindedly

“These all devoted themselves single-mindedly to prayer, along with some women, including Mary (Jesus’ mother), and his brothers.” Acts 1:14

Get together a group of people larger than, say, one, and the chances of agreeing on a plan of action, or a strategy, or even what kind of ice cream to buy can be a real challenge. My wife and I still have the same conversation we had when we were dating. (And, no, I didn’t have to borrow my parents’ dinosaur to take her out).

On The Heights

“The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights.” Habakkuk 3:19

Yesterday I had had enough. A peer where I volunteer treated me quite rudely, I barely managed to communicate what I thought was a simple idea to a small group, our college-age daughter spent the previous night in the Emergency Room and our finances are threadbare. For any other tree, those would simply be the initial cuts, not enough to bring the whole thing crashing down.

If a Field

If a Field

(“When the ground soaks up the falling rain and bears a good crop for the farmer, it has God’s blessing.” Hebrews 6:7)

“…but if a field bears thorns and thistles, it is useless. The farmer will soon condemn that field and burn it.”

And the day I started remains exactly where I left it
the. And the day I am playing out seems only so much
greasepaint covering how little progress has been made.

And the rain falls violently outside my patio window,
the wind fiercely tears the wind chimes off their

Nails in the wood.

I want to text the world to ask where my dreams disappeared,
I want an answer to my letters, I swear I would leave those days
behind
for just one word, or tear, or admission of the omissions that
send the bucket into the well behind my eyes, never returning dry.

I have all the rain I need, and dry, I remain the same
as the day I started. Like the expanding universe, stars
flying light-years further each second,
I discover the friends that once were my milky way
are beyond my ability to see; their appearance reaching me
20 years after the fact.

I have all the rain I need, and burned, I am on the outside,
a dry asteroid at the outer limits of light’s furthest spectrum.

Each Intermission

Each Intermission

(“God rested from his work. Those who enjoy God’s rest also rest from their work.” Hebrews 4:10)

In the heat of the day, or frost overnight
the mind examines inch after inch of each dimension,
correction its direction, usually sighting a familiar look
or the spark from some other’s eyes that insists it is
safe to turn in there for the night.

In the single second or the long of the year,
the mind can hold episodes and events in one grand
moment
that happened years ago on the Texas desert and others that
may yet
befall the man who suffers over tomorrow’s fear.

In the laugh of a daughter, or another unknown suicide
the mind combines tear after tear of each intermission
begging to be fully seen and feared to be held cleanly
without excursus or at least a lucid synopsis.

In one single Word God called the world Good,
in one quiet Day He did not hesitate to rest;
labor put upon the shelf, hammers and saws stored
until the final bell captured all the silence and stored it up
for days just like these.

It is Finished!

“When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” Then bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.” John 19:30

When I was in my early twenties I worked as a hod carrier for a bricklayer. Typically, that meant that I would be carrying bricks, twelve at a time, to keep my boss’s supply stocked. If we were working with cinder blocks, I would carry two at a time, weighing 20 pounds each. Between carrying loads, I would mix the mortar and wheelbarrow it to him as well.

Adrift

“We must pay the most careful attention, therefore, to what we have heard, so that we do not drift away.” Hebrews 2:1

Geologists tell us that there was one mega-continent in the early formation of planet Earth. Ever so slowly this giant mass began to splinter along natural fault lines into the land masses we now know. Labeled “continental drift”, it describes the movement of the Earth’s continents relative to each other as they appear to drift across the ocean bed. Today the theory is better explained by “plate tectonics” which better explains the continent’s movement.

Pocket Neighborhoods

Pocket Neighborhoods

(“Seek good and not evil—and live! You talk about God, the God-of-the-Angel-Armies, being your best friend. Well, live like it, and maybe it will happen.” Amos 5:14 [The Message])

Shall we sentence capital, thus ending our options,
if one innocent life can no longer speak?

We know the dead have no voice,
their pockets are empty,
their mouths without sound,
their eyes no longer seeking the justice
only the living can find.

Shall we put our hands in our pockets
fingering the gold coins we keep warm
against another cold snap? And what if the gold
is less precious than bread,
silver the less than the tin sardines are sold in?

We dreamed and built our houses better,
higher on the hill than we expected. The climb
was worth it, here out of touch from the grimy fingers
that pretend only to want lunch but haven’t eaten in a week.

We hire singers to soothe the conscience which occasionally
prompts backstage of our private performances. When we
run out, we pay double for musicians to make up tunes
just to keep the background noise right up front
drowning the script good parents taught about
give, share, kind and doubt about our certainties
of who deserves dessert and who should be left out.
And we sing loudest when the band strikes up
“Amazing Grace”.

We need a new neighborhood, perhaps where the condos
are built of cardboard; the timeshare pools the puddles after rain.
We need neighbors by name, by cousin, by cuisine we’ve
never tasted and now, pockets empty, are free to dine.

Over our Heads

Over our Heads

(“I am coming to you now. But I pray these things while I am still in the world. I say all this so that these followers can have the true happiness that I have. I want them to be completely happy.” John 17:13)

Angelic arpeggios are always dancing in a world with perfect acoustics.
Rain spins and mockingbirds on old limbs on forested ledges echo
the rounded chords; writing and rewriting, singing their choreography
under our feet,
and
over our heads,
and
within the earth,
and
from the farthest star.

I don’t know what the future is for my babies. I only wish them happiness.

Autumn drips more often in syncopation, the rain reminds the wind
to chime, bamboo and aluminum, hanging from garage and patio eaves.
The leaves take a chance, flying from their perches with cursive flight plans
until they land to cover the hillsides until snow.

The Father hears the request of the Son; in this world, before the next one,
for joy to be modified so all can read the lines, and memorized, the day
that begins mournful can arise, not theorized and greater dimension than
pantomime, is sung without a thought of how it will end, or
why it began.

I Hate Fighting

“Because of his grace he declared us righteous and gave us confidence that we will inherit eternal life.” Titus 3:7

I hate fighting. I hate trying to prove that I am right. I hate arguing my way into being accepted. I cannot stand wrestling to be understood, even at the risk of being even more misunderstood. I hate the energy it takes trying to prove that I’m an okay guy. I hate fighting.