Daylight Comes Shining

Daylight Comes Shining

(“Jesus turned on Peter and said, ‘Get away from me, you Satan! You are a dangerous trap to me. You are thinking merely from a human point of view, and not from God’s.’” Matthew 16:23)

It is true; my posture often discloses the poses
I take to motivate you to see what I so guardedly hide
inside.
I hope to be clearer come the morning,
with new sun shining through invisibility, not glass.
I desire the fresh air bathing tomorrow, not past.
I tip my hat to the next step I take with better vision,
the next portrait unmistakably unretouched, no airbrush,
only bad haircuts, crooked ties, unbuttoned sleeves, and
colored t’s with bob dylan or the cookie monster postered
up front.

Teach me to dance, easier, Jesus. You alone leave me unlonely;
Your love only has cured my unlovely. I never did like any photo
(black and white and waited for development, or digital and tossed
in digital packets across the wifi world), except for one: I was caught
by surprise,
my granddaughter in my arms, her face full of chocolate and my eyes,
full of messy joy.

When Your suffering is over, Lover of my soul, teach me fully,
(I fear the request) what it means to suffer and die with you,
too. Perhaps I will not cringe the unhinged photos that make me believe
all can see
each impurity and the next unearned wrinkle.

You are all the whole, and I am the cog with broken teeth
I always wished had been straightened. You are the only,
I should know your Daylight comes shining and my heart
leaps like summer’s first day after the best sleep of the year.

"If You Forgive"

“He breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld.’” John 20:22,23

I can only try to imagine what it must have been like to be one of Jesus’ disciples after the resurrection. I really have nothing to compare it to; I have no one who has died and come back to life. I have not even been fooled; thought someone was dead, then found out later that they were alive. April 1 is only three months away, though. That would be the greatest prank ever.

Hammers and Saws

Then (Jesus) said, ‘Are you also still without understanding?’” Matthew 15:16

The Pharisees had missed the point once again. They knew the “Law” so well, it was always easy to find offenders. This time those irreverent disciples of Jesus ate before washing their hands. Jesus, as He always did, confronts them with their own hypocrisy, pointing out their own disobedience to a far greater law.

Only Finding

Only Finding

(“There was just enough for everyone. Those who gathered more had nothing left over and those who gathered little had no lack! Each home had just enough.” Exodus 16:18)

There is no hunting, there is only finding,
there is no searching, there is only gathering,
the elusive we seek is the want that demands tomorrow,
not today; next year, not this short radius of time.

There is no hoarding, there is only supply,
there is no hiding, there is only open sky,
the stockpiles we concrete and padlock
are fear’s sleight-of-hand, our fingers of
calloused. We think too much of the thorny
succulents to celebrate fresh today and today.

There is no tomorrow, no future, no long-range plan;
today is the habitation of earthly dwellings. The smile
I intend for tomorrow,
subtracts from the one you needed today.

There is sadness, there is laughter,
there is feasting, there is hunger;
we speak and only memory captures
the sounds into tomorrow.

We sing the songs our grandfathers taught,
today; they sound new. “Masters of War”
was Dylan through Pearl Jam and every Christmas
carol
is gospel harmony with electronica’s assistance.

There is feasting today, tomorrow more,
but today’s feast will not be tomorrow’s meal.
There is celebration, tomorrow new provision;
today we will sing while our ancient anxieties

(their constant hum)

Are brightened by love’s now and only,
a minute divided by 60,
a second split into infinity,
one breath begins, and ends,
behind us again.

Very/Slowly

Very/Slowly

(“Don’t be afraid! Stand still, and see what the Lord will do to save you today.” Exodus 14:13)

I am writing this to be read

Very

Slowly.

I/Mean/It!/

Take every word a-part a syllable at a time,
do not waste one single letter, do not subtract the
smallest integer. Every cluck of the tongue matters,
every vowel breath baritone will not be repeated.
The consonants cutting off air will speak once; listen

Very

Snail-pace.

/Frame/It!/

Now Moses meant it when he said the fear was in their heads
and they need only stand and watch to see (the victory) when
(in the Red Sea) overbearing chariots drowned. Moses spoke
it, perhaps wrote it,
and bequeathed it  for us to sift the leftover junk and pain
we fear might smother us like Job.

Now, I am serious, take this word by bird, beat by cheap seats;
it will not be repeated.

Moses meant it when he said the fear; Job felt it when he
saw the declaration written upon his the ridges of his dried skin,
God was his enemy, God held the winning cards, God had trumped
every bit of righteousness Job had every painted or sung. The
(bottom rung) was squeezing the life out of the affair He adored,
the GodHead, still beyond worship’s reach, had now besieged
the days of grace, replacing them with salt-herbs, potsherds and
pain.

Listen to my eyes roll slowly now. Moses meant it, Job spent
his pain divided/between love’s praise and the dazed questions
when God refuses to play fair.

Though Moses saw the chariots sink, Job’s tears splattered
the same pages; and I am left thinking

We all need to

Take it so/much/slower.

So Small

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed planted in a field.  It is the smallest of all seeds, but it becomes the largest of garden plants; it grows into a tree, and birds come and make nests in its branches.” Matthew 13:31-32

The mission of the Pioneer 10 was to reach the planet of Jupiter. Launched in 1972, the probe set out on its three year, 700 thousand mile journey. Twenty-five years later, more than six million miles from the sun, the little probe was still beaming back radio signals to scientists on earth. With only an 8-watt transmitter, it continued its mission far beyond expectations. Those eight watts…about enough to power a bedroom night light.

No More Mundane

No More Mundane

“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom he is pleased!” Luke 2:14

One year ago the Hurricane Sandy barreled into the East Coast with a fury unrivaled in recent history. The largest Atlantic hurricane on record, estimates assess damage to have been over $68 billion, surpassed only by Hurricane Katrina. At least 286 people were killed along the path of the storm. It affected people from Jamaica and the Dominican Republic, to 24 states in the United States.

I Must Object

I Must Object

(“I tell you that everyone will have to answer for all the careless things they have said. This will happen on the day of judgment.” Matthew 12:36)

I have no memory of those words, your honor;
nor harm the proffered evidence sliced and left
wounded. I heard you call it “blunt force trauma”, sir;
spiderweb bruises from the point of impact extending
to the this judgment seat.

I must object that I could have used my fists or any weapon
at the ready. Though I do not own one, I could have fired a gun
and done more damage. You’ve seen the broken bones and
blackened eyes and canceled the debt called self-defense. I
must object.

I recall none of those sentences or tones, obscenities or
sticks and stones;

And, for the record, I never wrote down a single word
(how could they have heard what I did not record?)

The evidence is slim, the decades dim the syllables any
of us spoke over the din of recycled epithets.

The jury is in? I have no more words to say, having no words
to summon. They are just air and consonants, stops and vowels,
puffing air and clucking tongue, breaking up the air and
meaning nothing until tickling someone’s eardrum. They
bounce between atoms, the elevated hum of thought and syntax.

My mind is a revolving reservoir; I can remember every word
like cannon shot ever fired my way. But, for the life of me,
I cannot remember the word the accuser insists I spoke to
him

Yesterday. 

The Friends without Words

“They feel but the pain of their own bodies and mourn only for themselves.” Job 14:22

We all are stymied when it comes to the right words and expressions to aid a friend who is enduring chronic pain or a life tragedy. What words are there when a man discovers his brother, barely a year older than he, was just found dead and had no indications that his body was giving out. What do you say to the family who lost their jobs, moved to a new city, and within two weeks lost 75 percent of their belongings in a house fire? What do you tell the father young son in his mid-20s just fell at his wife’s feet, succumbing to heart failure?

Its Second Encore

Its Second Encore

(“From the time of John the Baptist until now, violent people have been trying to take over the kingdom of heaven by force.” Matthew 11:12)

From the begun at the report of the starter’s gun,
to the oval offers around the next lap pounding,
the perfect machine, the human exchange of
lubrication for dreams; knees, ankles, soles and hips;
the multi-levered propellant marches round the
feet at the bottom of progressive hills.

From the first-story explosion until the taking of the kingdom,
notions have risen, clouds have gathered, rain has splattered
the fields with emotions secretly untethered from the ancient
posts of propriety.

Suitable for classrooms, to be sure;
required for the next sales brochure,
but never intended, and far too much baggage
for a global central nervous system cure.

Dad set up the 2x4 on its side, as a test, as a Scout,
for balance, for badges, for 4 yards, and I fell. I walk
the thin white line inborn like a slalom. I stay on my feet

That way.

Color within the lines and hang the purple hippo on the fridge.
I preferred blank and white; glue not crayons, twigs not colors,
and a plastic letter or two from my brother’s alphabet game.

We run, or climb the rungs, or break down walls, or
divine the combination. Hungry for air, the heart
drives the legs beyond dog-park walks and demands
a hike halfway to the treeline where,
crayons and balance beams forgotten,
we kick up gravel (thunder and rebound)
while the sky swallows our hoots down whole.

No one knew how we arrived while the heavens
played its second encore of the day.

The Easy Speed

The Easy Speed

(May “the angel who has redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads.” Genesis 48:16a)

Sitting behind me sometimes,
watching my tears off track sometimes,
speaking the time and the day and the place and the way
in divine intersection; all coordinates meeting at the same spot,
sometimes.

Without berating my sometime fright,
“fear not”, the first words, first light, late night,
so whether my shiver began at their appearance or
was a chronic response to the disappearance of one more
cornerstone,

The strong words were safety and so large their echo
invited the grand canyon depth to meet K2 heights,
all at the easy speed that sends every heavenly declaration,
constellation and alpine, perfectly to its purpose.

No doddle, no off ramps for souvenir bracelets,
no quick milkshakes at the famous café,
no half-day excursion to climb a darkened mound
of volcanic debris.

Angelic messengers, for all I know, laugh the best
at their messages’ delivery.

So, sometimes, after sitting behind me,
and sometimes, after speaking time and tears,
I have envisioned the leaving, side by side,
a holy pair, nodding at a job well done,
and sometimes, joking about humor
I dare not hope to understand.

Though envisioned, instead, I’ve have looked,
I have sped to the spot they spoke, surrounded
by floors and ceilings and walls; not windows or doors,
and have found only the air barely ruffled where once they
spoke to me.

And, for a sky-time second, I think I may, almost;
I think I see, nearly, I think I am, mostly; in on the joke.

A Rich Harvest

“The harvest is rich, but the workers are few. Pray that the Lord of the harvest will send out workers to gather in his harvest.” Matthew 9:37b, 38

To me, this is one of the most counter-intuitive sayings of Jesus. In fact, my ear almost always hears Him saying, “The harvest is rich, the workers are few. Pray the Lord of harvest to send out workers…and make sure you are one of them!” But that is not what He says at all.

The Air Changes

The Air Changes

There before you, right out in your front yard,
do you see it, do you take it in? Just beyond the
first step past your porch

The air changes.

You breathe slower, your pace is measured,
you notice the difference between soft moss
or the crack of a latent branch underfoot.

I need to send you a letter because I think you’ve missed it,
trying so hard to prove your intelligence
you breathe the same air

Everywhere you go.

May Have Forgotten

May Have Forgotten

(“Jesus said to them, ‘Why do you cowards have so little faith?’ Then he got up, gave an order to the wind and the sea, and the sea became very calm.” Matthew 8:26)

How can I explain why I fainted,
How can I tell you the pain and the distance
between faith and sorrow?

I no longer fear the waves, the rock cracking,
mud sliding, faces colliding with my next opinion.
I fear nothing, and by nothing I mean I fear the vacuum,
the void, the silence, the melodies destroyed by
the startled sound of crashing pans and pots. The
tunes take too long to pencil down. I need a rest,
a nap, I need to sleep, to grapple alone with the
hole so confined I barely turn with the moving sun.

How can I complain about the explanation;
trials come to strengthen resolve and power
me through the next temptation? Should I,
muscle bound by now, deserve at least a
reprieve from tears or groaning? And, if by grace you say it comes to me, then send the relief without my asking.

I might, reflexively admit, I’d rather fight at the front again
than be on this island of trauma. The friends who walk with me
do not call, they know the vibrations through the phone still
disturb the pulsing nerves that refuse synthesis or organic
prescription.

I hope, I have not forgotten Your name;
I pray, I do little else as the pressure encircles,
a vise radically squeezing the final virtue from out of me.

I dare think, I can never believe it though, that
You
may have forgotten mine. I pray, do not call me
coward,
when I rise to meet the enemy who stays awake all night long only to meet me for another round once the morning opens my eyes.

Barely Hesitation

Barely Hesitation

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7

Continue rapping, three sharp blows
where the door and the siding echoes;
then listen.

Continue knocking, pound three times
on the hollow front door, no whine,
just linger.

They are home, they are somewhere in the back,
splashing in the pool, playing the music loud.
Don’t leave just yet, don’t step down, don’t step back;
they know you well within and, should they know it was
you
knocking
they would instantly grin.

Keep on searching, take down notes
of every street you have pursued it;
then silent.

Keep on seeking, write it down,
town and country, dream and waking; just
watch lightly.

They are found, they are jewels, they are crowns;
beneath the loam, underneath the rockabye waves.
Don’t give up now, don’t lose heart, don’t lose faith;
Today is well known, tomorrow the wonder;
you
seeking
still, and yet gems and sweat.

Raise the questions, windmill wide,
while others hide doubt behind duty;
then pencil.

Keep no asking, heaven high,
no agenda, and no theorem; just
open ears.

They are answered, foreign or familiar;
from the deepest sigh, beyond sun and starlight high.
Listen is best; from Father’s openness;
our ears well-trained, silence is invitation;
you
asking,
barely hesitation.

Your Ride, Your Majesty

“Do not be afraid, people of Zion! Look! Your king is coming. He is riding on a young donkey.” John 12:15

“Your Majesty”. Perhaps the first time we hear that phrase it is in the context of a child’s fairy tale or a Disney animated story. The “Majesty” is always the king or queen resplendent in their royal garb. The crown sparkles with gemstones on their head and the gold vestment flows down from their shoulders as they sit upon their elevated throne. A subject has entered, kneeling below, waiting for his “Majesty” to lower the scepter, indicating his approval.

Dan and Dawn

Dan and Dawn

(true story, only the names have been changed to protect, well, I don't know what I'm protecting. But, they have been changed!)

They are Dan and Dawn. I am certain those with such simple names,
staccato and alliterative, are meant to live without parting,
to marry without a moment’s thought of ever living alone again.
Dan and Dawn are a single name, a three-syllable name without need
of a surname. Five years ago on a dry Pacific Northwest Day we
sat outside with family and friends and laughed the day the

50^th mile of their long journey and short sojourn among us all.

They do not live alone. Families like theirs never live alone.
At the right time, during the right season, when the need is great,
or the celebration is near, their house becomes the Group Home full
of ginger. A red-haired daughter with three red-haired daughters,
all the happy progeny of Dan and Dawn. Along with a son in California
their thoughts are central hope and, like every parent ever born,
central hesitation over every step each beloved takes.

Theirs is prodigal house; no questions asked when comfort is needed.
There is a Samaritan home; bandages and ointment come before any
question or conversation. And, will you take coffee? It is freshly brewed.
And, will you have a cookie? We wish Bob would gain some weight,
but he hardly eats any. And, will you return next week? (They do
not speak…but, “please hold his hand and pray, the pain, the pain,
the mere motion of touch. His head is a searing orb of vise-like
pain.

They are Dan and Dawn. They cry. They do not share the reason
with every visit or inquisition; but have loved so many, so many
wish to trouble would be the shortest season; wish the long spice
of peace they remember would return to dry the eyes of
the finest grapes ever found upon the finest vines in the vineyard.

They are Dan and Dawn; and I am their son, though only six years
have passed since I have known them. We share pain, his and mine,
though I am certain he suffers more deeply, with agony more severe..
But I will hear and tell of Dan and Dawn, the soft heart and hard life,
the meek hope and the prayer that grapples where no one hears until
creature and Creator have come to terms.

They are Dan and Dawn, moved more slowly than they desire,
Father, let time keep them here, and take them home, to know
the love of Christ, here, there, us, not-pain and ever-dried eyes
by the finger of the Love who taught them so well.

Pray Like This

“Pray like this: ‘Our Father in heaven, may your name be kept holy.’” Matthew 6:9

You can spot them right away. Watch their eyes. They are in the stands of football games. They are in the audience at the school play. They walk the sidelines of neighborhood soccer games and, practically hidden, are often the proudest person at a wedding. If their child is involved, you can pick out a father anywhere.

Worth His Time

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” John 10:11

I had been without work for a couple of weeks. Spending my entire day, from dropping Sarah off with a babysitter until going to a part-time telemarketing job at 4 pm, finding employment was my full-time job. Patti worked a full-time shift at the same telemarketing firm.

The Next Dot

The Next Dot

(“You alone are Yahweh. You created the heavens, the highest heavens with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them. You give life to all of them, and the heavenly host worships You.” Nehemiah 9:6)

If I only look beyond the eggshell and stain,
the paper displays hung with home-made adhesive;
If I stare straight through the 10 foot regulations,
the attic that holds stale air and old Christmas decorations,

Sometimes if I peer, the blood lust from yesterday disappears,
the green skies of Aurora Borealis appears, and though it
may not cheer my mood completely,

Sometimes if I peer,

I can hear the Word that made the universe and never meant
for me to be cast

As the Lead.

Sometimes when I connect the tiniest particle which God
held in His hand to the next dot which banned my comment
on the fury unleashed by man, I see the tracer passed
right through me and around the universe from the first
“it is good” to the last “tears are past”

And spanned my tiny lifeline.

Today I will unlock the door and take a photo
of the next person I see and say, “I think we might
be friends.”

Precisely

Precisely

(“I am with you now, I will protect you everywhere you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done everything that I have promised you.” Genesis 28:15)

I had nearly forgotten the dreams that led me,
nearly forsaken the voice that called me,
for my loneliness speaks so loudly in the wilderness,
so cleanly, so distinctly, each syl / la / ble  pre /cise / ly
uttered.

The rain is white noise, good for sleeping, good for supporting
the crackle and syncopathy of dropped syllables letter; an even
better background to syncopate popcorn for a four minute b-side
while the rain drones on.

I need someone to strike the upbeat, catch me off guard, teach me
to jump when everyone else is landing. I need the summer rain that
makes dancing better joy than silent sunny afternoon.

I’ve checked, and just this morning a new gift was waiting on the
single empty space my desk offered. I had not prayed for something to
wake me,
nor to be moved from my dysthymia. My usual walk is slow and
painfully willing, quickly distilling the reading I must finish before
I can return with the door closed behind me and pray the pain will
give me room enough to sleep the afternoon away.

But on the open space, directly in front of my chair, a dolphin
pointed to the sky, handcarved and wrapped in silk. Her grandmother
died just a month ago, and among the keepsakes she found a treasure
she knew
her friend would adore. I love dolphins because they make me smile,
I smiled because my teenage friend left her grandmother’s dolphin,

And I am unworthy of such friendship; the one who overhears the
unheard whispers
as if they are conspiracies to burgle my joy. One more dolphin,
one more friend, and again I say, He has gone with me every way,
one down to another upbeat, and still teaches me the heavenly
tunes my fingers are still learning to play.

No More Drama

“Now Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing with which his father had blessed him, and Esau said to himself, ‘The days of mourning for my father are approaching; then I will kill my brother Jacob.’” Genesis 27:41

Jealousy can mess with our attitude so badly that we forget the blessings we may already have. Our next door neighbor buys a brand new SUV and suddenly our well-running minivan looks like a piece of junk in the driveway. Our best buddy gets the newest Xbox 720 gaming system for Christmas and now our Nintendo Wii looks like something out of the Stone Age. A co-worker receives a promotion, we are overlooked for a raise, or someone accuses us of inappropriate behavior when we are innocent.

Changing Direction

“But when they returned to their own land, they didn’t go through Jerusalem to report to Herod, for God had warned them in a dream to go home another way.” Matthew 10:12

I know my blog is not meant to be a critique of television or cinema, but one new show this year has caught my interest. “Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” (Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division) combines Josh Whedon’s brilliant writing and direction with characters and situations from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. It is a fun mix of new super humans and futuristic gadgetry.

Live so Loud

Live so Loud

(“When food was served, he said, ‘I will not eat until I have said what I want to say.’” Genesis 24:33a)

Live so loud they can hear the love at the end of the street.
light the candles so high they compete with noon,
tell your story so well no one will pick up a fork or spoon,
live so loud every word is clearly understood at the end of the day.

Always speak of vision, laugh of motion, sing of the twists of fate
that make the hook of the verse sound like a two-word hook from a
ballad by Dylan.

Repeat your tales often, before the meal is served, before the commotion
of clattering silver against hot corning ware diving for the medium-red
slices of steaming roast beef. Don’t let gossip or the office chatter keep
you from what matters; and let the story rest as the final course on
the family table pyramid piled just before laughter.

Sometimes you will feel lucky, sometimes the tale is perfectly woven,
sometimes you have to dig for details, sometimes the word is perfectly chosen,
sometimes you stutter, sometimes the butter is served fresh out of the
icebox. The story takes an immediate station break, waiting for someone
to soften the margarine a round or two in the microwave.

Sometimes it is utterly beyond your control, the events occurred before you
every sat to table. Sometimes, wonderfully, like the flutter of
butterfly clouds
no one can take their eyes off the words as the story weaves around
the aunts and uncles, cousins and babies; and no one ever forgets

The reason you started to speak that day.

Take for Granted

Take for Granted

(“So the people were in two minds about him—some of them wanted to arrest him, but so far no one laid hands on him.” John 7:43, 44)

Mold him, decided; confusion, misguided.
The books are words end to front proving nothing new,
exchanging cartoons for truth, in the hunt for the real Jesus,
the appealing Jesus, the Jesus I can put my hands upon,
get a grip upon, make up my mind about, prove I was
right about.

Scold him, united; behold him, shortsighted.
The portraits, a Caucasian and renaissance man,
handsome and well-tanned, hair well-curled and not
a single eyebrow misplaced. Paint me a modern
Arab for my Christ and you will be closer.

Last night I lingered between two opinions
(I will not share their content here, for they may have
a significant effect upon my future)
but they pulled me two ways, hyper-extending my
dreams and my shoulders. If I were bolder I would
come down on one side or the other, and spend my
final few decades painting life the way I’ve seen it
instead of fitting it into a majority-vote opinion
that is sure to keep me comfortably provided for.

There are simply some things my contemporaries
take for granted
that have always caused me
to squirm in my seat just a little bit.
Why have I never asked what the squirming is for? 

The Light of the World

“The city has no need of the sun or the moon to shine on it, because the glory of God shines on it, and the Lamb is its lamp.” Revelation 21:3

I have a lamp in our home office I use when I am practicing my mandolin. I turn it on by simply touching the base. Touching it twice more increases the illumination and, with one more, tap, turns it off. It took me awhile to get used to it. I would tap it; “on”! I would tap two times; “brightest!” But, then I would reposition it for better light, and the moment it touched it; “OFF!” I finally have the hang of things, though.

Happy Holidays ya'll

“And I heard a great voice out of the throne saying, ‘Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he shall dwell with them, and they shall be his peoples, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.’” Revelation 21:3

We are at it again. It is November 6 and Christmas decorations are popping out everywhere. I haven’t even finished the bite-size leftover chocolates from Halloween. Don’t take me for a Grinch, I adore Christmas. There is so much magic, joy, music and family all compressed into a Holy Evening and Everybody Up Early Morning.

Banquets to Come

Banquets to Come

(“But the bread that comes down from heaven is such that a person may eat it and not die.” John 6:50)

Do not feed me diamonds, I will not eat them,
Do not serve me golden, I cannot taste it.
They have no fragrance, no foretaste of banquets to come.

I will dine on sunrise and drink its reflection from
the silent river still as autumn. I will drink the conversations
poured from yesterday’s thermos, the chill pinching my cheeks
with the hope of no more goodbyes.

I am a starving wanderer with an appetite wider than
the prisms refract. I hunger, on lazy mornings like these,
for the kitchen where momma baked

The French rolls from a secret recipe; butter, cinnamon,
sugar and cream, cornbread gold and
topped with molasses’ coffee crunch.. The damp air
from the crack in my bedroom window
met up with the aroma from the Jenn-air oven. Dad was there first

and never a single one leftover if anyone

slept in.

Kept Me at Bay

Kept Me at Bay

(“Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of man will give to you; for on him has God the Father set his seal.” John 6:27)

The morning had its way with me again,
bearing down like the north wind against a lone walker,
parka wrapped closely, head downward into the day,
barely making his way before breathing fast inside
the nearest shelter.

All week long the pain laid siege to my best plans,
starting early, pounding my body with reluctance.
Decision #1, pull off the covers. Decision #2,
put my feet on the floor. Decision #3, is the bathroom
warm enough. Decision #4, pick the blankets off the floor
and find the couch warm enough until the second try
near noon.

From Sunday until Saturday it kept me at bay.
Best intentions became texts and tiny phone calls,
polite apologies for missing breakfast. I eat less
on weeks like this; either my defense against the siege,
or my body bluffing the pain into believing I still have
all I need.

How do I call You, Dearest Friend, on these days;
how do I explain my absence on days I could have
left the pain bloodied behind me, using all my resources
in one morning’s hour.

How do I seek You, Never Hidden, on these weeks;
when the Bread of Heaven is my only food,
when I pray for reinforcements daily while the
week leaves me dragging, fighting the invisible,
the wind, the pain, the words, the same questions
I have for You again. When do I lay down my arms
and rest in Yours? How do I greet the mornings
when the siege-works are set up without warning.

How do I call You, Friend Closely, who knows me,
and, though You can heal me, leaves me helpless
and hoping rest today will gain fresh tomorrow.

How do I seek You, Always, though my mornings
murmur absence? Silence is better than wrath,
mercy is in these moments.