When My Heart is Weak

(“When my heart is weak, I cry out to you from the very ends of the earth. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.” Psalm 61:2)

A ship far out at sea, beyond sight of land and beyond all lines of communication encounters a storm of immense power with little provision or capacity to face the threat of sinking beneath the waves. This seems to be the way David describes the state of his heart. His heart is “weak”, or more literally, “overwhelmed”. He cries from the very ends of the earth. He is in the remote wilderness, far removed from help or supplies. His only hope is a rock “higher than I”; an island, a port in the storm, a lighthouse to guide him through the threatening wind and waves.

It is easy to become overwhelmed with life. One doesn’t have to face critical health or loss of employment to feel overwhelmed. A young teen encounters emotions and relationships on a new level and can feel overwhelmed with the rush of feelings washing over their mind. A young couple, thinking marriage is as romantic as a fairy tale soon is overwhelmed in learning how to live with another person full-time. Though committed, they may believe they are the only couple to ever endure the storms of human relationships. With perfectly pure expectations, they may quickly become disillusioned by the work it takes to keep love strong and alive.

College presents its own maze of disorienting classes, prerequisites, fees, books, tuition and roommates from hell. Jumping from a safe family into the uncertain waters of dorms, professors and career counseling, the student can certainly be overwhelmed. Careers may stop and start like the first used car we ever owned, sputtering into the world with all the excitement of a two month old puppy. But, if statistics hold true, that career may change numerous times over a lifetime. We become overwhelmed by the business of simply making a living.

Never mind the friendships that we hope will last forever that take a turn for the worse, sometimes never repaired. Never mind the children we raise who come with no direction manual, no off button and such a range of attitudes and affectations that we are surprised that both parents and child get out of the first eighteen years alive. Never mind our beautiful grandchildren who live so far away that they grow twice as fast as our own children. We measure our own age by the granddaughter who, graduating from high school, was just a toddler last Christmas. Soon we are overwhelmed by the thought that this will all be over one day.

Leave aside the cross words at a co-worker, the discouragement over missed opportunities, the rules for life that worked so well in our youth seem to have changed altogether. Leave aside the questions we ask from early childhood that still have so few answers. Why do mean people get all the attention? If God is real, wouldn’t he make it really, really clear? Why did so many people die in that hurricane? If turning the cheek is really the best way, why am I bruised so badly? And, please tell me why are the things I hate the most about myself are the things that never change?

Our hearts are weak. We do well to admit it. There is so much about life to embrace with joy and enthusiasm, but we mustn’t hide when the world stops making sense, the fun downhill run becomes a plodding uphill battle to place one foot in front of the other. We thank God for the wind in our face on the way down, and cry out to Him when the upward hike seems to rob every breath.

It is those times, feeling like we are at the ends of the earth, removed from all help, that we cry out to God. We do not ask for explanations for all of our confusion, we ask for strength to continue the journey He has prepared for us. We know the universe holds mystery after mystery, the intricacies of human relationships keep us alert with every conversation we have. We do not want to walk away from discovery, we don’t want to give up on relationships, we want to cry out, when we are overwhelmed and feel like castaways in our storm of uncertainty: “Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I am!”

“Take me to the high place with You that is safe above the hubbub and the cyclones of my anguished heart, and let me rest and renew myself in the crevices where the storm cannot reach.”

Dancing Kids

“My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast. I will sing and make melody.” Psalm 57:7

One of my favorite poets William Stafford wrote, “Kids: they dance before they learn there is anything that isn’t music.” Jesus told us that we must become as little children to inherit God’s kingdom. This verse speaks of an inner confidence or stability that enables us to worship because the world is filled with God’s handiwork.

The Burden of Measure

The Burden of Measure

(“Just as you used to offer yourselves as slaves to impurity and to ever-increasing wickedness, so now offer yourselves as slaves to righteousness leading to holiness.” Romans 6:19b)

The weight of years can never be unloaded,
Laden with stacks of misdeeds restyled as mystery,
all the labels are yellowing around the edges with
the glue losing its power of attraction.

I know what is behind every shadow; the clues
are useless in the light of the sun. Those who think they know
should watch the reruns closely. I have carried
my vagabond baggage much further than they know.

I started to divide my life, and store each story in silos;
one for the acts of light without disputation,
the other for darkness (no matter my reputation at large).
I started last week, weighing each work from one to ten,
nine and above were sterling, all agreed.
All less than two were darkness (greed, lust, judgments and the
lies to divert discerning eyes).

I scanned my past, peering through the hazy tunnel of time,
and filled my second silo well before the first was a quarter complete.
Like the farmers when harvest is beyond expectation, I stored
my dark deeds in piles on the ground; stacks and stacks of deeds
and thoughts, false opinions and battles fought to escape the stares
that turned my face red and my hairs bristle like the cold.

I knew the older I become, the greater my debt, and silo one
will become simple seed for a small plot while the true harvest
overflows on the ground and silo two. Time has bound my
hands and my heart, the days left to me are far too few
to regain the best of me.

I’ve written a letter with the truth, to half a dozen I know,
though disturbed, will not take measures to disown me,
to stone me; they all know how prone we are to measure
another man’s storage with load groans of disapproval.
So, honest and loyal, they will die with me together
as the letter is opened to country air and truth.

We together, my hope, my trust, will dispose of counting
at once. And live heaven to man, land to mouth, past
unwritten and future bidding us renewal. Slaves once
to the past, slaves always, first to last, we offer our days
attached to the Master who passed over both our overflow
of darkness and mad attempts at
fullness. He has snatched our sad look backwards that
tore our hearts.

The Letter: to honor Him

The Letter:
to honor Him

(“Call on Me in a day of trouble; I will rescue you, and you will honor Me.” Psalm 50:15)

If you receive a letter from me in the near future, please be sure to read it:

I fell asleep last night with a mighty sigh, a desperate breath meant
to reach as high the constant sky and around gravity’s belt. I would
send a letter to the few; confess, weep, reveal, trust, and sign it lengthwise.

Though I know there is more love in one drop of rain than exists in
my vainest imaginations
I am thirsty, more parched than ever. Afraid to share my symptoms
(every conversant writes me their own prescription; honey or vinegar,
medical or organic, physician or magician, prayer or hard work, wake up
or
sleep in)
few just sit and visit me.

Afraid to share my symptoms, I would clarify somewhere mid-letter
that I do not complain lightly and no longer am a novice at pain. It
is
simply that I want a trusted few to know it’s true; I have questions
that stick in my throat. Some have gloated at my uncertainty about
dust mites and universal origins. Some have quoted their favorite
passages to prove who’s banned and what brand of politics Jesus
would buy.

I am surprised. I am sad. I am certain that behind the curtain is
just as much grace
and more
than God has poured
on the heads of the wicked and just here on earth
like He said He would; and should I be asked I’ll swear
to that truth with a mighty Yes and never No.

But I’ll never know why I need to calculate carefully
how to open my own curtain to reveal the sun and fog,
faith and pain
without explaining all over again
that I am still truly assured of my Savior’s love;

But have questioned His methods at times that wind
like high spring streams then meander once I’ve learned His tempo.

Please, if you receive said letter, read it slowly, for I have trusted
only you, and another few with the contents of my dry eyes moist,
my sure faith misty and my vision annoyed by this pain
in my head.

Silencing the 12th Man

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” Psalm 46:10

The Seattle Seahawks are famous for their “12^th Man” referring to their fans in the home stadium. Though not the only team with exuberant fans, the acoustics of their stadium combined with the efforts of their hometown followers, make so much noise that the opposing offense often has great difficulty hearing their plays. When the opposition is on the field the fans break into a roar, sometimes with the on field players’ encouragement, the quarterback often has to use a visual cue to start the play. Needless to say, most quarterbacks don’t look forward to facing the famous “12^th Man.”

The Gem

(“Yet God, with undeserved kindness, declares that we are righteous. He did this through Christ Jesus when he freed us from the penalty for our sins.” Romans 3:24)

I see the most beautiful gem I have ever imagined. It sits on the second shelf of a jeweler’s case at the weekend flea market. It has been a hot afternoon, and I have enjoyed rummaging among aging stringed instruments, rusting toys and aging Life magazines. If I had more time and lived closer, I would meander through the flea market every Saturday.

Doors, Scars and Solitude

Doors, Scars and Solitude

(“For if you forgive others their sins, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.” Matthew 6:14)

No one knew for certain how long the door had remained shut.
It was simply a cabin, a hut on the lake erected for solitude,
gazing at the moon, and weekends of contemplation. There were
no locks,
there was
no telephone;
just four walls, a roof without insulation,
and rooms barely decorated but designed to
silence the buzz-talk of city animation.

No one knew why the purpose had changed, or when. Some
suggested
the owner had grown cold in the winter and tired of the splinters
after walks in the woods. He still retreated there,
but without passion. Solitude was the agony of loneliness,
and contemplation gave way to unwritten schemes
to settle the scores of offenses listed in the home office.
He could not wait to be alone.

No one questioned the wrinkles that spread from eyelids outward
like hashmarks nearly reaching his ears. Those who know him best
see the lines of pain, nights of fright, days of pulling the covers over
his soul again. Those who met him on unprotected days
thought he might have been betrayed, but mostly felt the echo
of anger that resounded like nails on the brain, scars grabbing the wound
and never looking the same.

No one entered inside the unlocked door, nor knew how
the outside could be cold as frost and the inner panel a foundry
of fire. But behind the door, nearly unhinged by time,
the scars kept bleeding, the wounds kept seeping, and he
hid for fear of one more pointed instrument piercing his
once active love.

He held the doorknob tightly each time he entered his
former refuge of light. He vowed to let nothing go
out of his grasp again. He had tried washing his wounds
in the lake alone; self-baptism and a solo rite of purification.
He threw the names far into the water, along with their claims
of moral dispensations, hoping to bury each bruise beneath
opaque waves.

He was never the man he began to be, never again the man
who honestly wanted only the best, and always confessed
stumbling more often than observed. How could they, who
also served, not do the same when they had used his name
to typify so many ways to fail?

He never was the same man, though honesty, when it all
began,
tried to forgive with melted tears, but still, after years
of hope,
seeks solitude to escape his fears mixed with love. Such
a stew of a man

He still is startled by every
knock on the door.

The Dazzle Arcs

The Dazzle Arcs

(“O Lord, your mercy reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies.” Psalm 36:5)

Watch where you walk; the dusty alley, the gravel lane,
look where you discovered love and discover it again.
The language you spoke, the hands that held the perfect stew
simmered and watched, stirred and tended for just the right moment
when you walked in from the cold.

Watch where the sky; the dusky prospect, the dazzle arcs,
look where you detected help and detect it again.
The music you saw, the hands that played the perfect mood
love songs and hymns, faith and ballades for just the right moment
when your heart had become cold.

Hear the swirl, watch to world in its tiniest mood (the green of ever,
the dogs of the sun, a moon drawing the curtains back, the clouds barely resisting),
Walk where you listened, hear what you saw after midnight on the
luminescent horizon. It was an inferno on the freezing cold,
it was a prism escaped from the rainbow, it was magma flow on the heights.

It would have been a whistle like wind that sneaks through canyons,
It would have been electronika disconnected, dance shoes unaffected
by loose laces. It was a banjo and guitar, mandolin and double bass,
an improvisation in space over our heads. We were asked to memorize
every word.

We watched the fire of love, we heard the sizzle of songs
and should have marked the spot for future generations. We knew the
words though the lyrics escaped.

I used to discover entire cities beneath the rocks which had remained
unmoved all winter until late spring.

Regret or Restoration?

“You see, in the good news, God’s restorative justice is revealed. And as we will see, it begins with and ends in faith. As the Scripture declares, ‘By faith the just will obtain life.’” Romans 1:17

I watched a television show last night that offered the following question: “Which is worse, regretting what you did do, or regretting what you didn’t?” Regrets can pile up like unwashed laundry the longer we live. And the closer we get to our final day on this earth, the less opportunity we have to act on any of our regrets.

Face Shine

Face Shine

(“Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love.” Psalm 31:16)

The last thing I expected was such a brain-line
detonation, a shot to the head unfortunately.
Well-read and slightly turbulent, I was less excitable
and more resolute.

I loved my daughter’s flute, my son’s trumpet and the
travels of my middle one and would play all day in easy
harmony, or fly all night to be a part of the foothills
in Guatemala.

I hiked the shore of the Columbia, played tennis and replaced
my shoes every month. Let’s ride and travel,
lets scour the scenes at the beachside al fresco,

Although these days what seems like a blow to my head
leaves me reclining with, cat upon my chest,
longing for sun and water gun wars
outside our cabin in middle Minnesota.

Or on the Pacific
if the sand is warm, let us stay all day;
if the wind is up, let us buy a cup of coffee and watch
the waves play unemployed from dune to frothy evidence
of a higher tide before the sunrise.

And, if I stay inside all day,
let the rays of light fascinate my mind,
Your grace wind around each thought and memory.
Let the tremolo of a ballad’s sustained notes swirl within
and swell with the refrain of chesed,
and repeat the chorus of agape,
so I hear every motion of light bent as
the weight of glory defies all of our specified
particles and theory of waves.

Staying on Track

“The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?” Psalm 27:1

Who do you run to…when the perfect job you have had for a decade is no longer available because downsizing. Who do you go to first…when faced with a sudden urgent emergency? What do you do…when you wake in the middle of the night and sleep eludes you, your mind racing a dozen tracks at once?

Hope and Chains

Hope and Chains

(“For this reason I’ve asked to see you and speak to you. In fact, it is for the hope of Israel that I’m wearing this chain.” Acts 28:20)

The list of events, the chain of sentences, an opening,
a booking, the words of innocence spoken were written
in graffiti light across the darkened alleys.

The scarves in the wind, the breeze on the river,
a stanza, the snippets of authenticity hovered like
angelic confetti just above sea level.

The poems we read, the lyrics in our heads, a Friday late,
a classroom, the paragraphs of novices settled like
incense, prayer, and flickering candlelight.

Shackled wrists paint of freedom,

imprisoned pain composes joy,
hushed tongues announce the praise,
and broken legs dance the spring of
fawns and does in the woodlands new.

The Christ we know, the Word uncreated, an opening,
a looking, the Truth and Innocence spoken and earthen;
dust and heaven in quiet hope come morning,
come evening,
come maskless without dreaming;

The Christ we know, the Word our love
like crystal rivers comes streaming.

The Summer Was Bright

The Summer Was Bright

(for my friend K.R. on the 10th anniversary of the death of her son)

(“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them.’” Revelation 21:3)

The summer was bright and full of the sky,
The day was quiet, dogs barked and robins reply,
Another long afternoon in the northern plains,
A summer without questions or answers or why,
A morning without answers to the evenings pain.

Where have you gone, my sweet young son,
Why did you leave so suddenly?
What were you thinking, my darling one,
when you waved goodbye silently?

Why did the trees, my eyes still weep,
drop all their leaves so suddenly?
What was the meaning, my sweet young son,
when you left us so violently?

Where are the years, the ones you missed,
why did you leave me to count them?
Who would you marry, the wedding’s kiss,
What smile for your bride, the prayer’s amen?

Where are the dreams, my sweet young son,
Did you leave them reluctantly?
Why do you sit on the porch with me
when I know that you’re gone, gone so long.

The summer was bright and full of sky,
The day was quiet, dogs barked and robins replied,
Another long afternoon in the northern plains,
A summer without questions or answer or why,
A morning without answer to the evenings pain.

It was a day, just like today, like every other summer,
Ten years or twenty, the sun and moon remain,
And I would give my heart, my soul, anything,
To have you home again.
Then comes the day, unlike today, like every perfect summer,
ten years or thousands, the faith and hope remain,
That I will see you, my heart my soul, sweet young son,
Forever home again.

As For God...

“As for God, his way is perfect: The Lord’s word is flawless; he shields all who take refuge in him.” Psalm 18:30

A friend stopped by the church today to work on some remodeling we are doing in the fellowship hall. He needed to access the crawlspace under our building and was looking for the key. A few days earlier he stopped by, looking for the key to the storage shed as well. It was not in our key “box” where we keep them as neat and labeled as possible. I called out to him, “Rodney, that key is on my desk.”

The Lord is Righteous

The Lord is Righteous

(“For the Lord is righteous; He loves righteous deeds. The upright will see His face.” Psalm 11:7)

“Righteousness” is not a word we use very often in everyday language. Even as followers of Jesus we may have a vague notion of righteousness. We know it has something to do with being good, and being fair. Because it is heard more often in religious conversation than informal talk, it can take on an other-wordly sense, and we think little about what it means in 21^st century day to day life.

Re(Count)

Re(Count)

(“I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will recount all of your wonderful deeds.” Psalm 9:1)

That’s right; you put the secret in both the ears
of a child. You discounted the worth of one more person,
the words heard by children who think mysteries should be
parties and balloons and funnery,
never dark sentences to disguise the peeling paint from our own
limited color selections.

But, whatever you may have done,
whatever I may have heard,
whatever you may have said,
whatever name I have slurred,
whatever we both have pled,

The cat’s out of the bag, squirming in a young child’s brain.

That’s right; we’ve all let the nasty nouns fall on other parades,
filled fortune cookies with empty ticker tape,
put children on the front lines to tell our tales
(who doubts the innocence, therefore the judgment)
of a child.

Yet, for our wars and (mud, of thee I sing), Fine-ally,
our God of knowledge full, can spell the words we’ve left
partly voweled upon gravel flowers. Yet, for our spin and
(sin, fair and snake dance) our God of timeless location,
can stop the disc mid-song, expose the onion layers we
hoped protected our (I swear its true) stories. Hugs and
sorry-s don’t retrieve the airwaves danced yesterday on
ears unmentioned.

But pieces in a box, players around a table, we
(all, like both Cain and Abel) have little to offer to
the One who Wholly is what we (holy are not).
My wins and losses and reporting thereof, never match
(Oh Praise and peace) the Truth that always speaks
(and does)
wonderful words of love.

God's Credibility in Chaos

“I know that you can do anything. No one can keep you from doing what you plan to do.” Job 42:2

I suppose this is exactly the place where most followers of Jesus want to arrive. In fact, we give mental assent to the truth Job expresses: “Because God is God, I know that He can do anything. And, because He can do anything, nothing can stop His plans from going forward.” It all sounds so simple, so logical, so reasonable.