With this Gift

With this Gift

(“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have received from God, and you are not your own?” 1 Corinthians 6:19)

What shall I do with this gift I think is all of life?
When limited by length, the ways my legs propel and
limited by vision I wish my eyes to excel both their clarity
and their understanding.

Shall I blame it for my faltering? A pain in mind and
rigid joints once fluid and quick, wit and flow, words and
dance. For I forget, within 30 seconds, the same word I scratched
the surface to find not a minute later. Reminded of the runs
through blocks and parks, under viaducts, ignoring the barks
of backyard dogs.

Shall I paint it frivolous? Shall I lament its crooked semblance
to a boy I once knew years ago? How shall I wear this skin,
the years growing thin and progressions of past folly?
Is it the gemstone within, created and compressed,
an image well-crafted of the Father’s Son? Or, spirit and
soul and skin; are they one? A wrapless package of
inspiration, movement and semblance that astounds
when asked the price?

“You have been bought with a price” and “You are not your own”

redeem this wickedly weak frame into a
sacred space for me to belong.

What shall I do with this gift, this body slogging through time?
My hands are not yet helpless, my legs to walk where light has yet shined,
my eyes are not dim and can see the image, where once they were blind,
of the Beloved’s face; prosaic and rhyme.

Out of the Ashes

He lifts the poor from the dust. He lifts the needy from a garbage heap.” Psalm 113:7

I love Rags to Riches stories. My dad loved to root for the underdog. Stories of the hopeless rising up out of their despair and into a renewed life inspire us all. It may be a story like Abraham Lincoln, rising from the humble beginnings of a log cabin, reading book after book by the faint flame of the fireplace, ascending to arguably the greatest Presidency of our nation. I love to watch unheralded sport figures, perhaps a quarterback picked far down in the draft, going on to Super Bowl achievements.

Personal Approval

Personal Approval

“Therefore do not pronounce judgment before the time, before the Lord comes, who will bring to light the things now hidden in darkness and will disclose the purposes of the heart. Then each one will receive commendation from God.” 1 Corinthians 4:5

According to a legend, a desert wanderer found a crystal spring of unsurpassed freshness. The water was so pure that he decided to bring some to his king. He filled a leather bottle with the water and carried it many days beneath the desert sun to the palace.

When he finally laid his offering at the feet of his sovereign, the water had become stale in the old container. But the king would not let his faithful subject even imagine it was unfit for use. He tasted it with expressions of gratitude and delight, and the loyal man left with a happy heart.

After he had gone, others sampled the water and expressed their surprise that the king had pretended to enjoy it. "Ah," said he, "it was not the water I tasted, but the love that prompted the offering."

Our risen Lord sees our attempts at service in exactly the same light. We bring to Him our time, committing ourselves to help with a certain project. Perhaps it is to help the hungry by volunteering at a local food bank. If you are like me, the first time I attempt a new things I can feel overwhelmed and even a bit confused. I might even be a bit grumpy because I’m not sure what I’m doing.

It would be easy to go home at the end of that day feeling I hadn’t accomplished much. I might judge my efforts, feeling I did not represent Christ well at all. Yet, those things are not judged until Jesus returns. At that time He discloses the purposes of our hearts. That phrase might be a bit fearful. “What, Jesus is going to bring those things to light! I could never go through that.” But, in this case anyway, the purpose for “judgment” is for God to commend us for everything we did for Him.

It is sad how much judging we do of each others’ work for God. A person doesn’t like a particular style so they leave a church. Another one won’t go to Sunday School because they don’t like the teacher. We judge all the time. What if God is saying, “That servant of mine is doing their best right now. She does things differently that you would, but she loves Me. Isn’t it wonderful that I have created each one of you to be unique servants for my kingdom.”

The Scripture clearly says we need to lay all that sort of judgment aside. Jesus will do it at the last day. He is not talking about sin or false doctrine here, but about the usual work that you and I do for God. Won’t we be shocked when that person receives a commendation from God when we stayed away from his committee, Bible Study or church?

Why is God able to commend someone so freely someone we may have trouble with? One word, the best word, the word that describes everything Christianity is about: “grace”. Grace takes us out of the judge’s chair and puts us back on the playing field with every other believer. It enables us to smooth out our ruffled feathers with the knowledge that our own service to Jesus is just as hackneyed and uncertain as any others. Grace opens our hearts to receive ministry instead of judging people.

This Sunday we celebrate the fact that Jesus Christ rose from the dead. We remember the most glorious fact of all human history, that God’s Son, battered and torn, put to death upon a torturous cross, burst forth from the tomb on the third day fully alive! This Sunday we celebrate what we ought to remember every day, that following Christ is following the way of joy, perfect love and astonishing forgiveness.

You see, even though He had told His disciples over and over that He would rise again, no one truly believed it. Peter denied even knowing Him and the others ran away and now were hiding from the authorities. The women were the only ones brave enough to go out that morning to pay their final respects to His body. But they also had no faith for the resurrection.

If Jesus was depending on His disciples getting it perfect so He could rise from the dead, it never would have happened! In spite of their unbelief, fears and weakness, He rose to prove His eternal kingship. He rose for them all! Even for Peter, the one who bellowed, “I don’t know the man.” Jesus instructed the women to go tell the disciples…and Peter. No, it was not time for judgment. The resurrection tells us, “Go forward for Christ, serve Him in love. All will be revealed in the end so that each can receive personal approval of a job well done from the Father Himself.”

Some

Some

(“Then Jesus said to his disciples, ‘If anyone wants to become my follower, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.’” Matthew 16:24)

Somewhere along the borderline where barriers keep
the best in and
the worst out
a new sound announces the revolution we had counted on.

Somehow, without looking pious or smug, with smudged faces
the artists and
artisans
fired the message without powder, shot or laser guidance.

Sometimes the message is seen when failure transforms our resistance
to powerful
logic and love,
lost and found
like prodigals who hear the confession’s echo from every returning son.

Some-why does not answer the question of sentinels who guard
the entrance and
the exit
and have never had to leave home for a far country for food.

Some-who, ears to the ground, understand the vibration of hammers and wood,
unbegun and
never done,
the sacrifice that turned the world on its head undivided and fenceless.

With Love and Hope for Jonathan B.

With Love and Hope for Jonathan B.

(“Keep your eyes open for God, watch for his works; be alert for signs of his presence.” Psalm 105:4 [The Message])

The sun shone warm on a finally day,
after ice chips chilled the spring awaiting
blossoms and new birds, eagles stopping on their
way to Alaska;

Today our backs are warmed this tardy spring
when baseball begins on fields behind the schools,
and the long legs of cross country occasionally slip
on hoarfrost in early runs.

Most of us would wake this day with singing joy,
accompanied by the rhythm section of mower and clippers,
descants peeped by robins and jays warning the pet dogs away.

Most of us would not have to wipe a thing from our eyes except

That one of our boys died yesterday. He borrowed another’s heart
nearly a decade ago, married the best in football mania two years ago,
and loved the lady and her son, a little man as happy as the big man who
found him; the boys were big together; one with a borrowed heart,
the other with invaded blood perking through his tiny veins. Neither
gave up on the other.

But doing one of his many loves; there it is, I believe, the more loves
a man has, the more faithful he is to the one. Doing one of them
at the antique shop he caught his breath, swayed, and caught it again.

He had fallen more times than anyone wished the last two months,
the late weeks of winter; and the doctor hoped he could wait five
year
until borrowing another organ again. But it wore out. He wore out.

He would not sit, he worked, and played, and loved, and embraced
the world he grew up in. Basketball days and football nights, prom
and church programs, Christmas and Thanksgiving with grandpa and grams,

And he fell at the feet of a man who knew his father well. CPR,
911, more breaths, more contractions, more pressure upon his chest.
He was young, there was no doubt he would make it.

EMTs and a screaming ambulance took over the life support
with missing a beat or shedding a tear. More was to be done
before the weeping begun. Blazing toward the same field he
played upon as an adolescent, they waited for the life-flight
to carry him safely like an eagle rescuing her young.

An hour of breaths, of beats up the chest, the copter set down,
and the waiting was forever until, 15 minutes later, he was rushed
into the bay, the father was shooed away, and they lifted off…

…and lost him somewhere between home town and
and rooms bursting with people, persons, wife and parents,
fellow officers and chaplains, grandparents and pastors,
who all hoped so grimly that the miracle would be granted.

That was yesterday. Today, in love with the family that
has hurt more than they deserve, I am silent, besides these words,

And pray my future words will only serve to support
where one column has been removed.

Recognition

“Now remember what you were, my friends, when God called you. From the human point of view few of you were wise or powerful or of high social standing.” 1 Corinthians 1:26

I believe we all long for recognition. I love watching children after they have created something special. Maybe it is a cutout of Jonah and the Whale provided by the Sunday School curriculum. Or perhaps they have finished a masterpiece with crayons and markers on paper. They proudly point to each person or item. Maybe they created a small bowl of clay and now Mom and Dad are expected to use it for paper clips or rubber bands. Well, it doesn’t really matter what it is used for, as long as it is used and appointed a place of honor in the front room.

"Just a Lonely Shrub"

“(The Lord) will regard the prayer of the destitute, and will not despise their supplication.” Psalm 102:17

Every person who has ever struggled with their faith goes through times when it seems as if God is silent. The writer of this Psalm feels pleads with God to not hide His face and to incline His ear; wanting a speedy answer in his distress.

Metronome of Grace

Metronome of Grace

(“Come, let us sing for joy to the Lord; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation.” Psalm 95:1)

We had wrung every dream we could from the clouds,
we had sung every voice we knew from the sea,
we had searched every star we could and rejoiced,
we had splurged every dime we had near and far

To find the music gushed out of rocks like
the fountains within our hearts.

We were quiet mostly; we listened closely.
We shouted impromptu; we stumbled onto
unwary melodies fit for melancholies and
and stories that twined the sad and joy combined

To heaven’s river that flows without time;
a sweet whirlpool, dance and dirge; outside life
and within each pod of creation.

We sang when darkness fled, and re-sang when
daylight departed; midnight kept time to
the metronome of grace notes divine;
we whispered, we shouted the theme fit
for our King.

Who Knew the Brain

Who Knew the Brain

(“So reach out and welcome one another to God’s glory. Jesus did it; now you do it!” Romans 15:7 [The Message])

The moment we walked out of the room the silence
crashed like glass broken;
and if we were to repeat what we did not see
the memory would cover the day with smoke
and shards imbedded upon the reverie.

Is there a chance it was not all a daydream,
that the words we remember never found our ears?
Could it be a manmade catastrophe manufactured
by decades observed through goblets of sour wine?

All the same there was a time when I would swear
upon every fact the faith I followed was more elastic
than hollow-minded guesswork and post-modern uncertainties.

One way, it is true; the only Way, still old, still new;
a shepherd for sicklings, a savior for wanderings,
a homestead for threadbare, friend to share the old haunts
and new hunts of discovery. And one way to bear
each burden across uneven shoulders.

I sat in rows each Sunday, 70 facing one well-placed expositor,
jotted notes, memorized quotes and blazingly defended the faith;
while the siding was replaced dutifully once the paint was out of style.

One meeting, who knew the brain could break,
a new arrival spewed verbal bombs between question
about the bible; who knew the brain could break,
and some sought to find her answer, but few sought
her name or number.

And, the moment we walked out of silence,
the glass shattered as a leader sputtered, “We don’t have room
for
retards
here.”

Oh Christ, O joy of fallen nature, break our brains well, please,
until we swell with empathy; the byproduct of faith lived
beautifully.

"Singing Through the Pain"

“I will sing of the loving kindness of Yahweh forever.  With my mouth, I will make known your faithfulness to all generations.” Psalm 89:1

Less than an hour ago I visited a good friend who has battle alcohol in a lifelong struggle. I’ve been with him when he could barely talk because he was so intoxicated, responded to his wife’s desperate phone calls, visited him in treatment as he began to experience hope, and enjoyed seeing him blossom when he came home. Unfortunately, he stumbled again shortly after being discharged.

A Revolution of Goodness

“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Romans 12:21

I have loved watching the Olympics since I was a child. I enjoyed everything from boxing to kayaking in the Summer and slalom to figure skating in the Winter Games. Every participant is among the cream of the crop in their sport. Over 10,000 athletes participated in 2012 at London, proudly representing 204 nations.

A Wide-Veering Paraphrase of Psalm 83

A Wide-Veering Paraphrase of Psalm 83

 (“God, don’t shut me out; don’t give me the silent treatment, O God.” Psalm 83:1)

Because the rants in my head cannot be caught
by the better traps invented by those with their noses in the air.
They talk about faith as if it is
a toy
retrieved from the vinyl toy-box in the corner,
tan and half the size of a coffin with a real cowboy
on the front
with the horse rearing high
and six-guns in the air. I used to think that I would
invent
a special ray that could find any misplaced toy
I spent more than an hour searching for.

But, those people in the corner, see them?
Usually covered completely by darkness, the molasses
drips from forehead to shadow while they forge their
plots and hope the precious ones forget
the graces of Divine remembrance. They hope
to wipe out the Name.

I couldn’t ever get them to join me for a party;
piñatas and punch; duck, duck, goose; losing the blindfold
during donkey-tale pinning; spinning cotton candy with
chocolate chip cupcakes and the final free-for-all;
squirt guns for all, ambushing the birthday boy until
drenched with the wrestling fun of barnyard boys.

But, I couldn’t ever get them to join me for a party.
They did, in perfect unison, plan pain for those whose
joy in innocence pushed them to unholy alliance.

I know You see more than I see, beneath the mean-streaks
the inhabit
the best bats in the belfry and worst golden eggs laid for
the aristocracy. I know You hear the silence more than
the words I partially miss; the switched circuits that turn
plowshares into swords before it dawns upon the inhabitants
a better use for metal and forges.

Don’t be silent when the scraggly chins demand a command performance
before their estimate rises.
Be not blind to the prosecution of which hides its own transgression beneath
black robes of position and blubber. They use their gavels to clobber
the treasured ones who swath the world outside the lines with joy.

And yet, only let them see (make me mean it, please), You, my own joy,
unharmed, yet humbled, whose Name is Higher than our rosters
of disproven genealogy.

Serenity.

Transplants and Pruning

Transplants and Pruning

(“But those branches were broken off because they did not believe. And you continue to be part of the tree only because you believe. Don’t be proud, but be afraid.” Romans 11:20)

Adopted, you would not know it, though differences of appearance,
tiny and blurred, existed from day one. Dark eyes and a wide chin,
curly hair and a vocabulary spoken from origins beyond recognition.

Walls of separation, stone upon ritual and smoke upon the hills,
built the locked borders between families, clans, tribes and races;
we hate the mixing spoons and would rather eat what we always ate
at grandma’s Thanksgiving banquets.

We define pure by derivation, appetizing by custom,
and characterize our neighbors’ brand last names as
evidence of another fearful conspiracy.

How sad some must be, how anxious and red-eyed,
to lose their sleep, waste their intelligence, over
genealogies of purebred humans kept apart for
strictly ceremonial reasons.

Fasten the storm windows tight before the
predicted grand tornado touches down,
grinding lawns and driveways, uptown
and downtown,
asphalt and tacos, fish sauce and yoga pants
into an autonomous goulash; we all had
it coming.

Could our judgment be that we, adopted by
our Elsewhere King, have the boundaries dissolved,
the deportees absolved, and our neighbors involved
in a family portrait of unnatural connections;

Adoption, with radical differences aside,
creating the photo we feared, but, (hair and bald,
swarthy and pale) unearthed out of
the rubble and classical pride, a new fascination
with faith the center; differences of delight.

It is OK to Talk to Yourself

“I will also meditate on all your work, and consider your doings.” Psalm 77:12

Sometimes my mind collapses on itself. Going from large, creative thinking full of vision and possibilities I find myself narrowly focused on my own problems in the small circle I inhabit. Though I live in a town with around 35,000 people within a 30 mile radius, I think mostly about myself and a small handful of others. And though I live in a state that includes some of the most beautiful shoreline in the world, I don’t leave the concrete and asphalt of my own home and a few blocks of downtown.

The Strength of My Heart

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

It was going to be a perfect day. It was one of those Southwest Washington summer mornings that began with light fog but quickly burst into full sunlight. The sky, often gray and overcast, was the same blue as the tiles of an Olympic swimming pool, beckoning you to dive in. This day called, “All is well, come and enjoy!”

That is exactly what I had planned. Our daughter, still in high school had slept in a bit because it was summer, but still rose earlier than normal; her baby niece, Anika was here! Our oldest son and his wife, along with our younger son, had all gathered for a few days of happy family time. Mike and Julie lived in Richmond, VA at the time, and Jonathan, living in Minneapolis, was about six months away from being deployed by the Peace Corps to Guatemala. We debate, laugh, play and eat more passionately when we are all together.

I was just finishing the last lines of a bit of writing in my office, and was ready to shut the computer down and go home. A dear friend happened to be online, and we had been chatting a bit as I wrote. She understood my constant battle with depression, so I asked her, “Please pray for me. I don’t want to fall into the pit while my family is home. I do not want to be the center of attention.” She promised her attentive prayer.

I turned out the lights, locked the office behind me and headed home. We had a brush pile I had put off burning, and today was perfect for it. We would burn it down to embers, then have a nice bonfire that evening. I went into the garage, found my necessary tools and accelerant, turned on the water, dragged the hose to the brush pile and doused four corners of the pile well. As I lit the match to start the burn a ball of fire exploded, engulfing me from the knees down. I leapt and screamed at exactly the same time, rolling to put out any residual flames on my jeans. I am very fortunate that I was not wearing shorts that day.

In pain, my boys pulled me away from the fire and onto the patio while my wife called 911. I now know why shock is the first way our bodies respond to trauma. Until the pain set in, I was able to think clearly and focus on what were the right things to do. My oldest son cradled me in his arms with my younger son sitting on my left; both my boys holding on to dad. That’s when I looked up at them both and said, “This is too funny; I just finished chatting with a friend before I came over. I told her, “Please pray, I don’t want to be the center of attention this time.”

Michael replied, “That is funny.” Both my boys are fully aware of my struggle with depression. Then the Early Responders arrived, swept me up into the ambulance and hurried me to the hospital 25 miles away. I had third degree burns over about half of my lower right leg.

It was going to be a perfect day; instead it turned into moments of fear punctuated with moans of pain and a laugh or two. The worst pain was during the weeks of recovery. If I stood up, the entire fluid that had built up in my healing wound bulged near my calf. More than once I fell down from the pain, right in front of my daughter-in-law. (I have long ago stopped worrying about embarrassing myself in front of my own kids.)

After coming home, thinking things through and looking at what I used to start the fire, I realized my mistake. I took down a can of “camping fuel” to douse the burn pile, thinking that camp fuel was kerosene. I was so wrong…it was “white gas.” White gas is even more volatile than gasoline and the fumes had already settled about wading pool deep around my legs. The match set that entire area aflame!

I am well now, with a story to tell, and a goofy tan line on my legs (if I ever get out in the sun). On a smaller scale, though, we all have days that don’t measure up to our plans. We may even have an entire life that ended up far differently than we planned.

I started these thoughts remembering that I will celebrate 40 years of following Christ in December. It made me think of all the ups and downs, the things I thought God had to do, the things God refused to do, and the many times I have simply let Him down. That will be for another posting. For now, let me say that my life is nowhere near what I imagined 40 years ago when I said “Yes” to Jesus.

Some if it is far sadder than I imagined, some more content. There are times I regret decisions I made because I thought I was following God’s “leading”, or at least the leading someone suggested was God. In the end, none of that matters much. What does matter is, no matter my failures or misunderstandings, or how often my flesh or my heart has failed, God has truly been the strength of my heart and my portion forever. I never would have chosen this path apart from Him.

A Frontier Star

A Frontier Star

(“I am always singing about the wonderful things you do.” Psalm 71:8)

No matter when the day starts, the beginning is behind me
somewhere else along the highway;
shadows fall, short or long, oriented from east to west,
as long as the sun follows the past traced for it long ago.

We, as tiny children, wander around it and yet, the cosmic wind
hardly ever
blows our hair up over our faces. The day is never longer
than the circles we make across the black expanse.

We do not shine; from space our cat’s-eye marble is hardly
visible
to the frontier’s nearest star. Train your scopes toward
the milky way’s center, from beyond belts of asteroids,
past the ninth and tenth planets, into the leftovers of creation
where darkness inhales and vacuity shines until
full-tilt gravity swallows it all in a single bite.

Is there laughter beyond the planets, the rampant dance
of puppies and babies who can’t act but only play?
Are there tears above beneath, the unleashed emotion
of hot tears on frozen cheeks from pain or fear
or nervous tics?

But here we are, at home on this blue and green
like children alone without a safety gate at the top of the stairs.
We see smaller and think larger than we are. And yet,
some days start with the perfect realization that we are dots
and the dots are stars, and the sky is fathomless, and the sea
is a teaspoon on a spinning ball mostly unobserved.

And some days begin, and begin again, as if time
has wandered into the wilderness as we scratch our heads
awaking
to dreams of school days
and
a morning of shaving white stubble from our faces.

And all days end with the expanse still expanding,
and all nights begin with the Unseen minding
every waterfall and sleepy fawn,
super nova and future dawn,
and above belowness, closer than continuous,

We are well-loved from now and before,
cared-for better than then and well-after,
so that

All days, no matter when they start,
begin with the end softly and safely in view.

Beyond Daylight

Beyond Daylight

(“Father of orphans and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation.” Psalm 68:5)

Above the daylight of designer labels,
beyond the sound of battleground buyouts
the remaining world exists, third and fourth and more,
far beyond the normal ear’s hearing and the sight
of the never-blind.

All along the boulevard
names and cuisine are created from French phrases;
at each will-lit corner
near-cold is wrapped with a thousand embraces from
a closet of cloaks for each occasion, and an extra for
the wet days when there is no time to dry clean.
Midtown or forgotten peasantry on parched eyes,
 the dark and dense bread rests on
the stone at the corner of the room. Another procession
of days threatens to shrink the brittle bit of existence
gleaned beneath normal snacks and meals.

Birdwatchers stroll the park, dressed-up pets bark
at bikers and joggers squeezing in time.
Another ear hears the flap of quail far from
the avenues and well-trimmed perimeters, and
trusts the sling to bring home enough to roast
for another week. It took all day from light to
half-moon shadow.

Earth is dust, the ocean’s rough and deep,
beyond the reach of sticks and stones.
Bare skin gives way to sun, tender young to crust,
sunken eyes, plump to shapeless bones.

Beyond the daylight a forgotten orphan,
above the sound a shadowless widow,
the Kingdom of Heaven rules, then and now and more,
far above the dusty silk and linen; Father
of all, King of the poor, erases the names
of labels and cuisine.

The Father of all, everyman’s King is seen
spending the day in the heat, the night at the feet
of children whose father left to hunt bread or game
and, so they told Him, has not yet returned.