Test Our Hearts

Test Our Hearts!

“The melting-pot is for silver and the hot fire is for gold, but the Lord tests hearts.” Proverbs 17:3

Each of us has been put on this earth to accomplish the most we can in this life. If we open our eyes we will become aware of the fact that all that comes our way is part of God’s refining process. Every pressure is an opportunity to learn to trust, every needy person that comes across our path is a chance to see Jesus face to face, and every success is granted by the mercy of the God who loves us beyond our understanding.

Turned the Day

Turned the Day

(“Remember, God is the One who makes you and us strong in Christ. God made us his chosen people.” 2 Corinthians 1:21)

When the sun breaks the stranglehold that dark rain
has left upon your thoughts, (so little sleep,
so much repetition), let the curve of earth
speak the first cue; Creation sings lightly
upon the brain’s stalled silence.

From the gaps between then, and when
beginning meets ends, the music roundly
enwraps the forces weak to great, and insists
in whispers
there is a stronger hand that fastened
the stars’ foundations.

From under the low ceiling we call and wonder,
we can do no other
when our hopes are built on mental insistence
that the world should bend to our own expectations.

From surrounded to unleashed, short-sighted to telescopic,
there is more we have not seen than is carried
in all the brains added time to now, and now to again.
Send the power just now.

From the hum of substations is the smallest expectation
that the source is greater than then the production;
without time, without delay,
without distance, without decay,
the weak are strong, mountains give way
to the smallest hope, the tiniest seed that sees

The Promise is “Yes” and “Always”, the
Amen has resounded; faith has turned the day.

Might Awaken

Might Awaken

(“In fact, we still feel as if we’re under a death sentence. But we suffered so that we would stop trusting ourselves and learn to trust God, who brings the dead back to life.” 2 Corinthians 1:9)

The air was heavy, no sound would carry,
nor rustle of grass, no buzz of wings;
only broken-throated diesel groans
from tugs up the river. For all we knew,
nothing stirred of the few who showed up
to listen.

Once daylight was warm as a freshly pressed shirt,
muscles keen, eyesight huge, green bright and receptive
to the morning songs. Once seats were filled,
ears were tilted, laughter ran like a room full of toddlers
and everyone had heard our names.

Today was a dark corner, a numb shadow,
a memory that picks names from a hat and
hopes for the luck of the draw. Do I know you?--
for the third time in a row.

Words did not bounce; they barely made it to the wall
and fell spent upon the floor like a preschool attempt at
paper airplane flight. Ideas did not expand, they merely
repeated,
merely repeated,
paused and repeated again; for emphasis.

Some might say the spirit fled, others that the
atmosphere was dead;
some might hear what I heard, and change the dial
to find something worth their while. All along
I knew the day would die. I am sorry my earlier
joys and fancies
have not followed me this far, this lately.

Pretence is the greatest sorrow; mix this lonesome
solitude with a greater solace that better songs,
lyric and guitarists, might awaken the soul tomorrow.

But You Don't Know My Neighbor!

“It is wrong to say bad things about your neighbors. Be kind to the poor, and you will be blessed.” Proverbs 14:21

Most people, when asked, “Would you like to receive a blessing,” would certainly reply, “Yes!” Even if they weren’t exactly sure what a blessing is, it sounds positive. And so, like children who want Santa to leave them something special on Christmas Eve, we respond as well. “If I get to choose between being blessed or…hmmm…what is the opposite? Cursed? Simply not blessed, like living in a world of random events? No matter. It doesn’t matter much what the opposite is, I like the idea of being blessed. Bring it on!”

Upon Their Resolution

Upon Their Resolution

(“…in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” 1 Corinthians 15:52)

How do we slice the moments smaller and slower
to savor the glance, the hidden smile we saw by chance?
Where do we find the spoken word from angels who delivered
the comfort, the backstory. We preferred they unveil themselves
and announce their names. Instead they pass into the crowd.

Why do words stay captive we would rather exterminate,
the angry harangues, the deceptive offers and winks that
disguised smoldering hate.

Why can’t we capture that single tone of the single song
which turned round and round our heart-chilled winter,
the whole-note (a thousand tiny vibrations) that let us weep,
let us steep in joyful esteem?

Who turns the twinkle, who plucks the quiver of the harp,
who flaps the wing or buzzes the gnat; all tiny, all visible,
now;
unseen past the next eye’s blink? Can the thought appear
and vacate the same space, the same time, the same atomic
structure of particles and waves, string and elasticity?

Where is the finale; the two chord answer to the opening fanfare?
Is it a surprise ending, with the patrons half-clapping when the
chorus resounds full of calliope and merry-go-round?
Or, having grown accustomed to the tune, background hum
of simply living, are we startled by the horn-blast, wishing
more time?

I cannot say I’ve enjoyed every moment; the clash of chorded half-steps
leave me unsettled and anxious. But upon their resolution, the
thunder across the mountains, the cannon in slow motion,
on our feet (or deafly impassive) will we applaud the final act

And stand in line for the next Master’s Creation?

Love Covers

“Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all transgressions.” Proverbs 10:12

If I had the physique I dream of, I might change my wardrobe. Barrel chest, six-pack abs, high caliber guns for biceps, calves and thighs well defined; yes, I would not be afraid to wear a t-shirt that actually fit well. It would accentuate all the hard work I put into achieving my incredible frame.

Cannot Help

Cannot Help

We cannot help missing the whispers; morning’s hand nudging us awake.
We cannot help listening to inherited tunes within our four walls,
a splat of wood and mud manufactured for one generation or two.

Faint chirps reach us, dim beams speak but everyday incandescence
masks the call of the sun awake; the day has offered the next chance

To hear the lyrics correctly again, to begin from measure one, verse one,
without thinking at all.

I can tap my feet, clap my hands, nod my head, sway and play the way
memory fades from organic paints to steel gray. In wooden repetition
my rhythm mimics perfection yet betrays my affection for the tempo
I’ve played. I hit the notes and lost the nuance.

We are too much adults with our baskets filled with facts, coached to
promote the thin sliver of opinion. We are too much children removed
too soonfrom muddy banks rain-slick that tug us beyond the safe range of hearing.

We are concrete mud, dried and rigid from drought,
We are flood and mud, overfilled and deposited, truth or doubt.

We are players, by the rules; we are singers, pitched safely;
we are writer, word-perfect; we are speakers, rote certain.

And I? I have not played in the river in years; have not dived between
half-notes in far too long. All my fantasies are clearly labeled, the characters
a perfect one-to-one correspondence lest there be any question of my
orthodoxy.

What if, just one day, I spun a tale, knowing not where it would take me,
and became lost in the woods of another land where planets are sentient,
people non-existent and
popcorn is perfectly paired with chocolate wine?

I Have No Idea When Jesus Will Return...I'm Serious (But I'm Working Until He Does)

“Watch therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.” Matthew 24:42

I wonder how purposefully we live each day. Often we get caught up in Second Coming prophecy trying to decipher the times. We want someone to tell us which current regime on this earth will foster the Antichrist’s uprising. We buy series’ of books, watch prophecy television, and jot down everything we think point to Jesus’ return. I don’t want to be too critical, but it seems Jesus always was interested in how we are living right now, in light of His return.

Kindness Like a Necklace

“Don’t ever forget kindness and truth. Wear them like a necklace. Write them on your heart as if on a tablet.” Proverbs 3:3

“Slave Free Earth” is a non-profit organization that exists to bring freedom to those caught up in the sex trafficking world. The vision of Will Henderson, its international headquarters are in Patong Beach City on the Island of Puket, Thailand. Phuket is “Grand Central Station” of sex tourism.

Strike Your Pose

Strike Your Pose

(“For Adonai takes delight in his people, he crowns the humble with salvation.” Psalm 149:4)

Strike your pose and remember the angels who
will never let your feet be tangled. Oh humble,
the Eternal views the movements of joy.

Circle with hair flying, arms flailing, verdant blurs with
borders of blue. What began this transcendent dance
higher than angels’ sight within heaven’s range?

No translation is needed, memory informs the cues,
as the glory unrestrained replaces the
years of treeless skies.

We know what harm yesterday feared, what subtractions
our nearsighted ways nearly adopted for truth. Loss
was our cardboard cabin exposed to the leading edge of every storm.

When did the day begin to bright upon the pathway
to our weathered door? When did light hide no more,
the beams of morning painting the beams, ceiling to floor?

I remember the steps from younger days, the swings and lifts,
the leaps and shuffles eight and over again. Partners painted
sunrises while rain melted against the metal studio roof.

We abandoned nothing, for we had not taken up the
burdens of age.
And now, in leaving them

The dance feels strange, awkward and full of risk; like the
first beat I tried to hear in three-quarter time.

Strike the pose, the lessons are free.

Our Orbits

Our Orbits

(“Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised; his greatness is unsearchable.” Psalm 145:3)

I wish I knew the why back to the way
I had pointed. Green trees lined the highway
closer to the best work I have ever done: two grown sons
a daughter still at home,
we nearly took the road where our orbits were around
the same star.

I wish I knew the where behind
the lies and intrigue that turned the journey around
and now
twice as far as the travel guide advised;
nearer the ocean but further from my heart.

If it were not by deception I would have taken the occasion
to fly higher, above the ball lightning and surface radar that
pulled my strings behind my back. (Too many still wonder why
I am not over it yet and, as a matter of fact, no one else read the news
that I know.) The puppet master never guessed I found the knotted string
plaited around my wrists.

The courts speak plainly, the courts read the charges,
the courts are mainly for truth and not back-room purges;
the courts of earth are fairer than the kingdom of God in
the meaty hands of man; though no one would admit
before a mirror or jury that it is so.

I wish I knew the ways above the closed system we have invented;
I wish I heard the songs of stars in rhythm with my heart’s distended vision.
I wish every fence was down, miles condensed, sounds made loud that
whispered from high and leather chairs. I wish the stairs were less steep
and the phone would ring with one honest “truly yours”; one line on
a postcard from official executive authority: “we did not know what
we were doing.”

I wish I saw the streams of light that transfer joy from heaven
to heart
to voice
to song
that sees the wrong without confusion
and with Spring’s breeze and effervescent fingers of cloudless sky
still does not grant the why, but hears the where without sorrow.

For the Lowly

“Though Yahweh is high, yet he sees the lowly, but the proud he perceives at a distance.” Psalm 138:6

As the Missouri River wound its way across Montana into the hills and razorbacks of northwest North Dakota in the 1860s, it brought steamers carrying passengers and freight across the plains toward the more populated east. There was a post at Like-a-Fishhook Village on the Fort Berthold Reservation. From atop the second story of the young missionary’s chapel, the towers of the stockade or atop the Native’s larger earth lodges, one could see about six miles upriver. Once a steamer was spotted, people knew they had 20 minutes to prepare to meet the ship to board it or load cargo.

Music and Joy

“Praise the Lord, because he is good. Praise his name, because it brings such joy!” Psalm 135:3

I think music is one of the great equalizers in the human experience. Certainly we all have our favorite styles, but the underlying appreciation for music transcends age, experience and culture. It is one of the primary ways of expressing our individual and cultural identities.

Between Connections

Between Connections

(“Therefore let any one who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall.” 1 Corinthians 10:12)

It is in the connections our synapses fire,
the gaps between place and space, between
arrival and departure. And life is filled with
gaps,
filled with tears without reason,
smiles without memory,
and cause without effect.

We are lost in the distances,
circling the block hoping a new neighbor
will come into view our fourth turn
after so many mornings with the same
faces we have never spoken to.

All the energy we possess erupts, sparks
traversing
the zero between integers,
the minus between pluses,
the forever between creations

From eternity past until a new millennium.

The snow hill behind our house in North Dakota
is as close today in Spring and facing the Pacific Ocean,
as when my college daughter scooted across the ice preschool
to climb another slide down the frozen slope; our tiny white
Maltese Poodle, skipping atop the crusted snow.

The love is in the space between that memory and today’s moment.

The first girl’s smile, the Christmas with the Lionel train circling the tree,
the first view of the fair-haired maiden who chose to marry me;
each is alive, unfaded and exerting more power than the instant
they occurred,
merged in time and mixed with longing for their present tense now.

Between connections I live in the cracks where cement disguises
the solids made mostly of nothing, and thoughts seem concrete
as touch and smell.

We do well to continue, this day to the next, refusing to fear
lost connections on our journey toward perpetuity. 

More Names

More Names

(“For the sake of my family and friends, I will say, ‘May you have peace.’” Psalm 122:8)

Our love hovers above blue childplay,
for Spring is the echo heart to heart. Each
baby without words, but cries;
each creeper without walk, but moves;
each toddler without way, yet surveys our old
world
like her own possession. The cat fur belongs
to her,
the cake plate belongs on toes and feet,
legs and arms, hair and ears. Smears of chocolate
are her palette and her skin, plus walls and pets
the canvas for investigative creation.

There are more names in our heart than children to share them,
more syllables to attach the next personal pronoun, he or she;
pets do not count…we name them for convenience. But children,
they are named for character and destiny.

Michael, a mirror of God; pure pleasure’s firstborn. The next
might have been Gabriel, if only father’s weighed the names.

Jonathan, the Father’s beloved; joy and compassion’s play. The last,
we thought. Two young men who laughed, debated, and explored
more caves and corners of creation. One with more words for
single thoughts; the other with thoughts unuttered. Bookends
reflecting parents’ love; two sculptures sharpened one by the other.

Sarah, the Princess surprised; (or Amy, or Daisy, or Jasmine;
there were too many authors of her name). “Phillips, party
of five” we heard them say. And soon our heaven had
a center,
the gold ring of our carousel. (She knows it well).

Oh life that has splayed our delight across the continent,
be kind to our beloved. The nest, being empty, disallows the pretense
of any additional names.

Divine Protection

But God said to Balaam, “Do not go with them. You must not put a curse on those people, because they are blessed.” Numbers 22:12

In our post-modern society, we are not in the habit of placing curses on people. Although, come to think of it, with the wide-open view of life that characterizes post-modernism, perhaps some are tinkering with the idea. One never knows. But in our usual 21^st century life, we give little concern whether someone has been busy casting curses on our life.

Enjoying God's Ways

“Comfort me and let me live. I enjoy your teachings.” Psalm 119:77

Every serious follower of Jesus will come upon deep struggles of the soul from time to time. We may discover that some long-enjoyed activity is outside the realm of God’s blessing. I remember the time, early in my Christian walk, that I discovered passages that forbade reliance upon astrology. That didn’t create a very long or deep inward struggle as I always had a fairly rational view that the placement of stars light-years away held little sway over the activities of my miniscule life. But imagine if I had been a true devotee. I would have perhaps struggled a bit more.

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

A Monday Following a Certain Sunday

(“The Lord has done it on this day. Let us be joyful and glad in it.” Psalm 118:24)

Inviting the stories of a million days, the morning dried the dew
beaded upon blades rich and thick as heaven’s carpet. One or two
halves of plastic easter eggs fool the eye with manmade purple
and synthetic shine. No one minds.

Life’s carousel rounds the days; from the unseen side, the observer
watches the turn of sun fade behind treelines on the left
and, as time compresses its waves and particles,
the same observer sees the return above hills on the right.

Yet the rider on the sun sees all, even while earth’s observer is blind.

Outside the morning is full of play, and the light displays it invisibility
on tiny prisms dotting the green leaves, the leftover mist two hours
dawn. In another month the rainbows will dance in spray as
neighbors up the street water their lawns. The light reveals
its unity in couture of diversity. The music of heaven
answers in kind.

We know the life today will find its way, in weeks, or months,
years, yes centuries, depending upon its species, to a final decay.
Yet, observant as we are, it takes the panoramic scan or
volcanic interruption to remind us for certain of this long crawl
of life to dying. Man observes, green underfoot and
warm breath on the chill breeze; and believes against belief
that this day is wider than horizon to horizon.

Like Sundays when, against all hope and following the
hill of nailed crucifixion, it is not the expected death,
but startling life we find.