Narrow Trails and Soft Landings

“Some of you say, ‘We can do whatever we want to!’ But I tell you that not everything may be good or helpful.” 1 Corinthians 10:23)

We hiked the rocky red crags of Zion National Park. Growing up, my family did a lot of camping, hiking and site-seeing. This day we started near the bottom of a beautiful outcropping that began in the shade and wound a shallow trail toward the top. Close to the summit the trail narrowed quite a bit. I was 12 and my brother Joel was 10 at the time.

If You Will Believe

“Jesus said to her, ‘Dear woman, you are made well because you believed. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48

“Dear woman,” He said. More literally, Jesus called her “Daughter”. It is the only time in Scripture that Jesus addresses a woman this way. I do not know what she was called by others, or what names floated in her own thinking. But, I’m sure many of them were quite unaffectionate.

A Rainful of Thunder

A Rainful of Thunder

Sing the longing, the refrain of spiral clouds after
chorus one, two and three. Rehearse the verses you’ve heard
from improvised warblers giving dawn its due revolution.

You’ve heard the mourning dove, seen them nest,
and return next year, the next, and left the nest waiting
outside upon the balcony. Was it their young who returned,
or the chance landing upon the previous pairs address?
It did not matter, their coos accompanied the rhythm and hum
of the slow meter of everyday drums.

Echo the wind. You’ve watched it since beginning to see
what the invisible leaves behind and the visible steps aside
just as you wished for an unobstructed view. Were the
clouds lost ghost ships and did the earth slip from under
your feet as they teetered across the sky? Were leaves spinning
timbrels the trees used to join the dance? Was this the time
when all stands still,

Breath is imperceptible,
time does not pass but waits like a diamond web
to catch certain memories and give them back
once dreams and wonder have followed
our popsicle sticks down the gutter on a hot
and sticky summer
just after the shout of a rainful of thunder.

Stronger than She Feels

Stronger than She Feels
(for my daughter Sarah)

(“Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Don’t tremble with fear.     I am your God. I will make you strong, as I protect you with my arm and give you victories.” Isaiah 41:10)

Surely the way opens for you like
the drapes framing the first light of sun for you;
surely the heart you possess
has been given to Him who knows you best.

You fly above and see the sorrow below,
you walk beside the youngest up the steeps of light,
you stay with them to celebrate the plateau upon
the most sun-rich day.

They are dancers in your eyes, only years alive and
so full of daddy questions and mommy mottos,
and you sweep them up, one or dozens,
in one swoop of your arms (the once tiny arms I
watched in ballerina poses). They are your
bouquets, roses and daffodils and countless
dandelions
(what would a children’s garden be without the
butter-yellow weed we blow to across the sky with
wishes sent and seeds to grow in the neighbor’s backyard).

Your feet have always danced, and they will be planted
tomorrow; though your questions outweigh your confidence,
the Destiny, the open-book story with the pop-up pictures
is just beginning its out-loud read.

Every giggle, every baby’s babble; each skydive from the clouds,
each studied arrival at a brand new address; all attest
the beauty, the brave, the spiritual, the grace of a woman
whose God is making her

Stronger than she feels.

He Knows

"Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw it, he said to himself, 'If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.'" Luke 7:39

He knows who you are. You cannot sneak up behind Him. You cannot blindfold Him and say, “Guess who?” You cannot hide your shameful moments; He knows every one of them.

Stop Weeping

“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, ‘Do not weep.’” Luke 5:17

Two processions met on a Judean road one late afternoon. At the head of one was a weeping mother, grieved at the loss of her young son. Coming toward them was a great crowd following a traveling preacher and his disciples. The contrasts couldn’t have been more acute.

Contrails

Contrails

(“But when the people of Israel cried out to the Lord for help, the Lord again raised up a rescuer to save them.” Judges 3:15)

I’ve got the graph of my life trailing me like
the contrails left by private jets writing nonsense on the sky.
Look closer, for the graph is longer than the quick glance
at a winged point upon the bright azure background.
Seen from the ground and looking over head, the graph is
a long snake; some segment a lazy “s”, and others multiple
“z”s
tracking the quick turns when change came unexpectedly.

Seen from the ground, my life was not up and down,
but a series of oases separated by journeys; a path or
a highway; a pattern or madness; mapped coordinates
or advised itinerary; few turns were solely my own and
most were leased opinions with fewer options the
longer I flew.

Seen from the ground, my life was not fall and rise,
but a curious adventure where the present is a line,
focused and fine;
and the past is fading the further behind; a broad brush
of recollections and uncertain directions with fewer
alive who knew the truth of my first years of flight.

On a rainy day you may catch me squinting toward the sky,
one hand covering my forehead, one hand reaching out “why”,
and you would hear, from this fellow wanderer, the same prayer
he prayed, “s” or “z”,
“I’m not sure how I got here, but won’t you please rescue me.” 

Like Falling Asleep

Like Falling Asleep

(“The fruit of that righteousness will be peace; its effect will be quietness and confidence forever.” Isaiah 32:17)

I heard someone say she fell in love with him like falling asleep:
slowly at first and then all of a sudden. This sleep has been my
waking,
and the silence of my dreams the making
of grains of sand tracked into the bed
by the dogs after their romp at the beach.

Yet the more I sleep the more dreary I become,
repeating weary mistakes I made before the face of one
who picked out each misdeed like cat hair on the carpet.

There was never peace as long as dander remained
on the surface or on the air. There never was quiet
as long as one word, deemed out of place, remained
in the apprentice’s vocabulary.

A rest remains. An assignment blinks--low focus,
high fidelity—upon the fog which remains on the
bogs of faint light’s later life.

A rest remains. Destiny framed by a loving call,
(not strict equipment code after all). Though first and much,
or last and minute, much waits the dreams of those who,
sleeping unoccupied by regret’s dark ride,
awake to begin,

Again.

Tenants of Planet Earth

“You, Lord, are my God! I will praise you for doing the wonderful things you had planned and promised since ancient times.” Isaiah 25:1

Patti and I rented a number of apartments and houses before we bought our first place to live. What a difference it makes to actually own the floors you walk on. Even though we were no responsible for all the upkeep, there was less worry about how the landlord would see things.

Because You Say So

“When they had done this, they caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break.” Luke 5:6

Having no portable PA system, Jesus borrowed, unannounced, one of two fishing boats onshore. The fishermen were finished for the day, washing their nets from the debris of the day and laying them out for the next. The crowd was growing larger and it was difficult to be heard. So, boarding the small craft, Jesus put out for shore just a bit. Both the water and the rising terrain in front of Him, made for a perfect outdoor arena, acoustics akin to the Hollywood Bowl.

How Shall We

How Shall We

(“In everything you were enriched in Him, in all speech and all knowledge.” 1 Corinthians 1:5)

Hear it again, the rhythms in the river;
listen like rain, the ribbon wind through the branches;
the harmonies still hover above the rainbow shimmers that
frame Bridal Veil Falls.

See it from finish to front, the folk tales of the forest;
Survey like plains, the mature wheat like ocean’s wave;
the palette that changes in spectral degrees between
the Rockies and the River Grand.

There is more wonder to fill every mind on every continent,
more dancing questions than professors, pastor or priests can answer.
Remember that rain is made to float popsicle stick boats,
and sun is meant to dry our castles made of sand.

Even the clearest days do not always erase the marks I hide
beneath my shirt
inflicted by those who thought they had the answers.
And the sweetest rains sometimes cannot sweep the grease and grime;
the stains that time has not fully erased. Who, in the name of
the Sweetest Man of All, invokes that name to keep steal
even a single breath from another man’s body.

We, both and all, tread this astounding ball, and will and must,
return to dust; our remains perhaps mingled on the quiet plains.

Enriched and indwelt by the Son of ALL, where are the humble
words, (how could I do what I did); the sorrow (how could I
cause one more tear); the moment before sundown (how shall
we
then
live?
)

Greet my Dear Friend

Greet my Dear Friend

(“Greet Ampliatus my dear friend in the service of the Lord.” Roman 16:8)

Sit with me, tell me of your travels, make me hear the scattered
play of the grandchildren outside the window. Visit me, though my
socks are scatter around my chair,
yesterday’s clothes lie on the floor nearby. I sleep on the couch
these days,
a concession to day’s pain and night’s shallow dreams that wake me
to feel day’s pain far too early in the morning.

Be a large friend to me; not tall, not broad, but someone whose presence
is unmistakeable. Male: let it be the depth of your thinking, the valley filled
with silence in which I can spill my aching opinions and hear the echo.

Female: let it be the spring aroma in the winter’s depth. The words that
play at my wit, sip the air if you see me twinge, and understand my tears.

Brother: do not rearrange my feelings for your own comfort. Recently
God dangled a happy offering like a carrot, and reeled it in: He and I
both know the insane pain the crawls through my skin. I would spend
a week at the job I had dreamed of and go home early within the next;
headache’s cannonball level me upon the battleground. If I am angry;
if my face is blank, do not draw your happy face upon it. Let it
find its place as God and I struggle one more time over His
curious mystery.

Sister: when you see my depression-dropping-like-angry-rain,
please do not restrain your comfort. My face is red, I’m slapping
myself instead of any face closer. And, I am far too afraid to raise a
hand to God! Use your voice, invented, I am sure, for the cure of
comfort. Speak with the intonation of lullabies and wedding vows;
quickly tell me you wish the pain was gone. And do not leave before
you tell me that I must sleep: “You must sleep”. And do not leave
until the covers are pulled neatly under my chin.

I need a friend. I’ve made dozens. But wind and roads have scattered us;
a tiny minority have left the team in anger. But mostly I’m a hermit now,
locked up by three gatekeepers: Fear, Depression and Pain.

They have done their job well; so if you are an angel and have
an earthquake in your pocket, the doors are locked, but you are welcome
to open them.

Wrapped up in Christ

Wrapped up in Christ

John the Baptist: “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” Luke 3:16

How much thought do you give to your wardrobe each day? If you are like my 20 year old daughter, you choose what you wear carefully, with an eye toward good color coordination and fashion. Or, you may have a job that requires some protective wear such as gloves or a hardhat. Maybe you are an executive and wear a suit and tie to the office. Or, along with me, you might say you have no fashion at all. You just wear what is clean; or at least a shirt and pants that have only been worn once.

Beyond the Wooden

Beyond the Wooden

(“A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.’” Luke 3:4b)

While I would normally sing until my lungs ache for air,
I hear the approach of the Chemist of atmosphere, and inhale
His wonder. Holding it within, I taste the life like a well-aged wine;
a hint of grassy meadows with an overtone of berries hid in the shade.
And

Then

I s-lo-w-l-y ex-

hale.

His vintage is beyond the wooden dates, each planting
is perfection in the Vineyard of the Lord. The fruit
makes the parched smile, the burned brow returned to
its last relaxation. My Lord walks between the vines,
the human and divine, the aroma and bouquet stay
soundly on the tongue longer than the words whispered
as we awaited His return.

And even longer than the mellow taste that linger
is the memory of the gift He gives to all who stop their
their own thunder

And slowly sip the vin nouveau,
the perfect cup of the Lord.

With Love to the Offended

With Love to the Offended

“Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways!” Romans 11:33

Do not ever promise to shave your head as an incentive for
Sunday School attendants to bring more friends. A promise of 50,
and the shepherd would be shaved bald; except for one small matter.

Sitting midweek, as he makes his practice, with six and sometimes twelve
teenage students, he announced the same; no hair would remain, if they would
bring enough friends to break our goal of 50. “Oh no, Pastor”, they cringed.
“Don’t cut your hair.”

The Pastor, it should be noted, now nearly 60, was finally of an age where
most people would refrain from pointing out the impropriety of preaching holy
writ
with a ponytail. Ladies over 80 also enjoyed his curls.

So, with resistance from his teenage friends, the pastor thought a change may be
in order. “You choose the color, then,” and I will dye my hair for 50! Bright eyes
combined with school-girl squeals and the answer was moot.

Except for the few and more who come through the door on Sunday mornings.
The pastor shared his story from the teen-table and asked for a vote-by-applause.

“Shaved bald”: Are you ready? Applaud!
“Dyed hair”: Are you ready? Applaud!

Twice over we voted, unsure, the noise nearly indistinguishable. For the pastor’s ear, and his better judgment, he felt the loudest, by a mere fraction of a decibel, went to the “dye your hair”
syndicate: and it was done.

No hair was lost, nor was any painted. That year the attendance fainted short of the goal…
but…

It was discovered, laughable and weepable, one couple never returned, looking for another
place to learn Jesus’ ways because who can follow a pastor who does not keep his word.

Unfathomable! Might I call a handful of humans the very same?

Let me address You, unsearchable One. I am trying my best. I have stumbled like the rest. Why do people love cause pain, leave church, act inhumane and suppose they are the more righteous,
after all. For they never promised to shave their heads and change it to a possible rainbow updo.
Judged, perhaps. Ranted, and time ellapses between their better-hair judgments and the next
Sunday when more love and power, compassion, the Flower from the Hillsides that beautifies
our every action, if only we let Him.

Dearest depths, let me wade in Your wisdom, because that pastor I described is weeping at
the ways one more person has trodden upon his offered heart.

The pain is scream-less. The harm is one more bone broken for the 12^th time in the same place

again.

Dearest riches, now I need Your knowledge because He is a half step closer to never mentioning
the name of Jesus from a pulpit ever again.

Light...not Smoke!

“He will give light to those who live in the dark and in death’s shadow. He will guide us into the way of peace.” Luke 1:79

A Barna Research Group poll conducted in the summer of 2013 found that atheists commit fewer crimes, divorce less, and are better educated than Christians. According to the survey, fundamentalist Christians have the highest divorce rate, followed by Jews and Baptists. Those professing no faith were tied with Catholics and Lutherans for the lowest divorce rate.