I Wish I Could Blame

I Wish I Could Blame

(“My friends, God has made us these promises. So we should stay away from everything that keeps our bodies and spirits from being clean. We should honor God and try to be completely like him.” 2 Corinthians 7:1)

I would rather be battered by the Holy Spirit’s wings than
massaged into oblivion by a stranger’s strong hands. When
tight and twisted within, thoughts rebound so often they seem
multiplied, beginning with one or some and leaving me full of them.

I wish I could blame my enemies; the ones that murmured so often
behind my back they started a fire in the alley where they met to discuss
the continuing saga of their disgust of me. We all saw the smoke-signal,
the tower of gray rising west of main street above old two-story buildings;
the kind where the owner lives upstairs and sells his wares down.

I wish I could blame authorities who handcuffed me with letters signed
from the tiny minds who, after meeting, put it all to a vote, and sent it
to the Controller. They donned their pretty disguises, (helpful words,
integral wigs, and the monotone of those who hide anger and abhorrence),
and led us in their jury room, asking our intentions. “Where are you going
next?” they squeezed the words like butter. “Let us know, and we will help
you there.”

Just days later the phone rang four times in a day; one place we were going
(we made other plans); another (oops, we found a man under the table) and
3 and 4 (we’ve closed the door we said was completely open). And so,
the disguised dignitaries cut off every road we might take to rediscover
hope. I believe there exists a file with 20 or 30 letters loving us,
yet there effect was the same as spitting into a hurricane.

I wish I could blame the dishonesty, the policies, that left me hanging,
and placed me in momentary darkness in hopes I could die with
no one mourning.

And if enemies or dignitaries ever read this in its entirety, they would miss
its meaning entirely. I am black, they are white and why would the failure whine
over the actions of the godly and fine.

I wish I could blame, but Christ will not let me. I wish I could document
these headaches, started after the final blow and unending. I wish I could
make them see their policy is a deathblow and far from helpful.

I wish I could blame, but the Father calls me to healing. (He does not need
to convince me of my wrong, long, long, long moments are full and complete
of marksmanship so panicked the target is clean.)

In spite of the promises, (disguises), in spite of the offers ($10/hour),
in spite of the book with two endings (old statements in new places),
I know now the pleasure of the Father. I am gray as ash, never white,
and write to speak, and speak to scream, and scream to be heard,
and heard to be noticed, and noticed to be understood, and understood
to be human

Again.

And so, by the perfect promises never withdrawn by the Holy God,
Three-in-One, I cannot blame, but purify my name for the glory of

the Father who showered me clean before I knew it.

The Christian's Motivation

“For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died for all, therefore all have died; and he died for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for him who for their sake died and was raised.” 2 Corinthians 5:14,15

It’s been said many, many times over. The thoughts are not original to me at all, but it is important that we keep this topic up front and center. “The love of Christ” is the nucleus of Christianity, the circumference of Christianity, and the unchanging premise of Christianity.

The Same Song

The Same Song

(“There is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away!” Luke 15:7)

The invitation was sent straight to the last address we knew,
the postage licked upon the upper right-hand corner and
the envelope sealed with hand-fashioned card inside.

How could you miss the dancing? We nearly had the police called
on us
for all the noise! We could not help the raucous shouting;
it was no time for doves cooing or kitties purring,
this was straight up Wild Goose honking, the Geadh-Glas
inciting the high-step celebration. One more lost one
found their vacant seat again.

You pulled up, but could find no place to park?
The Shepherd strode the high hills of the mansion rich,
the cul-de-sacs of well-heeled pretense,
the clackboard boxes six-per-block,
and the tumble down trailers unscreened windows and doors.

He called for years, the name of the loved one, never forgetting
the way it first sounded upon the tongue. He whispered softly
in crowds,
sprained His voice as He ripped echoes across voided canyons,
and every day, the same vigor as at the first, the same
heartbreak, the same desire to reverse the pathway which took
the lone lamb away from the rest of us all.

You would have stayed, but did not enjoy the music?
Did you forget already, the same song was sung, with
the same passion and abandon, the very second in time
you turned on a dime (not quite so far from home, but
just as absent); has the taste of the finest fare already
been erased from your tongue?

There is time to return, however late. The dances begin
upon the hour, upon the minute, upon the moment
the front door opens for anyone who changed their mind,
deciding a party thrown by God leaves no time to
ponder the propriety of it all.

Like a Golfer Shanking

Like a Golfer Shanking

(“May the Lord be with you, as he was with my father.” 1 Samuel 20:13b)

Noticing the way the wind came up so quickly and
watching how the clouds were gray bow ties coming in for the night
the only thought I had was how I could find some peace
from the friend of 30 years who because my house’s floor plan
was not exactly like his, moved me out of the neighborhood.

Watching the light seep in far too early in summer,
and noticing the little dog snuggled in the spot behind the bend in my knees,
the only scene I could watch was one more person who
received the invitation,
left the rsvp on the table,
and missed the party of a lifetime.

Christians, we are like my mother who only saw the pimples on my face,
and tried to pop them with the index fingers of both her hands! She wanted
a beautiful boy.

Noticing the way I watch the beautiful go by, turn my head,
follow their gait, and wish my suits fit so well, my arms so muscled,
and my nose less pointy. Noticing the way I glance at the blemished,
look back down at the pavement, miss eye contact completely,
like a golfer shanking his drive into the opposite fairway, and
wish I was more instinctive to

Befriend more the least of these, in whose eyes dwell
the Man so lovely, and the beatific Presence of the Lord.

Outsiders?

“You’ll watch outsiders stream in from east, west, north, and south and sit down at the table of God’s kingdom. And all the time you’ll be outside looking in—and wondering what happened.” Luke 13:29 (The Message)

One of my favorite movie is “Babbette’s Feast” based on the short story by Isak Dinesen. Babbette flees to Denmark, avoiding political upheaval in Paris in the 19^th century. She cooks and keeps house for two elderly sisters in a tiny village set on the remote and beautiful coast. For 14 years she serves the sisters, and the only link to her past is a lottery ticket a friend in Paris renews for her each year. One year she wins the lottery and uses the money to prepare a high-quality feast for the sisters and their small congregation. The scene is filled with all the delights of a wonderful banquet, and is the outpouring of Babette’s gratitude.

Come, Creatures of Heaven

Come, Creatures of Heaven

(“But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:57)

Come, creatures of heaven, children of the light,
stand upon this earth with your damages uncovered.
Let the sun and the rain knit and unstain your holy wounds;
the breeze hides your sobriquet the Father has called you by
from moments before He spoke the first spark to begin
solid and liquid, gaseous and ethereal; material and spiritual.

He has called you the pet name above all names.

Walk; see the bent age of the longer follow,
watch the quick step of the newly graced,
and measure your own pace by the Hand of Him
who knows the words the world has pierced you with,
and replaces epithets of jealousy with mercy’s signature.

There, march upon this earth, between the paths of mere man,
the footprints of liberation, whose bruises are their badges,
whose tears are their trophies, and whose pain for the Name
most precious leave breathless those who have chosen the
easier way.

Better Vision

Better Vision

“Your eyes are the lamp for your body. When your eyes are good, you have all the light you need. But when your eyes are bad, everything is dark.” Luke 11:34

I usually sat somewhere in the middle of class. That way I wasn’t in front where the teacher would always call on me for answers, or see my museum-worthy doodles on my worksheet. And, I wasn’t in the back where most of the trouble-makers sat. I wasn’t stupid, even as a junior high student. I knew teachers had seating assignment ESP, and they knew exactly what sort of student you were by which desk you chose.

Of Two Lives and One Man

Of Two Lives and One Man

(“I die every day! That is as certain, brothers and sisters, as my boasting of you—a boast that I make in Christ Jesus our Lord.” 1 Corinthians 15:31)

Oklahoma’s sun is a hot towel sauna
that makes your sweat bead up and fill
every pore until the skin skips breathing,
absorbing each ray of heat magnified by
the tiny beads’ lenses on every square inch
of uncovered skin.

A hod-carrier from early morning until
the afternoon cured his legs like the mortar
he carried; the bricks were stacked; play-school
children’s pyramids. The only definition: wider
at the bottom than at the top. And I would carry
nine at a time, a full brick-tong’s load, to the
top of the scaffolding where, three stories high,
he dropped them, and like a baby monkey, climbed
the scaffolding to begin again; and again, 20 times
again. Three years married, four years out of high school,
the young scholar sweat his muscles dry.

The Northwest’s drizzle is a cold rain forest
that leaves the damp on every roof green, moss thicker
than the sod by April. Thirty-seven years married,
forty out of high school,
the air always sounds like a trout stream at night
just beyond a canvas-tent’s walls.

A chronic head-tong grabbed him just about each ear,
and the step from bed to floor is the greatest attempt
of the day. From mid-morning when pain has settled
to the sound of distant gongs, until mid-afternoon when
it arrives again full-on, he tries, like he did decades ago,
to simply sweat out one more our of the day. But, his
mind a fog,
his head fully vised,
his ideas old,
his hopes sold for a simple day when five minute phone calls
do not drain what was empty a full hour before.

And though we all begin to die once we cough into being,
and though God knows I could never leave the love I’ve known,
I would question Job, except he had an ending while he lived;
Lord of All, hear the whining drill that barely shows upon my face.

Sun Hogs

“Arise! Shine! For your light arrives! The splendor of the Lord shines on you!” Isaiah 60:1

Penny is a sun hog. Actually, she is a nine year-old German Shepherd, Chow, and Husky dog who we think also has a bit of coyote in her. We rescued her seven years ago and is one of the most beautiful dogs we have ever had. Light brown with the Chow tail that curls up over her back, she has the Husky “smile” constantly on her face. She has learned nearly every command with very little work. She loves to go to the river with us. When you splash water toward her, she bites at it, swallowing far more than her tummy can hold over an afternoon. She is quite miserable the same evening, having to go outside to relieve herself far more often than normal.

Unsettled Scores

Unsettled Scores

(“But no weapon will be able to hurt you; you will have an answer for all who accuse you. I will defend my servants and give them victory.”)

("The Lord has spoken." Isaiah 54:17)

The fury arose from mudpuddle words; the heart froze and fist closed
around another granite reason to put someone in their place, to lay them
in the dirt, to equalize and measure out the lies and twisted words upon
the scales of justice.

But rage and roundhouse do not deal out judgment charily; as if
measuring ingredients for cakes and pies. The laboratory of vengeance
is smeared with flour, caked with butter, and blood flows invisibly from
sink to counter to floor to the

Next encounter to settle scores the have no sudden death playoff.

Where did it begin, this singeing we call equality? Where does it stop,
the expanding cycle, the stingy air that suffocates us all.

Why do I fret, the skies are full of angel shields. Why does worry
upend the smile upon the offer of walks with Jesus from morning’s
warble until
slumber’s placeholder for the dawn?

I am Your servant; You are my Father. I am no further from home
when the crude throats accuse or when the smooth lips whisper.
You speak softer, and as truth is truth, more often, then the
repeats and rewinds of people who have run out of new words;
they spit old, worn out words and dare me to learn the same vocabulary,
and send them back doubly swift and tear the rift so much wider.

Let the fury sink below the arrow’s target; leave measurements to
someone with better sight. Open the fists numbed by now;
drop the stones to the ground from which they’ve grown,
and learn the Words or keep the Silence; hear the Harm
caused by Violence, and leave the battles behind.