A Quieted Soul

“But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a child quieted at its mother’s breast; like a child that is quieted is my soul.” Psalm 131:2

What happens within you when the turmoil begins? Things are going along swimmingly. (What an interesting turn of phrase, by the way. I have no idea its origin, but, when all is well, isn’t like the peaceful backstroke on a lazy river?) Anyway, all is well; few ripples disturb your life. Then, from out of nowhere, Bam! The turmoil takes the roof off and dumps everything on you that its angry whirlwind has picked up along the way.

All Your Commands

All Your Commands

“May my tongue sing of your promise, for all your commandments are righteous.” Psalm 119:172

We do not often think of “commandments” as a reason for singing. I cannot recall any Top 20 songs recounting the joys of speed limits or lyrics happily recalling a summer of shoplifting restraint. Perhaps that is the reason that even as followers of Jesus we do not always see the commands of God as reason to rejoice.

Perfectly Framed

Perfectly Framed

(“God’s gracious gifts and calling are irrevocable.” Romans 11:29)

Late February the frost can ice the upper hills and power lines
like wedding cake tiers, and by afternoon be nudged away to
the evergreen beneath; the love which the rains leave behind
in the moderate rainforest of the Great Northwest.

Yet, lower, where the Columbia lazily sweeps toward the sea,
the fog holds, shore to shore, the islands and lowlands, asleep
until the same sun urges its dissipation. Birdsongs replace the
foghorn the moaned morning open.

And one day, one day later, or two, in a micro-view of
frost to fog, I find upon the hillock behind my home, the
robins have gathered in the sun. A dozen redbreasts,
unhurried,
spend the richness of the sun and reap the first makings
of their spring home. Uninterrupted, without breeze or cloud,
these festival nomads fear nothing; my human presence
behind the windows, or the dogs, or the cat; they are
happily blind to us all.

But, with a highway close by, a logfull semi grumbles past,
not fast, but loudly announcing its passing. Without more
than a beat past the first diesel rumbles, the entire flock
scramble aloft and leave the incline uninhabited…

Except for,
one solo robin, larger by far than any of the rest,
lingered behind perfectly still, a garden ornament.
Older and knowing there was no danger, or fatter and
not wishing to change its solid footing; the one
remained, perfectly framed.

The Assignment

The Assignment

(“I have seen a limit to all perfection, but your commandment is exceedingly broad.” Psalm 119:96)

While waiting for the ribbons and awards,
the long speeches and large completions of appointed
projects assigned to portray (I hesitate to say) the
meaning of life;
I grew antsy, shifting my weight on the slap-down
metal chairs with half a back and unbalanced legs,
and my spine contracted as thank-yous dragged on
from noon till the heat of the day settled about us
like a sloppy hug from a field worker at the end of
a summer’s day.

The judges had spent their volunteer hours comparing
length and width, perspective and wit, color and the
best use of objects found. Poets scratched with pebbles,
novelists broke their fingers, photographers, it is true,
pinholed with cantaloupes and trashed food wrappers.
Oh, and the artists, the paint and brush, dabbed at
tree trunks with chewing gum.

That’s all a lie…I made it up as I wrote, poetic
license which I paid for and has never yet been revoked.

But I have waited longer with background noise my
only inspiration,
to find what is the next line You will offer,
the next explanation
for a world so perfect, a world so crackly,
with tenants who speak as followers of Your Son,
but will walk out after five minute’s suggestion He
meant what He said,
when He said that part about
loving enemies and blessing the worst with
the best we can offer.

So, I stay listening and will arise, I mean it in hope,
to kiss the next enemy, cloaked or Wall Street clothed,

With the Kiss of my Older Brother whose ways
are found perfect, and perfectly impossible. Yet
what are we if we refuse to attempt the steepest path
and peace.

Backed into a Corner

(For all my good friends, I am fully aware how raw this bit of writing is. But, that is my poetry; my cleansing, my therapy. It is my soul on a plate.)

Backed into a Corner

(“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” Romans 8:26)

I’m certain it would have happened before now if I
didn’t still have children in the home,
if I didn’t have a wife who would die inside,
when I finally let all the pieces gingerly glued and taped
finally fall apart on the floor. Jagged and dust,
blood and the musty smell of old spells uttered by
everyone who knew better,
who behaved better,
who danced and sang and worked and slung
their words so much higher than mine, that they
reached the people in power before mine,
and were believed by rainbow chasers before mine,
and were repeated more often than mine,
louder than mine, until finally, in quiet desperation

I dug a hole where I intended to spend my remaining time.

Some see a miracle, with the truest tears I must tell,
I am no longer sure miracles exist. Whatever the dust-up,
the fog lifted and I landed by the river, near the ocean,
where gray meets blue water, green meets yellow sun,
and where the nutrient-rich mud is pudding for every
evergreen seen from one crest to the next and in the valleys
between.

But what no one has seen
is how
two weeks ago I looked at the wreckage and decided

“i am broken”

Not

“I’m sick” or “I’m hurting” or “I’ll get over it”

Because I’ve taken the cure, I’ve talked the therapy
and I’ve tossed every rock with the offenders names
into the water to be forgotten, along with my anger and shame.

And yet

i am broken

Almighty (who I always loved to call Father), this is addressed to You now,
my friends may be frightened by these words and how
I want them to know I am empty, not complete, dry-boned, depleted.

I favored “Papa” for my God, but, following for 40 year I’ve chosen everything
I thought You wanted. And in one flash of insight realized, for 40 years,
I never chosen what would make me happy. I took the smallest churches,
I stayed with the angriest supervisors, and when I did show pain,
I was a target again. Blasted as if I should have lasted longer
standing blindfolded before the firing squad (smoke ‘em if you’ve
got ‘em, and my mouth was empty).

You can’t draw lines in the sand with God, that’s what makes
Him so frightening and unfair. But my line is finally drawn, my
bits of flesh and bone wait for the final answer in my

S
C
R
E
A
M

for

Redemption!

Bee Sweet

Bee Sweet

(“May my meditation be pleasing to him, for I rejoice in the Lord.” Psalm 104:34)

Bees see in the ultraviolet spectrum, humans see,
well, what we can see.
A bee sees the world, the same world we see,
but given human eyes, the world becomes disguised
from its apian landscapes. Given a pair of
bee-sunglasses
I would swear the world was no longer the world,
and earth a misplaced chapter from Lewis Carroll.

I post my pain, maybe too often for your particular taste;
but, capture the radio waves that dance inside; outside, somewhere;
everywhere; within; without you…for a moment grasp the crackling
orb
and let the buzz from my own brain overtake your singular view;
your front window on most day. So, before you sneak an unwelcome
peek
into my head,
next time,
think ahead and consider how sweetly apologies
clear the air from the damage we do in each others’ gardens:
bees or human, the world itself yet is one.

No More Shut Doors

(“And they say, ‘The Lord does not see; the God of Jacob does not perceive.’” Psalm 94:7)

I wonder how many Christians actually live like this; going about our life as if God doesn’t actually see or perceive what we are doing. Oh, I don’t mean the usual drinking, smoking, drug addiction and other illicit activity we like to shake our fingers at. I do remember, though, from both parents and preachers, the “eyes of the Lord” being a big incentive to refrain from diving headlong into uncharted sins.

A New Routine

A New Routine

(“Fill us with your love every morning.  Then we will sing and rejoice all our lives.” Psalm 90:14)

How do you begin your day? We all have routines, and they can be as varied as our different personalities. Those routines can change at different points throughout our life as well. A high school student’s morning may be far more hurried than a retired couple. The student swills a quick bowl of cereal and rushes out the door to catch the bus in time, while the retirees my enjoy the leisure of a quiet morning, slowly sipping morning coffee and reading a favorite book. The executive takes time to think through an important meeting and a stay-at-home parent checks the calendar for each child’s activities. For most of us, the routine is a well-worn path every morning.

Eye-Level

Eye-Level

Listen when the words are full enough to
let you see your pain fully, in the light of day,
from every angle; listen when the words can
untangle the chains wrapped around the pole of
your existence. When pain stabs it is no more spiritual
to speak of joy
than it is to laugh at the sounds of a widow’s grief.

I’ve seen your eyes, dark in the shade, alive in the light,
brown as nature, deep as the pools that fill craters left
by meteorites taking a wrong turn home.

You speak your best when you speak the fewest,
you love the best unexplained. I remember the words
which hid the frightened past when the shivering past
was only a decade and a half barely old. I can still
see
the moments when, eye to eye, trust had won they
day,
and cry or rain, stay or pain, like a single raindrop
suspended midair (you saw it, I saw it, eye-level,
as if it had been there from the earth’s first mists)
and though severely separated by decades in time
the trust in love would live forever

Encased like rain, saved like a single tear
that held the pain and the remedy, and all
the songs we wait to hear. We sing them together
(having never heard them before) as if we had
written each and every line. So a tear,
a raindrop,
a lyric,
a diamond
are all collected at eye-level
by two at once who knew trust was
the pain’s best memory.

One Sunday on a February Morning

One Sunday on a February Morning

(“But you are merciful and gentle, Lord, slow in getting angry, full of constant loving-kindness and of truth.” Psalm 86:15)

I heard the sound of Your people rustling,
I heard the talking, the prayer and listening.
I heard the babies high above the others and,
for a moment their squeals held the floor.

I saw the old men asking, the young men grasping
their ladies by the hand. I saw the old women planning,
the young women juggling their children and their man.

I felt gentle flurries, foglet drizzle that dampened our shoulders
and hands with the first greetings of the morning. The grass
glistened from asphalt to sidewalk, left too long after summer’s
last trim. Some mud in the entry, more children with their pennies
to drop with laughter in the willow baskets with dollars and numbers
back, forth, up and down. If mom let them, they bombed the
offering plate with their tiny ammo.

One of the littlest, black hair, round face, believes he owns the place,
wandered to the holy steps where the man who always shakes everyone’s
hands stands. The old blonde table was absent its juice and crackers,
but he still was slow to touch it. The pews are for playing, but this table
is always where people are praying so solemn.

I saw the burdened, I saw the tangles of lives lived backwards
and forwards, and beginning and again. I saw the love (I
cannot lie)
when, for one hour it did not matter why children disobey,
spouses walk away, jobs are scarce, darkness scares our
little ones awake. We did not need to make up for
our mistakes or wear our usual daytime masks. Our
thrift store faces are just fine when

We enter the meeting one more time to
touch the gentle spring of Eternal love,
with breath coming easy in this dancing insanity,
the divine and humanity seriously at play.