Simply Put

Simply Put

(“Blessed are those who endure when they are tested. When they pass the test, they will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.” James 1:12)

What is my love compared to the trails You have left with
my heart?
Are my faltering steps enough for the race when I know
I once flew faster? There were friends I once would ask,
but now they do not answer my letters.

Pain is the dungeon, depression the iron door, and where is the
something more,
the crown,
the life,
the speed,
the gown of white,
the reed unbroken and the smoking wick
relit?

Which foot should I put forward now? Which direction, and
how do I know when to lay my head upon the grass because
the world is far too fast for the ache that started in my heart and
now has lasted too long in my head?

Can I tell you the truth, Father-I-hope? I am tired of the test and want
to lay my pencil down. Grade me now and let me finish. I’ll take an
incomplete if I have to.

Suffering and glory, crowns and crosses; that was Your story, but

I need the alphabet to be flesh. I need the paragraphs to be persona;
the stories to be more than mystery; but my contemporary now.

Visit me in more than my dreams, beyond the page, within the schemes
of my undulating hobby of ache. I wander the fields of my youth,
the days of laughter and acoustic songs, flutes and singalongs,
and I was so much smarter than anyone knew.

Now I know how narrow is the science which pulled the blinds so tightly,
that Your light is the sliver of morning where the dust hangs.
And, simply put, I haven’t seen a sunrise since before North Dakota
on the Missouri.

Wisdom to Be

Wisdom to Be

“If any one of you falls short in wisdom, they should ask God for it, and it will be given them. God, after all, gives generously and ungrudgingly to all people.” James 1:5

Almost every Christian who wants guidance knows this verse well. We have been told that God will give us all the wisdom we need when we ask Him, and that He will never begrudge us the gift of His wisdom. That much is true. Our problem, I believe, is that we substitute the word “guidance” for “wisdom”.

Let me explain. Perhaps we need to choose whether to take this job or that one. Or we are considering buying a new house. We rely on this verse, ask God for wisdom (thinking “guidance”) and expect some sign to tell us which choice to make. I do not want to be misunderstood; God often gives specific guidance about choices we face.

But wisdom is a much broader category than simple “guidance”. What if wisdom has to do more with who we are than what we should do? Isn’t God more interested in forming us into men and women who carry the compassion of Christ in our hearts? And, as we ask for His wisdom, what if He responds by transforming us to a greater degree into the likeness of His Son?

Let me share from own recent struggle with wisdom. Most of you know I have suffered from a daily headache for nearly nine years. It hinders everything that I do; writing, reading, physical activity, even taking road trips.

Here is what makes it so challenging. Every "trial" I've endured thus far in my life could be traced either to failings on my part or someone else's, if not entirely, then in part. I could act on it. I could repent. I could confess. I could forgive. I could make amends. I could reconcile.

But there is no cause for this chronic pain that I can tackle with better piety. In fact, the pain hinders most of my spiritual "practices". Prayer is an effort. The pain shortens my attention span when reading Scripture. And acts of mercy are fewer and farther between, as are most of my activities.

I cannot fix this with better devotion to God. And, yes, I understand His strength is made perfect in weakness and that His grace is sufficient. But the pain is an iron door which seems to limit access to experiencing these things.

That's the most honest assessment I can make. My faith is challenged because, for once, I see no cause, no solution and no way forward. I am, in many ways, walking in the dark while I try to walk in the light.

I have asked God for wisdom. I have sought medical advice, spiritual counsel, and poured out my heart to family…and well, Facebook. I cannot keep up the pace I need to as a full-time pastor, yet I am not financially able to retire. There is more to that, but just understand, there seem to be very few choices. And I’ve been asking quite often for “wisdom”. “Show me another way, God.”

Recently (actually, yesterday) I began to think this way. “There is much I can no longer do because of this chronic pain. And, I hate the physical suffering as well. I don’t play tennis, don’t visit friends, don’t read, don’t write my poetry as much. But…I am still me.” That seemed like a breakthrough.

You see, I’ve been focusing on what I feel I need to do, and all the things I can’t do. But the pain has not changed one thing about who I am. For me, God’s wisdom may be to stop seeking to do things better and just be His beloved child, because that has not changed. I am His by faith in Christ, despite the pain.

That does not ease my physical suffering. And, if you are suffering, you may still endure hardship as well. But, ask God for wisdom; not just for what to do, but who to be. The next verse tells us to “ask in faith.”

Faith isn’t a power to gain control over our lives. Instead, it is surrendering our false sense of control into the hands of our loving Heavenly Father. Trusting Him means we no longer convince ourselves that, with enough faith, we can move that mountain. We put that mountain into God’s hands and simply trust Him for the outcome.

Personally, This Letter

Personally, This Letter

“Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” Luke 21:33

So many letters lie tattered beneath the newer lessons I’ve learned.
Yet the dusty seams bring me back again to the handwritten pages I
said I would never leave behind.
One said Never was sworn for life, and Ever was the bond. Friends
and brothers, square knots and sisters; but the sworn statements
broke upon the letter of the law.

I never wrote on stationary, I rarely used a blank page. Spiral notebooks
used to sleep on the bottom bunk of the old brown bookshelf unsung. I can
see phrases, words playing like “chiseled orphans” and “cacophonies of
Christmas lights” outside a teenager’s window.

Songs remembered, tunes forgotten; I paste the chords with weaker fingers.
I’m not saying I want to go backwards; I only desire the long talks around
the firebush in autumn or summer’s sacred meadow.

Some words I’ve hacked in half, others extended by a vowel or two,
but all I remember (my heart still tarries) is the laughter and tears
that were acceptable in season or out. Our gardens were full; rich loam
and metaphor. Our hugs were held well after harvest and fini.

And Now.

And now, Your words are still my meat, though my palate has changed.
In early fall the smoke from campfires writes another chapter of the book
I’ve laid down. And I hope the same smoke will stir the embers of friends
who I used to know.

With and without; words were the life. The silence, the pale blue lines
crossing the page, the margin asking where to begin. The silence

Is the reason I sometimes cry when no one is watching.

Will You speak in words I know? I am not nearly as old as You,
Ancient of Days. I need Your newer tropes and parables to pack inside
the vulnerable windows.

P.S.

P.S. I would send it personally, this letter, old friend,
but I fear, once more, you might not return my letter again.