Never Sleeps

While a pastor on the Fort Berthold Reservation I was honored with the Indian name, "NeverSleeps". It was primarily because I was often responding to particular needs in the middle of the night.

Even more relevant, the Lord Himself, Maker of all, "Never Sleeps".

Surely you know.
Surely you have heard.
The Lord is the God who lives forever,
who created all the world.
He does not become tired or need to rest.
No one can understand how great his wisdom is.

Isaiah 40:28

Welcome to every reader. I am a simple follower of Jesus. He is perfect, I often fall short.

Sunday, December 22, 2019

More Hemmed In


More Hemmed In

(“As the mountains are around Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people, from now and forever.” Psalm 125:2)

I’m sick with pain.
I no longer hurt, no mere aches,
but am diseased and broken,
a brain that has flown off the tracks.

Where are the ones who once walked with me,
Am I a leper unclean?
Where are the ones who broke bread with me,
Am I repulsive; or worse,
unseen?

You throw your words like shards of glass,
broken beer bottles ready for a street fight.
You disguise yourself until the last moment
and retreat into the words you learned in church
(but you forgot the Sunday School songs (Jesus
loves the little children of the world.)

I’m shattered with pain,
scratching at a heart that will not heal.
Numb and frozen in place my head nods sleepily
filled with shots of lead.
The avenues are blocked, I cannot see ahead,
more friends decide I am not worth their time.

And, what if I disagree with the new few who
smile at me,
occasionally? What if they find I am not nearly
one of their kind
as they supposed
me to be?

So, God you say you surround me, but I feel more
hemmed in than
protected.
You’ve put the squeeze on me, I’m the last dollops
of toothpaste in the tube.

So, God you say you surround me, my brain is broken,
so perhaps the arrows the fly through wireless eyes,
are angels come to rescue me.

Sounds are uncertain and sight is deceiving,
I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been down this road before.

So, God you say you surround me.

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

Words Like Honey


Words Like Honey

(“When he had spent some time there, he went off again and travelled from one place to another…encouraging all the disciples.” Acts 18:23)

Do you have to words like honey,
the golden ambrosia,
the delicacies prepared with care?

Do the eyes smile when they see you coming,
or do the neck muscles tense like a dining room table?
Do the minds open like butterfly wings each time someone
sings the lyrics you’re known for,
or do the toes of the feet dig into the deep asphalt inside
their shoes?

Let your signature be bold, bold as love.
Let the crossroad where you meet be an axis, an axis of peace.
Aloud or alone,
Crowded or nearly gone,
toss the confetti in the air, the tie-dye tissue flung
over trees while the breeze waves them like aerobic arms
hailing the next season of hope.

Do you have views like chocolate,
the silky burnt umber,
the confections prepared just now?

Truth is hard, but not unlovely.
Love is sweet, but not sickly.
Come, see the forest for the trees,
Come, feel the zephyr that sees
another season than the rusty winter
others insist is coming like midnight.

Come, forecast the brand-new morning,
Come, fancy a sunrise or two
on the river, above the hills
loosely the same as resurrections and
breakfasts on the beach.

Leave the raucous spew; renew the hues of azure,
the sway of wheat upon the sea, the ways of God upon the
coral reefs in all transparency. Fill the table with
bounty (hunted, gathered, shared, donated and piled
higher than the ocean cliffs). Invite the vagrant, the homebound,
the footloose, the shoeless, the spent, the pent-up,
the rested, the divested, the distorted, the contorted,
the last, the first, and best and all the rest
Who simply wait one good word from you,
one taste of honey where they sleep, where they play,
where the mass of air has deflated their best dreams.
Let them hear the beat they can dance to until the
end of the day.

Monday, December 16, 2019

You Cannot Love an Icon

Image result for trophies

You Cannot Love an Icon

(“The earth is filled with your love, Lord; teach me your decrees.” Psalm 119:64)

You cannot love an icon,
a mask you’ve fashioned to hide the
goodness in your opponent’s face.

You have severed the connective tissue that
binds you, love to love.

Get an education,
come out from the shadows,
join the celebration
that heals your icy biases.

Beware when people call evil, good; and good, evil.
Beware when love is meant for only a chosen few.
Beware when war is called peaceful; peace, uncivil.
Beware when outrage is mistaken for the truth.

The world is flooded, an unending stream,
a placid lake of uncaged love,
a river that causes deserts to bloom.
(Don’t unearth the outcasts too soon.)

Get a renovation,
step down from your tower,
take a long vacation
from all your fiery minuses.

The world is brimming, earth saturated
like a lava cake with chocolate,
a comfort that causes the hearts to thaw.
(Erase the conclusions you’ve drawn.)

Cross the street, cross the divide,
get over your unbridled myopia.
The sacrifice of love is a stronger law than
the weaklings of hate. Look love in the face,
undefine the abominations you think have
sealed their fate,

And dig in the mud, take off the makeup,
remove the icons from your venerated shelves,
and learn, oh learn,
the love that loves
better than ourselves.


Friday, December 13, 2019

Far Enough Away


moon, art, and colors image
Far Enough Away

“The Lord is merciful and righteous. Our God is compassionate.” Psalm 116:5

Spun far outside my tribal galaxy
I’d like a slice of dopamine
please.

I don’t know why, but someone noted that
we deserve nothing from the divine. Without mercy,
without compassion,
we are assigned only a fiery brine.

I reject that notion outright. Right-out loud now.

Far enough away to recognize the echoes from decades
of ingrown notions, my mind spins at those once close
who love the dictates concerning shithole nations, women’s faces
bleeding,
and blaspheming the life of Christ in wanderers who come to us
like Mary and Joseph journeyed to Egypt.
(notice, I have no ellipses.)

And while we leave them like fanciful dung,
there is a God who “lifts the needy from the garbage heap.”

There is sun for your face, beloved.
There are kisses of love.
There is fog, but blue above.
There is new for you in the circle that
embraces everything.

But some lap up mercy like milk,
and beg for more after the dishes are washed and dried.
Then refuse it those orbiting outside, beyond the walls,
beyond the rules and laws we write to control how many
falls we are allowed;
then, I fear, right out loud, the cupboard is empty and
the bowl is quite broken.

There are bluebirds for your ears, beloved.
There are waltzes of love.
There is fear, but mercy above.
There are myriads and myriads
around the throne
who speak a language never known.

And the kingdom will come (on earth as in heaven)
when we stop sanctifying gravity
and learn the lesson of unholy leaven.

Wednesday, December 11, 2019

Leaking Grief


Leaking Grief

“Help me, O Lord my God! Save me because of your unfailing love.” Psalm 109:26

I have been leaking grief, not all over the place,
not puddles at the bottom of my feet;
but focus on the drips from the driveway to the
front door,
the seals have grown brittle and I can’t find
my bearings.

If I keep my thoughts at bay, I think of nothing.
If I allow my thoughts to stray, all the disrepair
straddles each side of my brain.
If I keep them away, they invade my dreams in
failure (no one shows up for my choir practice);
anger (no one defends the obvious loser);
losing (climbing cliffs with my fingernails);
bankrupt (running out of time and too many die.)

I have been leaking grief for years. You can mark the trail.
Gaze, for more than a moment, my eyes are redline,
oily, the tread is worn to the nub. I will no longer listen
to a single word that suggests

Anyone can overreact to unexpected death.

Take your high words and tell them to the hills;
I need the silence that heals, the fawns and does
that do not roar in the woods. I need the waves
that steal the sand and carry it to islands where survivors
know grief is sometimes a way of life.

Oh, Man of Sorrows! Become acquainted with my grief.

Take your complaints to the county courthouse,
I’m tired of being an eternal caregiver.
Come wrap me in a shawl, light candles for me,
sing the songs from Ireland or Lakota, beat the drums
that let the tears and tongues trickle, the faucet is
broken.

Someone wrote that you cannot support abortion and
be a Christian.
I wonder how you can lock the eyes of mourners,
(“don’t cry” is a lie) when your Leader wept between
the mystery of death and rising.

I am not lying; I have been leaking grief and sighing
for decades. Tomorrow I shall seek the comfort

Of unbelievers who know how to hold my tears in their tissues.

Oh Man of Sorrows, acquainted with my grief.
Oh! grief.


Tuesday, December 10, 2019

A Croupy Thanksgiving


Baby coughing
A Croupy Thanksgiving

Hallelujah! Give thanks to the Lord, since he is good, for his gracious love exists forever. Psalm 106:1

Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday since I was a child. It evokes warm memories of cinnamon rolls in the morning, a turkey cooking in an electric roaster, pumpkin and pecan pies, but especially mom’s homemade noodles. She always made them the day before, laying them out to dry on the kitchen table. If she let us, we helped cut them into long strips on Thanksgiving morning.

Our extended family is small. I have three sibling and with Mom and Dad, that always meant at least six around the table. There were usually a handful of relatives that joined us, bringing our small band of merriment up to around ten. But, more often than not, a couple of church families joined us, and Mom always made sure to invite an area serviceman who had nowhere to go on Thanksgiving.

After Patti and I started our own family we hosted most of the same relatives in our Sacramento home. We also invited friends and others we knew might be alone on that day full of friends, family and good food. Our little nucleus of aunts, uncles and a single cousin, as well as my siblings opened wide for those outside our family that joined us at the table.

As a pastor, Thanksgiving also provided some unique memories. Twice we spent the holiday with patients in the hospital. One year we drove 165 miles, two and a half hours, from Devils Lake, ND to Fargo to spend Thanksgiving with a parishioner in the hospital who was facing cancer. Another time, pastoring in Washington State, we drove about 75 miles, stopped and picked up Thanksgiving dinner to go at a restaurant, and joined another parishioner and his entire family for a lapfuls of turkey, mashed potatoes and pie.

But the Thanksgiving that is most significant for my family was in 1993. That was the years that our surprise daughter was born. We already had two boys we loved dearly, Michael and Jonathan, 13 and 10 respectively. Patti and I decided we were happy with our family of four and took precautions to avoid further additions. But God had other plans. Late in 1992 Patti and I found out we were expecting.

So, the boys, their mom and I waited those long months for our new addition. As luck would have it, the first sonogram wasn’t clear enough to identify the sex of this anticipated child. Any elective sonograms were not covered by insurance. So, we would be surprised on the day our Sarah was born (uhm, yes, the baby was a girl).

Born June 15, Sarah was a source of joy for all of us. I could not believe God had given us the gift of a daughter. After Patti gave birth and letting Mom have a bit of rest, Mike, Jon and I hit up the local thrift store and bought all the girl baby clothes two dollars and fifty cents could afford. (Ok, I’m lying about the amount. It might have been $10.50).

That summer and early fall we all took turns showing off baby Sarah Rochelle to our friends. Mike took her to school, I took her to one of the “grandmas” on the reservation where we pastored to receive a blessing, Patti glowed like I’ve never seen her before. Jon loved holding her in his lap.

As summer turned to fall, we began to look forward to our first Thanksgiving as a family of five. But, two days before the Autumn feast Sarah came down with a high fever, raspy cough, and her breathing was wheezy. It was clear she was sick and was struggling to breathe. When her fever stayed at 103 degrees, we took her to the doctor the next day.

We lived in New Town, ND, a small town with a population of about 1500 at the time. It is situated on the Forth Berthold Indian Reservation and in 1993 was a delightful mix of Anglo and Native residents. It is no exaggeration to say that my soul thrived in the rural but multi-cultural environment. But such a small town could not support a hospital or medical center. We had regularly seen Dr. Herbert Wilson who had served New Town since the mid-50s and retired in 1995.

But he was out of town on this Thanksgiving eve and so his replacement, a soft-spoken Filipina doctor looked out our 5-month-old baby. After listening to Sarah’s breathing and taking her temperature, she concluded that Sarah had the croup. We didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she described it as an irritation to the upper airways that causes them to swell. The airway below the vocal cords become narrow, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’ve seen babies with croup go like that”, she said. Alarmed, both Patti and I felt blood rush out of our faces. We asked immediately for an ambulance. Our doctor was efficient and accommodating, making the call for the ambulance immediately. After a few minutes she came back to us with bad news. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is Thanksgiving Eve; the entire EMS crew is out of town.” They, of course, were all volunteer, and this particular year not one of them had stayed around for the holiday.

I could feel the panic rising in my body. This is my baby-girl. She needs an ambulance. The doctor agrees. But there are no emergency workers. God, help! “What should we do?” I asked.

“The only option is for you to drive her. I’ll call ahead to the hospital.” That would be Trinity Health in Minot, 75 miles away. And we wouldn’t be traveling fast. This particular afternoon it was only five degrees above zero and threatening with snow.

“But, what about her breathing?” Patti and I were scared. We had no doubt about driving her, but if they can “go like that”, there must be something else we can do. Our resourceful doctor looked around the office, grabbed an oxygen tank and gave it to us. Of course, the mask was for an adult. It wouldn’t work for an infant. She went into another room and came back with a small Dixie cup, pushed the tubing through the bottom and created an ersatz baby-sized breathing mask. “Someone will have to hold it against her face,” she instructed.

We thanked her profusely, packed our precious baby girl into the back of the car and hurried home to pick up the boys. We hurried them out to the car, and as we drove out of town Patti instructed them both about keeping the cup on their sister’s face and mouth to help her breath. I couldn’t help but check the rearview mirror almost every minute to see how my back-seat trio was doing. The boys were taking their roles seriously, helping their sister breathe.

Once we turned onto the highway, I breathed a sigh of relief; the roads were clear. We could make good time, getting to the hospital in a little over an hour. But, about halfway there Sarah started wheezing again. Patti asked the boys if they still were holding the cup to her face. Indeed, they were. But absent was the silent whoosh of flowing oxygen. The tank was empty! None of us, the doctor included, realized there was so little oxygen left in the tank.

I don’t remember when we prayed. Or how many times, though in my mind I was asking God over and over to help our little girl. But whether it was before or after realizing we had no more oxygen, I asked the boys and Patti to lay their hands on Sarah and we prayed that God would heal her and would help us get her to the hospital safely.

Just as the doctor promised, a medical team was awaiting us at the hospital. Quickly taking Sarah’s vitals, the nurses put her in a room. The crib was large and covered with an oxygen tent. Patti tenderly placed her in the crib and Sarah began to settle in. Her breathing became less labored and we looked at the little girl we had fallen in love with over the last five months.

Emotions rose and fell. Tears welled in our eyes, but gratefulness filled our hearts that, for now, she was safe. We felt a sense of relief that Sarah arrived at the hospital without incident. I was deeply proud of Mike and Jon for taking charge of her care as we drove. We stayed in the room together until late that Thanksgiving Eve. Dining on hospital food, we kept a watchful eye on Sarah.

Hospitals usually do not have accommodations for patient families. Of course, Patti wanted to stay the night in Sarah’s room, which was graciously allowed. Large enough to accommodate a mom and baby, Patti snuggled close to Sarah in the crib from occasionally during the night, although permitted for only a few moments at a time. Making sure that Patti was settled for the evening, the boys and I drove to a nearby motel for the night.

We stayed up fairly late, watched some television, then all of us fell into a well-needed sleep. The next day was Thanksgiving. We thought we would get up, drive through McDonald’s and get ourselves and Patti breakfast, then spend the rest of the day in the hospital room, hoping the medical center cooks knew how to prepare a good turkey.

But, unfortunately, those plans did not materialize. When I got up Thanksgiving morning and looked out the window everything was white. Even our old used maroon Chevrolet was white. The predicted snowstorm hit overnight, dumping over 10 inches within just a few hours.  I immediately called the hospital and asked for Patti’s room.

It was good to hear her voice. She sounded upbeat. She told me that Sarah’s fever had broken, and she was no longer under the oxygen tent. “The doctor showed me her fever chart. You won’t believe this, but the line is straight from 103 to normal from the time she arrived.” I could not have been happier. I turned to the boys and gave a big grin and “thumbs up.”

She told us the doctor wanted to keep Sarah one more night. “He doesn’t want us to have to try to drive her home in the bad weather. He said he would have released her today if the storm hadn’t hit.” I told her we couldn’t get to the hospital and the boys and I would make the best of it.

Fortunately, the hotel served a continental breakfast, so we dined on cereal, donuts and bananas. One of our favorite winter getaways in North Dakota was to stay at a hotel with a pool and let the boys swim and play. But we left home more worried about Sarah than swimsuits, so no swimming this time.

We passed our time watching Thanksgiving television. I don’t remember specifics, but I am pretty sure we caught the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade until I confiscated the remote to watch football. I may have had to bribe Mike and Jon because neither of them was ever very interested in football.

Noon rolled around and we began to wonder what to do about lunch. We couldn’t drive anywhere yet; the roads were impassable. The only delivery available in the 90s was pizza and every pizza restaurant was closed for Thanksgiving. We were in walking distance of a McDonald’s but, it too was closed. The hotel did not have a restaurant.

I didn’t panic right away, but I started wondering if I would have to teach boys the value of fasting as a spiritual exercise, even if it was for just one meal. Looking out the window of our hotel room I noticed a gas station and convenience store. The lights were on. They were open!

“Convenience store food?” I asked the boys. What else could they answer? It was either “yes” and eat, or “no” and fast (er, starve.) So, we bundled up in our parkas and snow boots traipsing across the snow-covered parking lot toward the convenience store. We stepped across half a dozen drifts and sank to our knees in a couple more. The snow was blowing around us, the temperature was below 10 degrees and we were the only people trekking across the hoary landscape.

The lights from the store pierced the snow like searchlights illuminating the tiny shards of ice in the air. We pushed open the door and the clerk half stared at us as we walked into the welcome warmth. We were his only customers so far that day. We snaked up and down the aisles, searching for Thanksgiving fare.

I know turkey sandwiches are quasi-traditional after the big Thanksgiving feast, but they would have to do for our main meal that day. I told the boys to pick out a couple of sandwiches and some snacks, not knowing if we would be on our own for supper or not. So, with our arms loaded with sandwiches, chips, beef jerky and bottles of pop we laid the all on the register. I told the clerk this was our Thanksgiving dinner and briefly related the story of Sarah and the croup. He laughed with us as we paid him.

Retracing our steps, we went back to our hotel room and enjoyed our little cache of food. We were fortunate that by early evening the local roads were clear, and we were able to go to the hospital, spending the evening with Patti and Sarah. We stayed until late evening and returned to our room while the girls spent one more night at the hospital. It was so good to see Sarah breathing well, active and playful. Patti’s face was full of relief. Strangely, this would turn out to be one of my favorite Thanksgivings of all.

Around 10 the next morning I called the State Roads department and discovered that the highway was clear from Minot to New Town. We drove to the hospital just as they were releasing Sarah. I hurried back down to the parking lot to pull the car up to the entrance to provide a short and somewhat warmer walk to for my clan.

As stressful as the previous days had been, as anxious as we felt, our hearts were light as we traveled home. We were thankful for a caring doctor in New Town who helped us get Sarah to the hospital safely. We were glad the physician at the hospital cared enough about our safety to keep Sarah an extra night. We even were grateful for saran-wrapped convenience store sandwiches. But, above all, this day after Thanksgiving, we reveled in the gracious answer to our prayer, that God had taken care of our baby girl.

And, 26 years later, I’m also thankful for those two and a half days. It is one of the slices of time in which we were the best family we could be. We helped each other, worried together, prayed together, found creative solutions and, more than ever, appreciated the 70-mile ride home in North Dakota winter weather.

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

It's Nothing New

DSC_8904
It’s Nothing New

(“Know that the Lord is God—he made us; we belong to him. We are his people, the sheep of his own pasture.” Psalm 100:3)

And here I am, it’s nothing new, everything I’m writing to you.
I feel like a camel, not a sheep, hump ugly and dying to get out
of the heat.

I hear too much about kings and cravings
out here in the backlands. The coast use to be clear,
but now the continent hides the waves where my feet
cooled, where my soul grew like a hot air balloon.

I’m writing to you who
leave the 99 others as soon as the 1
has wandered like a feral cat. I am not feral;
in fact
I’m far too domesticated for my own good.

So bring me back to pastures, I only ask
you give me green and mud,
delicious skies and oceans,
elderly trees and apples barely hanging
like Christmas bulbs late January.

Here I am, it is still nothing new, everything I feel is due to
your absence, or a brain that cannot connect with the arms you offer.
Everything I feel is due to my absence, my soul in limbo,
my worship of pat answers dead on the floor,
my travel stymied by dust and pain;

Otherwise I would stand on the porch of my friend
and knock and enter before he invited me in. But old
friends
(who I still love as deep as adolescence)
are as far from me
as I am from them. This damned vast country

Will not give up its treasures I’ve scattered.

Here I am, still saying nothing that’s new, but you can read it to review
my complaint; and I’m sorry to complain. But I’m just another one of a
hundred
who needs the frolic of the flock, and for a line that stretches
before and during, after and soon, empty and captive, embraced and strewn
across the dimensions and lassoing the clouds.

Am I allowed this miserable silence, these noisy doubts,
and will you take my solitary tears before they run out?

Monday, December 2, 2019

A Change of Opinion


Jonathan Croft/Ikon Images/Getty Images
A Change of Opinion

(“John the Baptist preached that all the people of Israel needed to repent of their sins and turn to God and be baptized.” Acts 13:24)

Some lives are not loud, denouncing every opposition.
Some lives refrain from mockery, shocking the elite believers.
Some lives are small voices in the choir.

Some shout at every opportunity, imitating prophets,
eating crickets, sucking molasses, and telling the masses
to buy up their solo releases while there is still time.

Some songs use subterfuge, laying their eggs in the middle of the night.
Some rhymes are evasive, several degrees from perfection.
Some poetry sojourns until the earth turns to face the sun.

Some rants pierce foreheads, destroying the minds they try to mend.
Some sermons shatter the cracks, demanding tears for proof of devotion.
Some arguments inflame canyons, making the rivers impassable.

But I am changed at the first hint of a smile.

Sunday, December 1, 2019

Caught in a Maze


It is estimated that 50 per cent of people diagnosed with OCD experience sexual or religious intrusive thoughts. Photograph: iStock
Caught in a Maze

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping.’ But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

They say labyrinths are spiritual,
but I’ve been caught in a maze without sky or earth
to guide to the center or to the exit.
They say cathedrals are inspiring,
but I’ve heard enough chatter to shake my bottled pain.
They say nature is a sanctuary,
but recently I can only take it a moment at a time.

This ledge cuts my feet, the stones are sharper than politicians,
the moss coats me like unwelcome twine, and the ravens circle
wasting my time.

What was the point of befriending so many
when they will not come find me in the maze?
What was the purpose of days spent together
when they now have so little to say?

Today that includes yUo, gOd. And I know
I’ve made and idol of You, a perfect answer to the questions
I’ve hurled over the cliff for decades without answer.

And I always blamed myself.

What if it is yUo to blame? What if it is true yUo never answered,
because yUo never existed?

They say music is healing,
but I’ve lost my audience and I’m my worst critic.
They say pets are soothing,
but they die.
They say relationships are god-sent,
and I believe that,
but I am never filled.

Because I am on the ledge, do not assume I’m jumping,
Because I am caught in the maze, do not assume I am lost.
Because I cry every day, do not assume anything about me.
Because I ache, I ache, please, oh please, do not stay away.

And the questions tossed over the cliff? Do I think myself divine
that I should know the answer to everything?

So hidden, I cannot know You. So close, I cannot see you.
So transparent, I cannot miss You. So strong, I can only love You.


Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Unadorned


Unadorned

(“God’s love will come together with his faithful people. Goodness and peace will greet them with a kiss.” Psalm 85:10)

Nature is not afraid to be unadorned.
I took a photo of two trees three days ago
and labeled it beautiful.
The leaves bled red and the
twigs held loosely the pumpkin orange
sticky notes as long as they could.

But walking by again after two nights of wind,
two nights of November,
the trees were bare, save the hangers-on,
gray crepe leaves turning in the breeze.

It is the parallax of beauty, viewed from the vantage
of weeks and months, that sticky green turns to crunchy beige,
while rain and ice take center stage.
It is the puzzle of perception that
stark arms hiding nothing can elicit wonder
as surely as a spring tree flooded with mockingbirds.

I have become raveled with all that is around me.
I am plaited and braided around god and the good earth.
I have my preferences, I like the sun,
I hear something so proud and ordinary it
makes me stop and wonder as much as a butterfly
lunching on a rose.

The rain can be good as the sun at sewing broken hearts
together. The dark can enter the jagged edges where
flesh was cut from flesh, where bruises ooze from barbed
wire trust or speeding through the night without rest.

That God would not fear to be unadorned,
to make dirt his crown, forest roots his footstool,
a sweaty body his home and encrusted feet his transportation.

That, on a bare tree we see his beauty bled red,
and then crepe grey as breath and heartbeat ebbed away.
That God would appear so tragic, frightening, dreadful

And so, absolutely, definitely and without a doubt…

Dead.

That, unlike spring, he did not lie dormant, but…

Died.

And, like spring, he pushed through the crammed earth
to meet us again, still wounded, but more alive than any
of us have ever been.

It is a wonder that God does not fear appearing unadorned.


Sunday, November 24, 2019

No Mere Acquaintances


Image result for acts 10:31 no mere acquaintances
No Mere Acquaintances

(“[The angel addressed] me: ‘Cornelius, your prayer has been heard, and your kindness to the poor has been noticed by God.’” Acts 10:31)

There are times I wish no one would notice me at all;
when I trip on the pavement, when the pieces do not fit,
when my face turns red in ordinary conversation,
when I’m practicing my scales, when tears leave behind
scaly dust in my eyes.

We notice the stranger, the things that make the adolescent shorter,
the teenager slower, the pimples, the black skin, the foreign accent,
the headdress, the thrift store clothes,
and the misbehavior that shows in the kids we did not raise.

There are times I wish I noticed every red leaf in November,
every ice crystal sharpening the air in December,
every barking dog that wants to play,
every school child who had to stay after class because mom
and dad
forgot to send her bus pass.

There are things I wish you noticed; like the mom who hides her bruises,
the preacher who labors in the night to work a second job in the day to
serve the tiny church enclosed by wheat fields or forest,
the mother who weeps twice a week, she had such dreams and is
a taxi driver for her kids,
the immigrant who risked his life (have you asked about his wounds)
for children, a wife, and a chance to dream; to dream the way you dream.

And when God notices your kindness, he does not forget;
he records your love like a Beach Boys song and plays it over
and over to hear the sweet harmonies.
And when God notices your patience, he does not forget;
he paints your hope like a still life and gazes at it from before dawn
until after dusk to see how the light plays on it.

And sometimes angels notice what God notices and wonder;
writing sonnets about strangers who were no mere acquaintances of
the divine.