Call it Jazz

Call it Jazz

(“I tell you the truth, whoever accepts anyone I send also accepts me. And whoever accepts me also accepts the One who sent me.” John 13:20)

Please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
tolerate me.

I mean all that I am, my frightened thoughts,
my unsteady frame,
my journey through the wilderness,
my nightmares, my anxiety,
my sins and the irony of a follower full
of doubts,
a flower dusted with thorns,
a friend who needs human touch more than
scripture quotes or attempts to diagnose my condition.

Let me come to your house, lay upon your couch,
shed the tears I will not shed unless I know you’ll not turn away.
And if I do not get better, let me cry myself to sleep.
Let me sit at your table with only coffee and memory,
let me stop pretending for just an hour.

The fingertips of a friend equal the hand of God.

I promise I’ll send you a card, a thank you note,
a gift or a poem. I’ll write on lined paper every
word that describes what taking me into your heart
has meant.

But please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
put up with me.

Because I cannot become anything other than
what I am today. And I am longing for
the eyes of a friend, the tears of a fellow traveler,
the silent comfort for weeks at a time, the storyteller
who does not care if my poems rhyme. I long,
far and short,
for anyone who will accept this arrhythmic heart
and just call it jazz.

This Is Not About Me

This Is Not About Me

(“Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” John 12:3)

I promise you, that if my tears were perfume,
the world would smell like roses in the Sahara,
in Siberia, the inner city and the vacant lots.

But they are just salt.

But this is not about me. Pardon me,

But you have seemed a ghost, a zephyr;
like air; no. Hydrogen.

Everywhere (apparently) but so diffuse
you refuse to be held.

I am a sentient being, and sensitive to touch.
You are more famous, yet further than I can reach.

Many have left you for less than this,
and I sweat and shiver filled with longing,
tissue and regret.

But they are just water.

But this is not about me. Forgive me,

But I’ve emptied the wells of my eyes on a thousand
carpeted altars,
unloaded my life on your shoulders and
unfolded every ridge in my brain like
the San Andreas Fault.

I feel your cross daily laid across my back,
I choke on the dank cavern of the tomb,
But the rising, the morning, the third day
evades me, and I seem to loop:
day 1
day 2.

But this is not about me. Revive me,

But I have never prayed hard enough,
obeyed long enough,
or, so it seems, cried well enough
to hear what No Greater Love would say.

Though I cannot find you,
you have confined me to time and space.
Trembling I’ve asked, if not your voice, your hands,
your eyes, then
let me wash your feet.

Trembling I’ve asked, if not your voice, your hands,
your eyes, then
let me wash your feet.

A Letter Sent

A Letter Sent

(“When the news reached Pharaoh’s palace, ‘Joseph’s brothers have come,’ Pharaoh and his servants were pleased.” Genesis 45:16)

Every poem I write is a letter
sent
to the ones I’ve loved. They are meant
to diffuse the confusion of past
clowns and charades;
to clear the dusty air from my overnight mind
that awoke hugging a sliver of the bed.
I write in the hope the sky will be surprised
because I’m stuck in the moment,
riveted to the chair,
wanting to stop crying and laughing alone.

This is why I write,
in the hope my words will fold in on themselves
and, like a paper airplane in freshman English
sent from the back of the class,
will land in a soft slide upon your desk.
You won’t even need to read it once you see
it is from me.

Every word I type is a plea,
(I shall not beg)
that someone will recognize my face,
my time, my sweat, the footprints I left
when I only wanted the best for you. Sounds
I haven’t heard in decades
fill my silent isolation.

Did 12 years mean anything? Were 40 a vapor?
Are the cell towers dead? Did you run out of postage?
Is your bank account empty? Have I used up all my hugs?
Am I too weak, too needy? Even just a plaque with my
name spelled out small is something I could hang on the wall.

Unlike Joseph, I stumbled more than I want anyone to know;
still, did any of my days matter? I am sorry for sounding morose,
but couldn’t Pharaoh at least offer a toast and mention
that, though I did not finish perfectly,
I finished pretty well?

When God Weeps

When God Weeps

“‘Look,’ said the Judaeans, ‘see how much he loved him!’” John 11:36

Jesus was on the way to Lazarus’ tomb. Martha, Lazarus’ sister had met Jesus on the road, falling at his feet and saying, “If you’d only been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

Jesus had received news of Lazarus’ illness, but delayed two full days before embarking for Bethany where Lazarus, Mary and Martha resided. The two sisters and their brother were good friends of Jesus and he stayed often at their home. Now, though Jesus’ friend was very ill, Jesus did not hurry.

Most are so familiar with this story that some of the emotion of the narrative escapes us. But think about Martha meeting Jesus on the road after her brother was already dead four days. She knows, she believes, she has no doubt that if Jesus had been there earlier, he could have healed Lazarus.

Jesus tells her that her brother will live because he is “the resurrection and the life.” Martha holds tight to her trust in Jesus, despite her grief, telling him, “I believe this: that you are the Messiah, the son of God, the one who has come into the world.”

They both make their way back to the house to find Mary being consoled by their friends. Mary immediately tells Jesus the same thing as her sister: “If you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.” Jesus sees her tears and the weeping of those around her and is stirred deeply within, to the point of being troubled.

He asks, “Where have you laid him?” They invite him to come and see.

And then, the memory verse every person knows, because it’s the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” He burst into tears. Not a single tear. Not a little sniffle. He wept. This isn’t the sort of tear you wipe away with a tissue during a sentimental movie. This is deep, from the gut, weeping.

This should astound us. Jesus told his disciples before they left that he was going to Bethany to “wake up” Lazarus. Jesus knew that in only a few moments his friend would come walking out of the tomb he had occupied for half a week. And yet he weeps.

Please don’t picture Jesus here with a tear running down his cheek. This is red-eyed, snot-nosed, full-throated weeping. The preacher would stop preaching at the sound. The singer would stop her song. Everyone would turn to hear where this wailing came from. And they would see the Son of God in full-on waves of grief.

Had we been there I have little doubt we would have said the same as the friends who had gathered: “See how much he loved him.”

Do you see it in your mind? Can you hear Jesus’ weeping? Here is the one who is perfectly human. Jesus is the full representation of what humanity is like. And humanity cries. Humanity weeps. Humanity grieves. Humanity openly expresses pain over the love of someone we lose.

This is important for us. Have you been raised to hold back your emotions? Did people ever say to you, “Don’t cry”? Well, Jesus won’t say that. Cry. Weep. If you are in a situation that feels dead, it is perfectly human to give sway to the emotions within.

Please do not think it a lack of faith to let the tears flow. Please don’t let your culture or upbringing prevent you from giving full expression to the present grief or pain. You may have finally reached your breaking point at your job. Your children may have wandered so far, your heart yearns for them. You may have a breach with your parents. You may even be in an abusive marriage or relationship that once seemed alive. There are actions you can take, but please don’t refrain from weeping.

In the dead moments of life, weeping is the gift God has built into our very being. Now, some of us are more prone to emotional display than others. Only you can know your true self. But please, do not hold back because it does not seem appropriate. Let the tears flow. Pain is real. Grief is real. Dead-end jobs are real. And death is real. So real that the Son of God himself wept deeply as they approached the tomb of the one he loved.

Which brings us to the next observation; not only is it human to feel grief, but God grieves with you. Do not hurry to Lazarus’ resurrection without stopping here for a moment. I don’t care what sermon, what book, or what preacher you’ve heard; your tears are no sign of a lack of faith. Your weeping does not show mistrust. In fact, God weeps with you.

Your pain is God’s pain. Your grief is God’s grief. Your frustration and confusion are His. When you want to bang your head against the wall, God is there, not to scold you, but to hold you. When the hurts of a thousand memories crowd your mind and you wish you were over them by now, God does not upbraid you for your lack of faith. He settles in right with you and weeps so openly that if someone else was in the room they would say, “Look how much God loves her!” “Look how much God loves him!”

And, by the way, once you have learned this to be true, you are able to weep for others as well. Your tears will come more easily than your judgment. Your heart will be moved by those you once dismissed. You won’t be afraid to embrace those whose lives are shattered because You’ve felt the weeping heart of God. You no longer feel compelled to tell people, “Come on, look alive!” You have learned to weep with others.

Above and beyond it all is life! Jesus knew the depth of his friends’ grief, he expressed the overflow of his own love for Lazarus, but he also was about to show that he ultimately comes to bring life, abiding life, eternal life.

So he stood at that tomb, raised his voice and shouted, “Lazarus—come out!” And Lazarus did. The graveclothes still hung from him; his face still wrapped in the cloth. They untied him and Lazarus was restored to his family.

Please do not be hard on yourself if, in the middle of what feels like a graveyard, you don’t feel very alive. But here is what I know. The more you open yourself to truly expressing your heart and the more you open your heart to God’s empathetic love for you, the closer you will be to knowing within that, no matter the situation, there is life. That life is in Jesus, fully and completely, and he loves you so much he will weep with you though the healing takes a lifetime.

Grief is Slow

Grief is Slow

(“Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’” John 11:23)

Grief is slow like the summer sludge in desert spring-beds,
grief is fast like yesterday’s clouds,
grief is heavy like muggy midnights,
grief is light like Christmas memories.

But death feels permanent, stiff and dry.
Death smells of the end of a long season
rather than a grand finale.

Death sneaks up on us though we’ve known its name
from the first last breath that did not return.
Death is sudden, a phone call after lunch or
crumbling on a tennis court.

And we look at the dirt, we stare at the sky,
we turn to every compass point, we cross our fingers
and hope that dying is not a forgone conclusion.

Though the seasons spiral around us, they are not the same.
The leaves that fall do not rise but turn to dust while
the branches sleep until spring awakens the sap again.

Traveling sailors return to port, children come home from school,
dogs sniff their way to owners who moved a hundred miles away.
Memories stay like tent pegs, the canvas ballooned by wind.

And yet, though this world is built upon clay--
monuments, palaces, armaments and warriors all decay--

There is more to say than someday. There is more to hear than
questions unanswered. There is more to see than lets the light in,
there is more to hold than our heart’s capacity.

So rise, love and grief, meet together at the moment of hope,
when, in the midnight of despair, behind the backs of everyone there,
life spoke to life like
deep speaks to deep
and gave death its expiration date.
More is here than skin can touch,
but in its touch knows the air is full of
living even after the breath has gone.

Spirit/Manna/Water

Spirit/Manna/Water

(“You sent Your good Spirit to instruct them. You did not withhold Your manna from their mouths, and You gave them water for their thirst.” Nehemiah 9:20)

I didn’t choose to take the long way home,
though some of the detours were cause and effect.
I didn’t pick the silence of isolation,
the pixelated memories,
the texted correspondence that
still defies expectation.
The explanation would take longer than
the moments we have left.

I’d rather wander with you, friend or friends,
and not talk, but share water from the spring,
a loaf under the pine,
and the Presence that, in spite of the winding,
or perhaps, because of the wandering,

Still whispers the name that captured me helpless
at the beginning of the day.

I didn’t choose the long way home,
but friend or friends,
if you will go with me we’ll
take it slowly and feel each ray of sun
lancing through the branches to
touch our faces the way every face
should be touched.

I didn’t choose the long way home;
but, walk with me awhile.
Sing your song to me, I will not interrupt.
Or speak of pain buried beneath the years.
I promise I will hear and stop our walk long enough
to see the tears fall near the single-file ants along the trail.

I didn’t choose the long way home,
but I need your time right now. I need your shoulder now,
the very weight of your presence, the very warmth of your voice,
the vulnerable quiver just before the words we speak when we
do not know what to speak at all.

I’m taking the long way home, will you come with me?
We walked the hills of Contra Costa, the tundra of North Dakota,
the mud and beaches of the evergreen Northwest, and now
I need the company of every piece of bread we’ve shared,
every sip of water or wine,
and every transcendent moment when we divined
there was more to the Northern Lights than science
can define.

The Wrong Question

The Wrong Question

“’I don’t know whether he’s a sinner or not,’ replied the man. ‘All I know is this: I used to be blind, and now I can see.’” John 9:25

We are all influenced by our perceptions. And, when we are young, we often have little cognitive ability to tell the difference between what we have taught is right and what might actually be true. I was fortunate to grow up in a home that taught racial equality as a core value. That was unusual at the time, born in 1955 and growing up in the 60s with both parents from the South. Dad was born in Missouri; Mom in Oklahoma and I was born in Texas. We moved to Southern California when I was in second grade.

But I also knew, as a child, the attitudes of some of my peers. Growing up in a small West Texas oil town, we had a mix of Mexican and White families. I remember quite vividly walking home from school with friends when they saw a dark-skinned classmate ahead of us. They all said we needed to walk on the other side of the street. My friends were not born with the perception; they were taught.

In John chapter 9 we have a story of the religious rulers who cannot get past their false religious perceptions and assumptions. Jesus heals a man who has been blind from birth, a most unusual healing, and the only one recorded of congenital blindness. Not even the disciples are immune from false perceptions.  They ask, “Whose sin was it that caused this man to be born blind? Did he sin, or did his parents?”

First of all, does it strike you strange that the ask about a man blind from birth if his ailment was a result of personal sin? Our presumptions can take us to outrageous and nonsensical ideas. They also ask about the parents, which is more reasonable. But Jesus tears down their entire argument at its base.

“He didn’t sin, nor did his parents.” Take that in, please! Jesus puts to rest the whole idea that catastrophe is some evidence of God’s displeasure. No, hurricanes are not cause by homosexuals. Floods are not caused by unmarried sex. And tornadoes are not caused by abortions. By this reasoning, the United States would have been destroyed many times over for its genocide of Native Americans and its enslavement and dehumanization of African Americans. Sin does have consequences; but most often, they are the natural bad results from evil.

And, by the way, do you notice that those who want to attribute catastrophe to God’s judgment have a very narrow list of the sins God is pissed about? Why? Perception, assumption, just like the religious leaders in our story.

They did not like Jesus much. In fact, that say he is from the devil and a sinner more than once in this story. Why would people who were supposed to lead the nation to God be so jealous and blind when the Son of God appears? One reason is that He disassembled their perceptions about God, sin, and righteousness.

They, like the disciples, assumed there were “righteous” and “unrighteous” people. The righteous got God’s blessing, the unrighteous his wrath. They didn’t like the story where Jesus describes a religious leader going into the temple, praying the way that good religious leaders do:

“God, I thank you that I am not like the other people – greedy, unjust, immoral, or even like this tax-collector. I fast twice in the week; I give tithes of all that I get.” (Luke 18:11-12) Maybe you have heard similar prayers in your church. Maybe not. Hopefully not. But the sentiment permeates much of evangelical thinking. “Look at me and how good I am for God!”

The tax-collector referred to in the Pharisee’s prayer stood a long way off, not even lifting up his eyes to heaven. Beating his breast, he prayed simply: “God, be merciful to me, sinner that I am.”

Jesus says this man was the one who went home vindicated by God and not the other. The Pharisees didn’t like that.

They didn’t like that Jesus made a hated Samaritan the hero in his story about being good neighbors. They were offended that He did good to outsiders: lepers, tax-collectors, prostitutes, those outside of Israel’s elect. They were angry that He didn’t kowtow to their religious power, but advocated, not a violent overthrow of oppression, but the peaceful reign of God.

So, with all their false perceptions, these “leaders” cannot even recognize that this healing of a man blind from birth could ever be from God. Why? Because Jesus did it!

The Pharisees call the healed man and say, “Give God the glory! We know that this man (Jesus) is a sinner!” To which the man replies, “All I know is this: I used to be blind, and now I can see.”

When you see grace permeating someone’s life, can you open your heart to the possibility that Christ is involved? When you see someone who acts in compassion toward those who can give back nothing, can you suppose they might be working for the Kingdom of God? Jesus called Samaritans, sinners, tax collectors, prostitutes and the like to be His people.

Jesus is knocking at the door of the church. Please don’t let rigid religious assumptions, a self-righteous attitude toward sin, or an unholy nationalism keep you from seeing what Jesus is doing. And once you see what He is doing, jump on board. The ride may be scary at first, but you will never be the same.

Utter Nonsense

Utter Nonsense

(“The Jewish leaders still refused to believe the man had been blind and could now see, so they called in his parents.” John 9:18)

Believe me, every day I search for the opening,
the escape from mangled dreaming into the open sun,
the disinfected fabric of a t-shirt on the line.

I ache in the morning, pain and reaching,
I am muddled until noon, (is there a letter in the mail?)
I limp into the afternoon and evening cannot come too soon.

I hope there is a knock at the door, a friend, a smile, or
more honestly,
a payment for the time I’ve spent, failing more than trying,
looking into lost eyes and seeing the life inside.

Trust me, every night I sleep and hope
the dreams will be ladders of heaven
instead of escalators into the past.
My filing system is busted, my friends who I trusted
appear bringing letters of approval, and sometimes
alphabets of fear. I can no longer find the notes for
public readings, music for psalms and singing.
I’m late for every meeting and it shows when I bring
suggestions no one understands. Do I speak in tongues?
Have I lost my mind? Is my age that telling? Did I leave
my thesaurus behind?

Who knew that a vacuum could be so dense;
empty be so full of such utter nonsense?

So, I gaze into the blank, the blackness, staring at the door,
wondering if anyone visits the lonesome anymore. Here’s
my
unspoken blindness. Now shine on my day like
kids walking home after school.

The Air is Azure

The Air is Azure

(“So if the Son sets you free, you are free through and through.” John 8:36 [The Message]

I cannot speak of dreams and visions,
my prophecy rate is subpar at best.
I cannot prove the existence of peace,
or tell you I’ve witnessed the rainbow’s source.

My feet are swollen from the stumbling blocks
and my knees are scraped, not from praying,
but from falling where others walked so well.

And today my only wish is to see you wrapped in love,
embraced by the sun, aglow like the moon, a perfect child,
a well-crafted crystal pitcher handed down from generation
to generation. The tiny cracks from use only serve
to bend the light more beautifully when the light comes through
the window. The spectrum is painted across the room
and no one complains about its spidery flaws.

Eternity is such a long time, and some days seem
alpha to omega slow. Those days, full of waiting;

No, I mean, empty while we wait the unknowable,

Those days we wait we sometime tremble and wish
our heartbeat was slower, our thoughts blue like the sky,
not gray like puddles, and more permanent. Those days
waiting is our crucifix, only we will not use the word and
desecrate the bleeding hands and feet, the cry of abandonment,
or the grace of the one who suffered so fully for our empty days.

Today, though my own thoughts race, I would wrap up the world for you,
tie ribbons, hang balloons, walk your walk, not my walk,
to see you smile again. To see you smile.

I would sit with you in the empty tomb and we would not
disturb the moment with pious talk. All we would know,
the place of death has been voided, the cruel nails disintegrated
into stardust and the air left behind is azure and summer oxygen.

I would sit with you until the stillness proved
freedom is finished, suffering is vanquished,
and yet our tears are just as painful; the fears as frightful,

But love is now above and below, within, without, inhaling
and exhaling
it all. I wish you the peace I still pursue
and the freedom to feel sapphire days instead
of steel blue.

Of Rivers, Dreams, and Kisses

Of Rivers, Dreams, and Kisses

“If a person believes in me, rivers of living water will flow out from his heart. This is what the Scripture says.” John 7:38

I have lived along two large rivers in my life; the Columbia and the Missouri. Rivers are almost always evocative of life. Below the surface are fish in abundance. Even when the Missouri freezes over in the North Country people drill holes in the ice and fish for Northern Pike and Walleye.

I prefer smaller rivers like the Elochoman that feeds into the Columbia from the surrounding hills in Southwest Washington. As it winds its way through the twists and turns of hills and valleys the water is clear and cold. This is where many go to fish for salmon or steelhead. During the summer another kind of life splashes in the inviting coolness. Wages’ swimming hole, a slow wide spot in the river, is a favorite place for teenagers and families with children to swim, play and splash.

Jesus promised life to all who believed in Him. In this passage He describes it as “rivers of living water.” “Living water” was usually a term used to mean a spring as opposed to a river or stream. The water bubbled up from the rocks below; clean and fresh. Springs are not as dependent on the vagaries of weather, many still running even during drought.

Jesus uses a spring to describe the life we experience as we trust in Him. But notice, the source is not from Him to us. The spring flows out of our own hearts! This is remarkable, and I think, sometimes overlooked. As a pastor I have watched so many Christians seek an experience with God by attending conferences, leaving one church for another, insisting on a certain worship format, or, well, add your own. The point is, we often look to something outside ourselves for our experience with God.

Instead, Jesus says the experience is within our own hearts! In fact, in verse 39 John says that “Jesus was talking about the Holy Spirit.” The moment you trust Jesus, the Holy Spirit comes to dwell in you and is as reliably available as a spring of living water.

If you are trusting Jesus now, that spring of water, namely, the Spirit herself, is already springing up within your being.

Note: (I shall be using the feminine for Spirit in this article. The Hebrew word for “spirit” is grammatically feminine and much of the Early Church, especially the early Syriac liturgies, referred to the Holy Spirit as feminine. Of course, God is neither male nor female, but in light of the Father/Son usage, which are male, I think it good to speak of the Spirit as female.)

What does it mean for us that the Holy Spirit is bubbling up from within our hearts like a spring? What especially does it mean when we are sensing nothing spiritual in our lives at all? How do we experience this “living water” when we feel dead inside from so many reasons? We may be going through a time of separation and loss from loved ones. We may be grieving the death of a dear friend. Chronic illness or constant poverty may occupy our minds day in and day out. Given those challenges, even the most faithful of us find ourselves seemingly disconnected from God.

But, if we stay the course, keeping our minds centered on Jesus, even when every nook and cranny of our being aches with sorrow, pain or loneliness, in time, we may find that living water bubbling to the surface again.

I am not one given to “spiritual” dreams. Mine are usually quite ordinary, and some are the type I prefer not to share. That makes me human, I think. But recently, in the middle of the most difficult struggle of my life, when I have felt God fled the country and left me behind to fend on my own, I had a dream; one with great significance. I had a dream that I believe was watered by the spring of the Holy Spirit within.

First, some background. I pastored an Assembly of God church in Harvey, N.D. The original building was tiny, perhaps holding 50 in the sanctuary, and was on a postage stamp of a lot. There was not parking and very little space for fellowship. We were looking for both a place and a way to erect a new building.

Eventually we did exactly that. The city “sold” us some acreage on the edge of town for one dollar. Hoping to spur development there, they offered us a prime piece of property. Over two summers, spanning about 18 months, members of the congregation and volunteers from all over the country came to help us build the new site for Harvey Assembly of God.

I had no experience in construction at all and was quite apprehensive about the project. But God gifted us with two men who had construction backgrounds, and they oversaw the work. We held our first service in the fall of 2005.

In 2007 I accepted the pastorate of a church in Washington state, and served there for almost 12 years before I was forced to retire due to health reasons. Patti and I now live with my sister near Dallas, Tex. It has been an extremely painful transition for me.

We have been here about six months now and I sunk into the deepest depression I have known a couple of weeks ago. Everything seemed desperate, God seemed absent, prayer was agony, and tears flowed daily. I continue to be in constant physical pain, but now I was suffering deep inside my heart. I felt that God had cornered me, then walked out the door and left me behind in a locked cell.

It was during this time that I had the dream.

I was back in North Dakota and entered the glass doors of the church we built in Harvey. Yet, upon entering the building I was immediately outside. It still felt like "church", but the entrance led to an outdoors scene rather than walls and a ceiling.

The doors faded behind me and above me was a dusky sky, blue-gray and murky; the kind of beauty that only occurs just before dark. Stars were slowly becoming visible and a few clouds were commas floating above us. I looked up and out at the horizon and said, "I forgot how beautiful the North Dakota sky is."

Then someone beside me said, "Yes, but look," and immediately in front of me was a craggy mountain rising out of the earth. It was as steep in its ascent as the Grand Canyon is deep. The mountain, earth and sky felt as one.

That was it, that was the dream. This little building project is one of my proudest moments, but it also was accompanied by some of my biggest failures. That is important for the reader to know. At the end of the dream I was in awe; total wonder.

For me, the Spirit was saying, “You worked for Me, and I am still working. I was always working.” But She also was saying, “And, I know the sort of sanctuary you deeply desire. I know your love for beauty, your love for the people you ministered to, and your aching heart. Here, for a moment, I shall give you the sanctuary your desire.”

Don’t misunderstand. I’m not suddenly “all better”. I’ve even cried today. And maybe the Spirit will bubble up through another dream, or maybe she will bubble up through another person like She did this Sunday.

I hadn’t been to church in 10 weeks because of my constant pain. I finally awoke well enough to shower and get ready this week. Our church is a small gathering of around a dozen people. There is one dear couple, a black man and his wife who are about 10 years younger than I am. They are both quite tall and very engaging. We’ve struck up as much of a friendship as possible with seeing each other an hour every 4 or 5 weeks.

As soon as I walked in, the husband buried me in a huge bear hug, laughed and said how much he had missed me, then (I am not lying), he kissed me on the cheek. I have never been kissed by a man in church before. And, besides my wife, I think, I have never enjoyed a kiss more. The best word to describe him is effusive. He did quickly say, “I hope it was alright to kiss you.” I’m giggling as I write.

The Holy Spirit bubbled up right from his heart, wrapped me in a hug and gave me a kiss! I don’t know about you, but I think it’s about time we start letting a little of that living water flow. I now I need it, how about you?