Without Reservation

Without Reservation

(“And those the Lord has rescued will return. They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will flee away.” Isaiah 35:10)

There was no parade today nor
a quiet place for candlelit contemplation.
There was no circus, no clowns and no elephant,
nor a canvas tent in the middle of the woods.

There were regrets (I am old now)
that I did not start things younger.
There was head pain (I am worn now)
that I did not ever ask for.

There were clouds; I didn’t see them.
There was blue sky; I didn’t breathe it.
(That does not mean I don’t believe it.)

This spoke in my eyes is not a temporary situation;
and promises of a painless heaven do not impress me much.
My faith is shaken, but not greatly stirred;
indeed it appears slurred to those who read me.
Many have endured longer,
many have endured more,
many have been happy just to
suffer for the Lord.

But me, I’d just like a phone call. Or a letter.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll take a walk. But the circus

is not in town today, and the café is too far for my
feet to find. I’m always behind the curve.

I’m praying each breath is received in the way I mean it,
I’m hoping returning is in my future.
I’m not going to sell many books with this sort
of quarter-faith writing. Crying is the only act of faith
I practice today.

I have returned, and where are you?
You cancelled the bread and wine we had planned.
I keep turning, to see what you see.
But burning has consumed more than just the chaff in me.

I am demi, I am a fraction. There is no action left for
me to take.
I will not be fake; I will not pretend. If that means
I’ve lost my faith (at least to my friends)
then I’ll still wake up tomorrow with a spear in my eye,
a billion memories that wind themselves around me,
a skin that has thinned, a heart that has sinned
(without reservation)
and a hope that believes there is more to living
than just a life after resurrection.