It Never Felt Like Leaving

 

It Never Felt Like Leaving

(“And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or farms on account of My name, will receive many times as much, and will inherit eternal life.” Matthew 19:29)

It never felt I had left a thing. Perhaps it was how
lovers leave to follow pink cloud dreams that cushion the
harshest gravel path.

Oh, I gave up a few things: movies, wine, bread for the poor,
children’s birthday parties and overnight escapes with my wife.
Staying put felt like the biggest part of leaving to me.

I walked away from double Christmases with my mother
and kindly worded letters to my dad. I turned my back on
any false thing,
any thing but the true religion.

But on a day that took two decades to rise to noonday brilliance,
I walked away to the desert (with plenty of overnight time with
my wife who turned directions with me in a dizzying display of grace).

Winter can numb the senses like no other season,
but shines in its shortened days upon a soul so tired
it begs to find new stories outside the wooden cathedrals.
Bundled in parkas and embracing the Grand Canyon, we knew
something
about snow, about strata, about time and about Abba’s house;
his footstool and his throne.

This time I owned it, the departing without knowing. This time we
roamed and a little knowledge turned us around toward home.
I will not lie to you, not now, about how I scratched the floorboards,
tore the bedsheets, roared at the heavens, and cursed the silence when
I wanted poetry and letters, prophecy and better words than
“You’ll do just fine.” I was not fine.

I know some see my journey and wring their hands. Others, without
due consideration, dismissed my plans (although, dismissing nothing
leaves us where we began.) I never departed the Lover that first
romanced me. But his words and his houses, his princes and lords
were mute and puzzled with the discord roaring from a fearful, damaged and
defenseless heart.

That two-score day was my exodus. As I left, I met the dearest of
the Ages
in the daily labyrinth of cement suburbs where children laugh,
or the wilderness where butterflies kissed bluebonnets to take my
tears away.

Like Job, I questioned everything, and some friends suspected me of
(well, heresy). And now I write, not hearing everything. But the
turtle doves are the jazz in the background and my song has
abandoned warfare and sings
the Prince of Peace for which I would abandon everything.