Weather Remains

Weather Remains

(“While the earth lasts, planting time and gathering time, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night will not end.” Genesis 8:22)

Sometimes I race with the setting sun
so laden with weight and pain that
it smothers me overnight
while God is busy composing the morning.

Weather remains.

The aroma of clover sneaks up on me
from its bed of dewy sweetgrass, the icing
on the breaking day.

The sun skips ahead of me most days
when I am restrained by the heated irons
in my brain. The weeks inch along waiting
for my wearied footsteps, the months loop
around each other.

The evening folds in on itself
like a puppy’s eyes who is desperate
to stay awake.
God composes the next morning like
a dolphin’s skin
breaking the surface of the water.

The Reckoning Blew In

 

The Reckoning Blew In

(“But when these things begin to take place, straighten up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.” Luke 21:28)

It all happened before we had a minute
to change our shoes;
the reckoning blew in on the northwest wind
and asked what time zone we thought we were living in.
We did not answer, we were alright,
we had been gazing upward most of the night.

We’re comfy here, we’ve made our living,
we empty our pockets every time they preach
about giving. But we still have enough to spare;
our boats are bobbing in the river,
our trucks are parked with guns in the rear.

Ask us about the south and the past,
about the north and the handicrafted biases
baked in to the system,
and we might explode because we are righteous,
we have voted so piously we have to defend it with
mediocrity.
We will never admit our chosen president
could be the one impediment to freedom for
anyone but us.

It all happened while we were tuned in to the latest
hand-clapping hymns for the children and beginners
on the radios that now searched the heavens;
the calculation fell like fire from the sky
and asked us why we hated books that told the truth,
took our shifts at the poll booths harassing everyone who
caught the fish in the river before our feet touched the shore.
We love statues of Columbus and tributes to Dixie
and worry our fingers to the bone whether we have committed
the unpardonable sin. (We hope not; who could begin to express
how many times we have averted our eyes from pornography,
or apologized for missing a month of Sundays? We YouTube
the truth these days.)

And from far away the die is cast while we are standing front to last;
we could have been one heart with the sins of our past that
silenced original voices and
kidnapped chattel
like destiny and the bible
told us so.

It is their redemption that is drawing near!

The Lonely Leaks In

 

The Lonely Leaks In

(“Be careful that none of you fails to respond to the grace which God gives....” Hebrews 12:15a [J. B. Phillips])

Maybe there’s a job at home that will keep me there this time.
Maybe there’s a lover or a friend,
an upended cup of water that
was filled again.
The lonely leaks in like august heat waves through
the blinds.

I’ve been standing on your porch hoping you still live
in the same house where I once knew you.
We were kids, we were naïve, we were insanity,
we were cotton candy and backyard picnics. We were
young love and agony.
Then it got cold,
and we got old
and I moved to the north country.
But I still feel you living in my chest.
Nothing lasts forever, some of my schoolyard crushes have died.
Some timeless friends have hidden themselves,
and some live just up the road.
But the lonely leaks like a diesel engine on fire.

I had a friend so smart he could have been a
chemical engineer.
But he bought a bowling alley instead and had a hundred
friends visit him in a day.
And still the lonely leaks like the grease
from drive-in fries.

Maybe there’s a house where laughter still lives
despite the brute force of age. Maybe
there’s a museum where one friend finds another
staring at the same painting for far too long.
Maybe there’s a child not grown
that simply wants to play on the swings again.
And still the lonely leaks in like delivering
newspapers before the sun rises on the weekend.

There is a Hush That is Sacred

 

There is a Hush That is Sacred

(“So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.” Genesis 2:3)

We sat on benches only inches apart,
the work was finished, the words inscribed.
The ducks roamed the pond idlily,

and the dogs napped in the sun.
The rains had filled the stream on the hill and
the water fell, softening the air.

We found a silence that
bound us only closer,
a triune conversation, a dialogue of zero,
a soliloquy floating on the breeze.

Butterflies like linen tugged our gaze along their
crepe paper flight. They were not giants nor
marked like monarchs;
simple, small, singular. They owned our hearts
stilled by the moment at rest.

There is a hush that is sacred,
trees have always known it.
There is a language of angels,
we work too long to hear it.
There are doves who have learned to
call the world to themselves,
in pairs in the branches of the new elms
beyond the field.

I remember there were sailboats on the river,
do you?
In the momentary stillness they moved past
our consciousness too fast.
There was just the rest we shared,
a memory lasting longer than forging words
in the fire. There was no misinterpreting the
questions our quiet had asked.

I Want to Write about Beachballs

 

I Want to Write about Beachballs

“In peace and justice he walked with Me...” Malachi 2:6b)

I want to write about beachballs in church today,
I want to write about babies crying.
I want to write about bad breath in church today,
I want to write about old men waiting.

I want to write about a kingdom of love,
a gathering of bepatched people under a tent.
I want to write about a kingdom of peace,
a tribe without a name, having spent every bias.

I want to talk about questions in church today,
I want to talk about wondering doubt.
I want to talk about kitchens in church today,
I want to talk about new bread broken.

I want to talk about a nation of peace,
a brewing storm with nothing but nourishing rain.
I want to talk about a kingdom of love,
a table without end, open, and amen.

I want to write about birds and bears in church today,
I want to write about the society of friends.
I want to write about children who run,
who think fun gathers around their feet,
I want to write about the greeting that always means
stay as long as you want
and longer
because none of us are going away.

I want to write about a new menu to enjoy,
I want to write about exploration today.
I want to write about a new sound to rejoice,
I want to write about picnic parksounds today.

I want to write about why
we measure anything at all
when the pegs of our tent have been stretched
so far
that nothing can be seen but the horizon.

LIke a Trial Balloon

 

Like a Trial Balloon

(“Rejoice greatly, people of Jerusalem! Shout for joy, people of Jerusalem! Your king is coming to you. He does what is right, and he saves. He is gentle and riding on a donkey, on the colt of a donkey.” Zechariah 9:9)

I wanted today to be soft like a trial balloon,
but it was crunchy like leftover bits of tortilla chips.
And still it had the trademark of the divine all over it.

I wanted today to be glistening like a birthday cake,
but it was scratchy like acne or poison ivy.
Yet still it had the maker’s mark identifying it.

I wanted today to be back slaps and victory songs,
bass lines and jazz vibes,
but it was castoffs and headline pain,
backward lyrics and notes between the lines.

The author, the known and unknowable,
wrote the copyright
in script that spoke
so little
I knew it was meant for me.

They Nearly Stole the Show

 

They Nearly Stole the Show

(“All the people saw this and began to complain, ‘Look at the kind of man Jesus stays with. Zacchaeus is a sinner!’” Luke 19:7)

You stole their money, they stole your soul;
they knew what they heard,
they understood the whispers;
they decided you were impure,
they knew where you lived and
what you hid.

They were sharpened peaks of brass,
their words fell like granite upon
the infamous. They circled their best
epithets in red (Sinner, sinner, oh
sinner man). They hauled the dust
from the outskirts of town to dump
on the heads of derelicts who should
know better. They nearly stole the show.

What does an invitation mean? A
loaf of bread and shared wine? A
table set for two where
the Son of Man
pierces you with eyes wilder than
eagles, sharper than a roman sword.
But you stay, you are untamed by
the laugh you hear for the first time;
the laugh of joy. You are unrestrained
by the tears that you know he sheds
for your own.

The gates have opened, you have jumped the fence,
the air is sparkling, the birds sing in present tense,
the way is unfolded, the road a homeward path,
the sun is indiscreet, the winds sweeter than honey.

Emptying your darkness into such beneficent light
unbuttoned the gathering days as you shared the
harvest of grace.

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

 

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

(“The Lord said he would live in a dark cloud.But I have built you a high temple, a home for you to live in permanently.” 2 Chronicles 6:1-2)

The hills were a faster green this year as if
angels attended every blade of grass.
But with each footstep across the fields
my brain was full of steel marbles
rattling in my head.

I did not miss the wedding, would not miss it
for anything. But I missed the next morning when
the jumble of family nested in the living room. The
vise tightened around my brain that night.

The rains are a slower steel this year is if
riders lassoed them, bucking between the hills
that pushed the river to the sea. Showers were
predicted, holding off their payload the entire afternoon.
And when the wedding party were seated, chatting and playing,
the rain, mist by drop, arrived like guests
who had lost their way. We lowered our heads,
balanced our plates, and carried our chairs to the
rented tent for such an occurrence. The cheesecake
was well-protected.

She was waiting for something, the expectation in her 3-year-old heart
was ready to burst; she was waiting, shifting from one foot to the other,
ready for the moment to arrive. She was crazy for love,
crazy for love,
busy for fun. The dry tent was not her temple
so she escaped into the rain on the greening lawn.
Such tiny legs, such whirling with pink taffeta
trying to catch up. She extended her arms and became
a whirligig ready to explore the skies.
Her flaxen hair whipped round her face and shot
water droplets into the night.

I did not miss the tiny dancer,

I danced with my daughter
for the first time ever. It was magic, not make-believe,
it was perfectly impossible, it was the way humans celebrate
love, longing, friendship and family. It is the music that

Opens everything.

Tap You on the Shoulder

 

Tap You on the Shoulder

(“Jesus told them a picture-story to show that men should always pray and not give up.” Luke 18:1)

It is love silently, eyes closed in an open field
letting the birdsongs carry every ache (the fullest love
feels the most pain.)
And when the sky is clouded with iron gates (like mining
ore from the shadows) that is when

I don’t know why I think I should
tap you on the shoulder when
you are already
looking at me.

I have so many habits I cannot explain.

Give Me the Biggest

 

Give Me the Biggest

(“The Lord replied, 'If you have faith the size of mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you!’” Luke 17:6)

Give me more, give me more,
give me more faith so I
can rip the trees to shreds,
bulldoze the mountains, then send them both
to the sea, to the sea, to the sea
for eternity.

Isn’t that what you meant? It is clear enough, I think.
The syntax is explicit, the images concrete,
the only think I need is more faith to defeat
the stubborn bushes and burning mountains.
Although, come to think of it,
I have heard no reports of flying hills along the
beaches with a dying trajectory.
Nor have I seen mulberries like roman candles
fleeing the gravity that holds them in place.
I have not noticed a single neighbor
backhoeing the hole where the flowering trees escaped.

We always want more,
we always want the meter to read above redline,
we always want the single cure for everything.
Give me the biggest, let the fire spray from my fingers;
give me the fullest, let the blaze be felt from my eyes.

And so, you undo me when you decrease me, and
invite me to
want much less, so much less.
And I am distressed after having uprooted
peaks and shrubs so many times
in my dreams.

Give me, then, the grain that cannot be seen from
across the highway,
upon the pulpit,
and is nearly invisible for those with higher vision
from people-length away.

Forgiveness is more an obstacle than
Everest or the Great Sequoias.

Like Fairy Tales

 

Like Fairy Tales

(“But we should be glad and celebrate! Your brother was dead, but he is now alive. He was lost and has now been found.” Luke 15:32)

It’s like fairy tales with the ending that fixes everything,
like the carousels that promise gold while mixing horses
and unicorns and princesses and cardboard tickets.
It’s like the neighbor next door playing their music too loud,
like the ravens who rule from thirty feet high then soar toward
your head. You are not allowed so close to their home.

It’s like champagne before the wedding,
back pain after mending the treehouse for the grandkids.
It’s twirling like a top,

curling your toes when the raindrops break the summer heat.

It’s the interruption during the sermon,
the baby sticking his tongue out at the
man behind him,
and the man laughing and sticking his tongue out
too.
It’s the interruption during communion,
a paper airplane dive-bombing from the balcony,
and a note inside that makes her parents want to hide
but makes a teen boy blush when the wine is served.

It is every distraction, every absurd note played without
rehearsal.
It is every expansion, every blue note that dares to play
between the half steps decreed by convention. It is
every transaction that leaves less pocket money
but more time to love how funny random cloudbursts
feel on our skin.

It is each moment, another second of
trumpets and strings, caterpillars with wings,
exiting and entering; it is always (after all)
a moment of new beginnings.

The Spaces Between the Letters

 The Spaces Between the Letters

(“For it was by God’s grace that he experienced death’s bitterness on behalf of everyone!” Hebrews 2:9b TPT)

How could I let them do all the thinking for me,
how could I take so long to use my mind again?
I pulled up to the first sign of life, the first certainty,
the elemental arguments that proved the doubters wrong;
and I parked there like a big rig overnight where
night can last a lifetime.
I left it in neutral, let the engine run,
let the heater keep me from the cold and frozen landscape
I thought I understood.
I left it in neutral because
I had let the ink speak for me,
think for me. The flat black and white
was cemented like a shrine; never mind it was
thousands of years before my time.

So, every time you sought me, every time
you needed help,
I searched the documents like dispensing prescriptions
and wrote them for your life.
“Don’t divorce” (though he hit you)
“Be in church” (though it caused you pain)
“Get a job” (there were none)
“Just abstain” (addiction bites)
“Pray some more” (mine was saccharine)
“Read this book” (parts made me cry)
“Bible study” (genealogies too)
“Plead the blood” (on my honor)
“Use the Name” (nothing stronger)
“Take more walks” (depression’s cure)
And I never told you that
the prescriptions I wrote
did nothing for me at all.

I know so much less now, yes, nearly agnostic.
I know the minus and the plus now, and how unforgiving
pen and paper become.
I know you better now, with my faith somewhat rarer;
I would learn the silence, I would learn the pauses,
I would memorize every tear on your face.
I would empty out my own doubts
(if you would receive them)
and simply walk beside you though
the world has gotten larger than either of us
imagined.
The spaces between the letters on the page,
scribbled on the yellow lines of my legal pad,
are greater than the sounds of the alphabet.
There is more air in the molecules,
more space in the universe,
more doubt in the certainty,
more quiet between hello and goodbye.

He tasted our pain. He let the bitterness that
brings us up short cover him like a veil.
I cannot explain it, but he wrapped himself in darkness,
and inhabited the spaces between our doubts and
our faith.
And still I am hollow, and still he dwells in
the echoes we wish would fade away.

Answers no longer satisfy me; I would be a traitor
to give them to you.
But, this open space where souls meet, and eyes,
is the only place I have felt alive.

You Paced Yourself Well

 

You Paced Yourself Well

(“Look to the Lord. Always look to him.” 1 Chronicles 16:11)

You’ve drunk it down, sweated it out and
once you would have laid down your life.

You’ve thrown food to the winds,
confessed your sins and mildewed plans
while every syllable from the solo act,
every word from the invited speaker,
hitched your thoughts to higher dread.
You listened and fell, your soul escaping
the hell you thought was part of the discount package.

You hated the ritual, this routine of bleeding
your prayers on moldy carpets until someone closed
the back door. You were alone; you had stayed long
enough until only the custodian heard you wriggling
to leave like a worm on a hook.

You hoped one day it would stick, one time the proof
would enter you like a beacon or a knife. If not god,
at least a bishop or an elf might see the effort you
put into your piety. The only think you hid was how
you wished mystics were more forthcoming about the
emptiness of groveling.

You paced yourself well, hoping to complete the
marathon once, if not twice. Now too old to breathe
so deeply, you hoped the buckets filled with your weeping
impressed anyone who knew anything about seeking.

Where was God in the straining, in the agony and paining
over mosquito thoughts and missing the maker’s marks?
Outside the ward where you slept and ate, where knee-pads
sealed your fate,
there were donuts and black light posters,
poets and belly dancers. There was
the morning breeze
that swept up from the warming sod.
There was the museum of modern art
and a café where friends joked about naming
their newsletter “The French Press”. But mostly,
entirely, easily, openly

There was God.