The Magic Appears

The Magic Appears

(“For the earth bears fruit by itself: first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.” Mark 4:28)

The magic appears on grass muddied fields
where a white-faced calf prances between heifers
and cows
while the January sun melts the puddles frozen
overnight. Are myths begun as simply as this?

We do not invent the blossoms that begin
before we think about looking. We do not
assemble the apples or sculpt them into being.
We would paint them and glue them to branches,
expecting them to glow like Christmas lights year
to
year.

We can arrange our money, though. My father taught me
50 years ago.
Large bills in back, then in descending order toward the
front of your wallet, all facing the same direction.

That would have helped me today at the pot store;
I owed forty-seven dollars and thought I had enough
singles. Dug through every bill, and told the braided cashier
what I tell you now,
and she confessed she always arranged hers (except when
she didn’t…a mess.) I would shop there even if I did not
buy cannabis,
the employees laugh like they are happy to be there.

Did I mention that the magic appears, but only when we look
for it?
And no, I only had six singles and paid with 3 twenty dollar bills.

My chihuahua joins me when I make the rounds, on my lap,
paws on my arms, peering out the window. She whines when
we are almost home. Sometimes we read each other’s minds,
sometimes we puzzle over language, sometimes she looks at me
when I try to hold an entire conversation with her. Her ears
lie flat
and she wonders why I have said anything at all.

Today the magic is that there is a
today at all.

Memorize the Faces

Memorize the Faces

(“’For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord, ‘plans for well-being and not for trouble, to give you a future and a hope.’” Jeremiah 29:11)

Start. Why do you scale the walls of anger when
peace is within reach? Aim.
Cancel every subscription to insanity and seek
the places where
sunlight reaches every crevice, every imagined slight.
Why do you accept invitations to trouble
when
there are bridges the connect us all?
Place.
Did you make reservations for the patch of land
you so patriotically protect? Who was there
before you,
and after, who will own it then?
Send.
Write it down. Memorize the faces that cry
out,
(what a crime)
for mothers moments before dying.

Every bottle in the cupboard has been mislabeled,
the horizon is blocked by the mountains you’ve built.
Show.

Look around at Babylon, (do you disdain its idols?)
and send a letter home about the friends you’ve found.

Last, learn to love and
First.

Deviled Eggs for Everyone

Deviled Eggs for Everyone

(“He appointed the Twelve, whom he called apostles, to accompany him.” Mark 3:14a)

The laundry hung on the stretched-out line
waiting for the North Dakota wind to flap them dry
like wings swooping from barns and early wheat.
Second thoughts give way to a chance, really,
that this moment was more sacred than hours of
memorized incantations.

The food was set out, the hot dishes first, then
the salads, then desserts. We kept the deviled eggs
out of the sun
and made sure there were enough for everyone,
including the twins who always complained when
they were gone by the time they found their place in line.

The men came in from fishing, the daughters too,
the entire crew said the blessing as they sat on cinder blocks
and folding chairs. The children played pinata.
There was enough to share, there was plenty to spare,
and the eyes of all spoke, and hoped, and wondered how
a place as safe as this
could exist
between amped up patriotism and
acoustic supplications. Everyone had lowered their
flags
for this day. Everyone had stored their banners away.

I met you, but our eyes never locked,
you were of another flock outside our jurisdiction.
We were hearts alike, we were raw like bicycles too
big to ride. But we knew, without seeing at all,
we each needed picnics like all the rest.
We hated crowds, didn’t we,
but loved the caress of breezes that moved children between
the porch and the lawn.

We wished to be vagabonds, hobos with our neckerchief knapsacks,
but we were simply grown-up adolescents who had given up answering
questions every time we were asked. We were craving a
new city where
tears are shed as openly as laughter before birthday cake is served.

The truth is, once reserved, all we had were two things left to us:
love
and
time. We would forsake neither, though we had been forsaken
when our rhymes were so imperfect we spit them out like vinegar.
Today I look again, and hope so will you,
to see the faint rising of a traveling band that
plays the tunes of the divine.

We Did Not Wear Armor Well

We Did Not Wear Armor Well

(“Go in peace. We have taken an oath in the Lord’s name to be friends forever.” 1 Samuel 20:42b)

There were bottles of cabernet, a well-used kitchen table,
a couch shared with dogs and teenagers and talk that could
extend for hours.
We shared the wine those times when the days were thicker than
mud and we resigned ourselves to well-worn company protected
by in-house
understanding that the world could not enter in.
And so we would begin, whether from shame or fear,
to share what we hid most often outside those weary walls.
Occasionally we socialized (Sunday’s of course, after all,
I was a pastor). But we were clear from the beginning:
Friendship was why we were together.
But at a banquet, a wedding reception, bingo, or groups
of more than a dozen,
we were always the first to leave. We loved every person attending,
but social anxiety had the last word far too often for us both.
They said we were well-liked; we did not believe it.

Neither one of was very brave, though we shared our opinions readily;
God knows, we both had a trove of accumulated knowledge that we
could dispense at will. We did not wear armor well, sometimes
the sunlight was all that sent us
seeking each other’s company when our personal
darkness stole the day from us.

We lived only a block apart, but now hundreds of miles away,
the same friendship carried me for months, but awkwardly.
We once sparred gently with our wine at the table,
but now, unable to see your face, to hear the laugh in your voice,
I fear, still without armor, I let a priceless gift gather dust on the shelf.

With so many miles and years between us now,
with the place the path has led me now,
with former friends who ignore me now,
(in their cases, they could not understand my shift)
I still long for a place, a person, to sift through the
unwinding of life. When I have failed, I have feared
all the more.
But, though far in time and space, the door between us, sweet friend,
is open. My best friend here,
a retired Lutheran minister, now as liberal as I am,
would complete an amicable trinity.

Once the Evening Falls

Once the Evening Falls

(“Jesus put His hand on him with loving-pity. He said, ‘I want to. Be healed.’” Mark 1:41)

I would rather be hugged in mud than
sit in sanitized lectures.
Come closer, let me feel your breath.
Sneak up on me like my tiny chihuahua;
she sniffs at my feet if I do not notice her.

I would rather receive one knowing glance than
open a hundred cards in the mail.
Come closer, don’t leave it to chance.
Surprise me like the birthday when
a friend I had not seen in 40 years showed up
unmasked and asking nothing.

Share a bowl of oatmeal with me,
let our fingers touch as you place it before me.
Cut the sandwich diagonally and let
the noon pass between, lingering long enough
that I do not forget your voice

Once the evening falls.

Perhaps We Still Can Fly

Perhaps We Still Can Fly

(“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but I do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” 1 Corinthians 13:1)

I can’t afford to walk with my head in the clouds anymore,
I can’t wait on angels to touch my brain and lips like I did before.
There is a straight-line path from my home to yours,
but I must take the road around to bypass private property and dogs
roaming outdoors from
one treat to the next; I might be next.
Although, I have befriended most of them. Perhaps I’ll show up
at your door with a pack of them. Your cats would appreciate
the confusion.

I walk the half-mile to your house. I hope you are not in pain.
I pick up your mail and walk it up your driveway. Today there
are three new prescriptions to add to the
dozens half organized and a quarter unrealized.
I’ll sit with you as we have dozens of times before.
We are old hands at this, we are experts on angels,
and yet the angels we’ve known are absent for now.
We are two angels with broken wings; with two wings
between us
perhaps we still can fly.

But I had enough trouble leaving my bed today that
angels were the last thing on my mind.
You were in so much pain today all you could think to do
was to fall asleep again in your chair after we
wondered how life leaves so many of us grasping for air
when we had dared to climb the heights for those who could not
find their way.

They never knew it, well very few anyway, that our legs were
fire whenever we found the summit at last. They understood it well,
though,
when we fell, when we stumbled, when we crawled like
the first amphibians leaving water for land.
We were not well suited for either. We wanted to be
of land and sea,
they wanted us to be Sunday’s constant surprise of
spirituality.

So, we wait on angels, don’t we? One calls you while I
visit today, your advocate from the V.A. She is kind, but too
slow from our way of thinking. We both know she is juggling
time, and life, and clients, and care the same way we juggled
questions about god. And they were impatient too, with our answers,
because we dealt in questions and not in certainty.

I should have shared the bread and wine with you today,
the blood and body of the One who is hidden behind our pain.
I will visit you again, old friend. And we will talk about
the picture on the wall; you clothed in vestments and
children with drops of joy on their heads.

I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

 I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

(“Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Peace be with you.” They came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him.” Matthew 28:9)

I could not fight the fog today,
I could not squeeze anything out of the morning.
I could not see the clock today,
I could not tease another moment of sleeping.
The fog did not lift,
the air did not open,
the clock whacked at my misunderstanding,
the sleep would not hold me in its arms.

I weary walking down the road hoping to meet
a man or woman
to see through my façade,
to feel the days that tread on my heart,
to see the escapes that are closed to me,
the open doors that are locked from the inside,
and the stone that has been rolled over the opening
of all I once was.

What I once was
was less of me
than who I am now.
And still the showers of blue rain
drown joy. Alone there is little joy.

I’ve believed in the resurrection nearly my entire life,
painted eggs were always figures for the one who
sprang from the tomb and hung around for awhile to
greet the women who saw him first, and all the others
who hid (like I hide) and unlocked their doors from
the inside.

So I wait for a knock on the door, and a greeting from one
I have longed for.
I wait to hear the footsteps in the garden that bring life closer
to me.
I cannot exhale the fog. I cannot whitewash these blues.
I cannot invent a hundred invisible friends to remove this
granite lonesome from inside of me.
I walk by a cemetery nearly every day and
all the graves are undisturbed.

My honesty has never bothered God (that’s my guess)
it’s all the rest that worry me. Laser advice pierces my forehead,
prayer promises are sent on autographed cards. I do not blame them,
they hold on to the same uncertainties.

Here today, there are no supernatural greetings on the road; just
asphalt, rain, fog, and a clouded mind.

Late for Dinner

Late for Dinner

(“He waited seven days, the time appointed by Samuel, but Samuel didn’t come to Gilgal, and his troops began to desert.” 1 Samuel 13:8)

When waiting is the worst activity,
and being late is the ultimate sin,
we are tempted to take life into our own hands
(as if we could ever take life into our own hands)
and miss the final ingredient to complete the recipe
sending the aroma throughout the house for days.

But we jump too quickly, we act like another hour
is stealing precious jewels from our life. So, we prepare the meal,
feed those gathered,
and finish the pie just at the time the honored guest
arrives tardily. We hardly know what to say.

Did our stomachs grumble that much,
did we think we would starve for missing a meal,
did we think our guest would never show up,
did we think he was unreliable? Yet

It was we who rushed. It was we who could think of
no other way to spend our time in waiting
than to go ahead and eat the stew and biscuits,
drink the wine and water, serve the pie and cakes and
in the drowsiness after dinner forget we ever were
expecting a guest.

What do you say to the one you had gathered to honor,
what do you serve the one who had fed you well so
many times before?
What greeting can change the presumption that
makes previous arrangements the law of the table?

The dishes are not yet gathered. The family dog is licking
the plates.
We hear the knock on the door and are awakened from our
self-satisfied slumber to see
the one we had planned to feed. And we have

No excuse at all.

Waiting and keeping the communal meal warm
is an act of love, no matter how late anyone arrives.

Let us try again tomorrow night. We will wait,
we will play cards, we will listen to music, we will
tell jokes and silly stories to pass the time.

And when the last one arrives, we will serve
the meal with joy. With wine aplenty, we will sing
into the night.

Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

 Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

(“When he was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he gave no answer.” Matthew 27:12)

Silence speaks as clearly and surely
as the first rays of dawn through the kitchen window.
Believe me, I’ve tried shouting. Drowned out
by iron doors. Muted by theories. Smothered by theologians.
The yelling takes its toll and privilege prevails over
justice and reason.

Fireworks keep me up at night,
firearms puncture the morning,
but a soft parade of lightning bugs
invites prophetic words in miniscule motion.

The silence of a friend who stays till noon is
more welcome
than the clamor who meet to decide what elixir
I need
this time
to be a better example to the gods.
I drank their potions nearly every decade till now
and spoke in tongues so they would quit offering me
the bitter concoction.

I found silence the best therapy,
presence the best tonic. I no longer
need
someone to defend me (I wasted that energy
a long time ago.)
All I request, if the court will allow,
is one or two who, knowing my wound is incurable,
will befriend me (I needed that energy
from then until now.)

But my heart was in my mouth when I heard them
question you.
My face burned when they accused, pious and politic,
the meekest of men to walk this planet. But perhaps
I am more like
Peter,
because I don’t think I would have taken the chance,
put my life on the line,
to speak up for you. (I know now you did not need
me to.)

I’ve been questioned too, and I was guilty as sin.
(That’s where all guilt begins in the gang I used to run with.)
I wanted to be like you, silent. I had far more to defend;
you had the cards stacked against you, they thought you were
going to bomb the Temple once and for all.

Cut short, you never said a mumbling word. My life,
long enough now to know what the right stuff is now,
I say less than I once did.

Love, to be love, sometimes speaks only

In silence.

Switchbacks

Switchbacks

(“For though I am free from all men, I have made myself servant to all, that I might win even more.” 1 Corinthians 9:19)

I know you would like a passenger,
someone who does not yank the bit.
I know you would love a road trip,
I know you love silence; I know you love presence,
I know you would love a safe place to weep.

We can ride through the mountains, driving close to the edge,
taking the switchbacks and peering over the ledge.

A high school friend told me once that, on those hairpins,
you should start on the inside of the curve and finish on the outside.
He never mentioned what to do if
we met another traveler halfway.
But we winded our way up to Yosemite
in his 68 rebuilt VW bug. The air-cooled engine
labored with no breeze from behind. We played
the “guess who” on cassette and sang along to
American Woman. Gary drove, I sang shotgun and
Danny brought up the bass in back.

I will be your silence as long as you live,
I will be your presence as long as I live,
I will be your place to weep and to laugh so
inappropriately that no one understands
how tears and stupid jokes can live together so
unabashedly.

Nothing Came to Mind

Nothing Came to Mind

(“My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.” Matthew 26:38)

Who are we in the darkened garden when
the greens are black and gray? Do we know the way
to the secret place, here well outside of the day?

Where are we when the sun has gone down and
the last hymn sung? Do we remember
the tunes in dusky doldrums when unknown footsteps
break the spell?

I could have been someone,
but so could have anyone.

Wouldn’t you rather find a place atop a hill
to peer past all the dust kicked up by power plays
and statements sealed with “scout’s honor”? We both
know it is true,
that half a promise is no promise at all.

How can the weight be so heavy when gravity is so weak,
how can tears flow when, for all we know, we had it all
figured out?

I would be baptized again if it would change anything,
but something tells me more ritual is not required.

How can our eyes be so heavy? The wine? The meal?
The daily grind that brought us here? The sudden quiet of
a garden; olive and loam? If there is a silent power that
moves the universe, we should have rehearsed our part,
we should have stayed awake, we should have lasted longer
into the third verse.

I should have said something,
but nothing came to mind.

Perhaps It Was the Poppies

Perhaps It Was the Poppies

(“I will answer their prayers before they finish praying.” Isaiah 65:24)

It was in the shape of a tree, an evergreen,
pointing beyond the skies and dreams away from
the magnetism of dirt and earth.

But there was not a guardian angel in sight. I know I knew
his name,
I thought we were personal like that. But, for now,
the name was locked deep inside my brain, and maybe a
mini stroke had hidden it forever.

It was the color of wind, a gale warning; the offshore flow
dropped heavy clouds with bullet rain driving us inside
except to make a run to the mailbox.

But there was not a ray of sun in sight. I longed for happy rays
that pierced my retinas, tanned my forehead and sent me safely
playing with my chihuahua. She doesn’t like the cold or the
precipitation. She hesitates at each drop.

It was the rhythm of fear, the heart rate, the paralysis,
the constant analysis of things that could go wrong. (Things
had gone wrong so many times before.) It was the wall that
calcified the heart and challenged anyone with soft enough
words
to tear it down from the outside. I had learned to hide; with
raw bruises where I had torn the fortress wall down before.
I looked in his eyes, told him my shame,
and years later everything changed. I sat with him for hours
when he cried about the love of his life. But I understand;
so my wall grew thicker by the year and higher each season.

Perhaps it was the sunflowers that reminded me of the power
of light.
Perhaps it was the poppies that buttered me up to install a
window, a small one, to peek at the days. Perhaps it was the
half dozen friends who never went away. But none of them
knew my shame, and I was not ready to risk it again.

So I walk where the shapes point to the sky,
I ponder inside darkness, I wait in frozen expectation,
and wish for one or the other kind of companion:

A new friend who knows nothing about me and wants to
know it all.
Or a friend who knows it all, and still craves my company.

Today I will travel between dreams and magnetic earth,
I will let the raindrops do their work to wash away the limestone
whitewash on my well-aged wall.

The Ocean of Love

The Ocean of Love

(“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” Matthew 25:40)

Don’t be afraid to fall,
fall into the deep,
the fathomless ocean,
the ocean of love.

I once was afraid of the water,
afraid I would drown.
Once I jumped from the high dive
at the pool in the middle of town.
That was the last time I entered the water
from that elevation.
But then I met some people,
Lord, I’m glad they were found,
who loved the ocean, swim or float,
and with butterfly strokes, stayed until the
sun went down.
And now I am happy, though somewhat afeared,
to sink to the bottom of the ocean to
leave these roses for you there.

Doing it for one, we do it for all,
the ocean is full of waves created from
the beginning of time. When you dance among the coral,
you dance with God, and when you dance with God, you dance
with all creation.

You cannot divide the ocean, it will spill over every time,
you cannot divide the Father and the Son, the Spirit
circles it all in oceans of love.

I swam with dolphins once. I baptized an orphan.
I ate with Jesus at Taco Bell, an alcoholic friend of mine.
I fished through ice for Walleye and fried them up that night.
The coyotes and the cracking of the ice were the soundtrack.
From Arizona to Spanish Harlem, from South Africa to the Ukraine,
you cannot divide humanity, we all share the same hopes and
the same pain.

Don’t be afraid to dive,
dive into the deep.
We are all creatures of the sea,
the fathomless ocean,
the ocean of love.