Between Silence and Shine

Between Silence and Shine

(“The wolf shall live with the lamb; the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them.” Isaiah 11:6)

I answered the phone like I always do,
a little catch in my throat, a tiny cough of hello.
I know your voice even before I look at the number
(although I do appreciate caller id.)
There are tones, colors, shades that wrap your voice
like a quilt on a rainy day. When you ask if we can talk
I cannot wait for the next moment we do.
I answered the phone like I always do and
knowing it was you
that led me outside to see the doves and robins
sharing the same tree, gathering everything they needed
for the chicks to eat back at the nest.
Your voice sends my heart to more peaceful days,
hours I have imagined but seldom seem to appear.

My mood has been flat for several weeks. No deep lows,
no bubbling highs, just a midpoint between silence and
shine. It has limited my palette and the wavelengths of my spectrum
stay dead center between green and indigo.
I used to walk through ultra-violet and speak in infrared.
Now a sliver of visible light shuts me down. It’s not wrong,
I haven’t changed a thing, but I’d love to walk with you somewhere
away from the constraints that have walled my heart in too easily.

I am not the only one who longs for a place so safe that we can
feed lions from the palm of our hand. I am not the only one that
dreams of kisses instead of running from wildlife who cannot even
speak my name.

I answered the phone again; it was you. 2000 miles away and still
you have words and pauses that without understanding the causes,
leave me hopeful for a more peaceable day, a more repeatable way
to walk through the world where arrogance and freeze-dried opinions
answer the phone before a word is said.

But come, let us wander together. Let us leave the violence of
speech and trouble and find a spacious bubble filled with
children who have not learned how to be so vain. I’m curious,
can you see that day, if only in the distance? And does your heart
ache as much as mine for a day of peace, a week of solace,
a month of joy, and a year of new songs we once were afraid to sing?

And, today, would you discover it all with me?

His Walk Was Interrupted

His Walk Was Interrupted

(“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28)

 

His walk we interrupted, his thoughts diverted from
the increasing potency of pointed reflexes. He saw
his image in each drop of rain. He heard his name in
the wind that exposed the trees and stripped the leaves to
create autumn’s carpet.

He rarely wandered, but liked to explore.
He rarely spoke, but liked to ask questions.
He liked the wildlife that posed just beyond his
itinerant feet.
He liked the voice, sounding like a child, that
whispered truth so rare he had forgotten
that once upon a time he memorized the faces of
children. And now they had children and
grandchildren
of their own.

He used to walk to work. He used to stop and
visit with the widow who tended her roses and
fountain in her front yard across the street from
the courthouse. He didn’t know all their names,
but petted the dogs who lived on the edges of
downtown.

It did not take much these days to throw
him off balance,
his equilibrium was affected as much by
gravity as it was by sound. He spun
inside, he twisted everything around his heart
in vain attempts to forget the faces that
ghostly adults displayed. He knew there
was a place created,
an Eden orchestrated,
that invited his rest.

And sometimes he did. Rest.
And sometimes he didn’t. Rest.
And rest became his comfort. Quilt.
And rest became his prayer. Quilt.

And he was blanketed by the name that
gives all the world the definitions that,
if we are willing to hear,
describe a love that transcends the
misuse of letters sent ages ago. He
needed to hear from former days;
he needed to listen more slowly and
pick up his pace. He loved the moments
when he forgot the epithets appended
to his name.

Barefoot in Autumn

 Barefoot in Autumn

(“The prince of Yahweh’s army said to Joshua, ‘Take off your sandals, for the place on which you stand is holy.’ Joshua did so.” Joshua 5:15)

Walking barefoot on the early autumn dew
and the ground gave slightly between his toes.
There was a place within that was as bare as the
fading grasses as the days shrunk a little each hour.
There was power, there were flexible moments,
there was thunder, there was cotton candy snow.
The sun was bright and never obscured, the stars
burned right where they had been appointed eons ago.
He wasn’t sure if angels attended his devotion,
or if God walked the same short path that day.
He just knew nothing should come between his unshod feet
and a few square yards of pure creation. Although he did cry
to think
of all the consumables that, tossed out of every home, now
in microscopic detail permeated each place he stepped.
He heard no voices, but did think a song would be appropriate.
He waited for the birds to begin, the robins and doves that
shared a tree just over his head. They were busy collecting berries
for their brood and paid him little attention. Some of the birds
hung upside down on the branches just to reach the diminutive berries.

He had fasted before, hoping the holy would fill the
empty places. He was not wrong. But the visions were drab,
dull green and gray. He prayed until his eyes stung; He knelt
and asked the same thing each time. His failures always were
the first order of business. The dissonance between what he believed
and what he could never control; he could write a book, but then
everyone would know he wasn’t who he hoped to be.

But that day, standing in the chilly autumn with his feet
naked and flush against the ground, he thought he heard
the silence speak. What was the language? What dialect?
Could the thoughts that came to his mind also be the thoughts
of god? Could his heart beat truer while the cold earth
seeped between his toes? He would go back inside,
pour a cup of tea, and finish reading about the climate crisis.
He would do all he could do and bottled the moment as an
elixir to fix his backlog of failures and his fresh open-mouthed
questions about sanity and sanctity.

The air was warm just inside his front door.

They Begged the Sky

They Begged the Sky

(“Go and learn what this saying means: ‘I want mercy and not sacrifice.’ For I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” Matthew 9:13)

Hidden beneath the aftermath of tsunami spirituality
are humans caught underneath the rubble.
Some think they deserved it,
some only came to observe it,
But most made up epithets to throw
if they ever surfaced above the fray.
Every day I meet another victim with
bruises on their arms and contusions on their hearts.
All they needed was someone to talk tenderly
while the fire lashed like a hungry tiger.
All they wanted was someone like them,
or even someone pretending to like them,
or, so it seems, someone less dreamlike.

They saw the fires, they felt the missiles,
they were stung by needles, they were facing
the needless pain they never paid for.

They begged the sky, they dug into the earth,
they doubted their worth, they were left in the rain
to dry.

After a while they gave up talking at all.
They were hermits of necessity,
they were monks hiding in caves.
They used to speak like lullabies;
they used to sing like the summer.
But now they are out of practice,
they recite monologues to themselves.

Everyone thought they were fine,
no one ever thought it was a crime to
leave them solo for so long. But they
stood with their backs to the wall looking
for someone that sounded like home.

And they begged for mercy to rain
on their parched tongues, they hoped for
grace reminding them of sunrise. They
watched for someone to bring them news
of the day.

To Bake the Bread

To Bake the Bread

(“Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes—God takes pleasure in

your pleasure!” Ecclesiastes 9:7 [The Message])

I saw you come in from the fields,
covered with wheat dust and dirt.
I saw your face burnt from the relentless sun,
and saw your hands roughened by the twine on the
rows of bales thrown on the back of the truck.
I saw you come in.

The crop was late this year, a cold spell mid spring
slowed everything down. And now some may not take
the sunflowers off until February after they are frozen and
dry.

But today, late in the evening, we would break bread; we would
throw our stories around like fast pitches at a pick-up baseball game.
We would kid the children who sat in the cab with us. We would thank
the women and teens who brought our lunch to us. We would drink
deeply of water to clear the dust from our parching throats. And
(out of courtesy) we laid our over-hauls in the mud room. We would be
back at it in the morning.

So, with dirt scrubbed hands we passed around the meal. The bread
was there in abundance; hot rolls, banana bread, whole loaves that smelled
like they were still baking. We ate deep (the children ate quick), we ate but
stopped between one chew and the next to playfully thank our host and ask,
“Do you bake all day, so you don’t have to come to the fields?” It’s harmless.
Because mostly they do frequent the fields, pulling double duty: guide the
combines and back to bake the bread.

And tonight, though not the finest wine, the color came back to our cheeks
with each glass. Grandma sipped slowly but was the first one up from the table.
She had a plan, she had a spark, she had an itch to make our simple meal a party.
The crops were nearly in…except for the late sunflowers…and it was time
to celebrate.

She put on a record full of standards from the 40s. The kids and teens groaned,
and honestly, so did some of the adults. But granny knew what we did not,
there is no better dance music than big band music. “In the Mood”, “It Don’t
Mean a Thing (If it Ain’t God that Swing)” The toddlers took to twirling first.

They kept their socks on as they slid across the smooth hardwood floor
surrounded by couches, recliners, and side tables. They spun like dervishes,
and giggled like dolphins showing off.

First dad, then uncle, then cousins and teenage relatives, took one of the
skating toddlers and spun them round to the music. The giggles hit the rafters
and ricocheted back into the room.

Granny and Grandpa were the next up. He took her in his arms like a schoolboy
at prom. Their eyes gleamed. They had waited out the day to eat of the bounty,
and now wanted to celebrate free of restraint.

Everybody in between, after they stopped their complaints, found a way to keep time
to these tunes from another century. And then, just as every was losing their breath,
Grandpa pulled out his fiddle, and Mama pulled out her guitar, and they played
bluegrass, and reels, and jigs. The same songs they always played. Their
repertoire was short, but their execution was precise.

Good food, abundant wine, dancing like there would be tomorrow to do it all over again,
all seemed the most appropriate way to say

Thank You

For a harvest, a hard harvest, that was now nearly in. If they could, they would
have wiped the plates clean, depleted the wine, and danced all night laughing with
the children, some of whom had already fallen asleep on the floor and couches.

The Retaining Wall

The Retaining Wall

(“Everyone who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on bedrock.” Matthew 7:24)

Sluggish as an Autumn morning, I climb to
the nearest hill to maintain some masquerade of
control. When life pulls away ahead of me,
when I roll the dice on the universe,
I lose control and cannot predict
how they will fall. I cannot pretend
that suffering is the ache of needing a period
at the end of every day.

I saw someone driving a truck the same model
of my best friend who died over a year ago.
The man inside looked like him and I pleaded
that maybe time had run under the bridge and
looped back in fantasy. I have no control over
who leaves and who stays. I cannot pretend
that my words will make you stay until
the end of the day.

I am not God anyway.

I saw your house where I visited you often.
The new owner is building a retaining wall;
granite block abutting the back of the property.
He has three dogs. One black and one brown with
heads nearly the size of horses. One is white and
rules the yard; a 15-pound Maltese.

It is Autumn in the afternoon and the breeze from
the north
chilled my hands while the sun behind me
warmed my shirt like it was freshly ironed.

If I lose control, perhaps I’ll suffer less.
If I move along the trails made by deer in the woods
perhaps
life will be more effortless.

God does not hide far away.

Love Songs for Everyone

Love Songs for Everyone

(“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” Matthew 6:33)

Demonizing immigrants is not doing anything
for the kingdom of God.
Vilifying gays does not accomplish God’s dream
for the world.
Letting the poor in,
but insisting they sit where they cannot be seen,
is from a kingdom of this world, a kingdom headed by
a Satan who only wants to discredit God’s grace.
Letting the mentally challenged have a place,
but insisting they better never become ushers,
misses everything that God has ever dreamed.

Seek the dream, the one where every tribe, nation,
language, and ethnic group, every sexuality, every
bisected economy of the poor, rich or medial are one;
seek the kingdom, where God is happy that
uncommon odors cannot deny a teenager a place
in the celebration of grace. Open wide the gates,
and do not lock them again. Throw open the windows
and let the unbridled joy seep into the neighborhood.
Let it waft into kitchen windows of those who
wondered why they were never invited. Let it whisk
around the room like Thanksgiving pie baked hours
before its partaking. Let the words learn holy silence.
Let the words learn that tongues do not need to wag.
Let the words learn the happy sound when someone finds
their way to our group who knows nothing of our niceties.

Open your arms wide, learn their faces, repeat their names,
invite them for lunch, sit with their children, play their games,
roll the tonka trucks for the littles to roll back. Tell the adults
there is no qualification for our little group. Some of us
are not sure what we think about God these days. Some of us
are undeterred and couldn’t be moved from faith by the worst
calamity possible. Some are CEOs, some are dishwashers,
some are behind on their rent, some own their homes outright.
But together we are a dream come true, a dream formulated
in eternity past, in the heart of God. A dream that sees the kingdom
full of every possible extraction and opinion.

I’ve been poor, I’ve been broke, I’ve been okay, I’ve been saved.
I’ve been well-off, not really rich. I’ve been waiting to be a part
of something like this.
There are no greater riches than the grace we find hidden
in the lives we once had bidden adieu to. Isn’t it time to
hear their stories, affirm their humanity, celebrate the divine
that dwells in them as certainly as we think it does in us?
Isn’t it time that our worship is simply full of
love songs for everyone.

To Memorize Their Names

To Memorize Their Names

(“Whoever gives to the poor will never lack, but whoever shuts his eyes to their poverty will be cursed.” Proverbs 28:27)

After the doors closed, we
counted the coins
and divided them among
everyone assembled in the
backlit room. The odds were
less than even
that everyone received their full share.
We were nice to each other, but it was more
necessary that we remind ourselves there are
not races, no curses that keep us from poverty
when we need the food that will save our souls.

Even the Almighty cries for
the paucity that deprives a neighbor just
a door away from our prosperity.
I am another privileged one who figures
I’ve done good enough to deserve the amount
that has mounted up in my bank account.

After we drop off the canned goods, we expect
to be patted on the head like a good dog rescuing the
baby from the well. We didn’t even stay for dinner.
We didn’t even stay long enough to memorize their names.

After the Words

After the Words

(“In the same way let your light shine in front of people. Then they will see the good that you do and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16)

After the words are finished,
before the meal has begun,
during the early hallway of evening,
we might have time to compose another
sonnet, or, better yet,
sing something we all know by heart.

Before the night drops the dew,
after the moon glows undone,
during the late slant of afternoon,
we might find the time to fill a plate or two
for the neighbors who ran out of money before
they ran out of food.

We don’t need a new agenda,
we don’t need to push hard.
We don’t need an invitation to
start a party among the unknowns.

Before the sun drains the dark,
after the birds announce the morn,
during the corporeal rays starting to warm,
we might find the ones we left here
are poets and prophets who,
have callused hands for sermons and
chef’s hats for the daily benedictions.

We don’t need a host of angels,
we don’t need another spire.
We don’t need a well-written tome
push us closer.

We only need a word, we only need
the silent seeds sown with no one watching.
We only need reminders how free it seems
to feed our neighbors, our kin, our global

Language of love divine.

How Multiplied

How Multiplied

(“For there will never cease to be poor people in the land; that is why I am commanding you, ‘Open your hand willingly to your poor and needy brother in your land.’” Deuteronomy 15:11)

There is not much but there is
more than I can carry. I could load it all on
my back, but how far could I go?
I could leave some behind, but who would
hijack my best intentions?
Come journey with me, we will share the load.
Come circle the sunset, come draw the morning rain.
Come as I follow the siren call, the angel’s refrain,
and we’ll split everything we find with anyone else
we meet on the trail. Why would we
keep more than they need? Why would we look the
other way?
I’ve pretended to be happy,
I’ve acted like I was not hungry.
But, truth be told, I still have unbidden tears and
my stomach craves an answer. Have you
felt the same way too? Am I the only one?
Do you wake up on days when everything is provided
and still feel like a pauper on the street?
Do you ever doubt the direction life has propelled
you, the trajectory of unnecessary missiles?
There is more poverty than simply lacking dollars,
there is more hunger than missing loaves of bread.
I’ll open my hand, I’ll help you up to the trail,
we can climb the waterfall we discovered as a couple of
adolescent boys when we were to afraid to ascend. We know
the rocks will be slippery,
but we need another adventure, a reason to sigh.
Or we’ll just walk in silence until it is time to eat again,
and we’ll claim our bread and wine, and we’ll
invite each passerby to share our meager provision
and we’ll see how multiplied we can be. We’ll
see how multiplied we all can be.

I’ll Listen Closer

I’ll Listen Closer

(“He makes sure that orphans and widows are treated fairly; he loves the foreigners who live with our people, and gives them food and clothes.” Deuteronomy 10:18)

There are signboards on the corner
that write off every unrecognizable name.
But every name has a mother, every appellation
a definition. Every pair of eyes sees the
spectrum,
every mouth speaks its native tongue.

I’ll speak slower if I’m hard to understand,
I’ll listen closer if your words are sifted through the colander.
I love the unknown rhythm your words make when
you punctuate your sentences with a countryman.
You smiled when you showed me the videos you
made with your newest drone.
Your wife interpreted for me that, yes, you could
fix the problem with my MG.
I tried to pay you, I did. You laughed and I
think you said
it was nothing. But it was more than that and
you deserved even more than I offered.

You tinkered like a magician,
you laughed like a penguin,
you talked like we were brothers,
you sang without knowing the words.
I believed you like a clergyman,
I smiled like an old friend,
I talked like we were comrades,
I sang without knowing the words.

Now I’m older, but not by much,
and you are just the same.
Our languages are mixed,
our friendship exists despite the
placards that try to send you home.