Planted Years Before

Planted Years Before

(“I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” 1 Corinthians 3:6)

The fingers are wringing every leftover nerve
I have. Squeezing at my head like an anaconda,
making me forget easier days. My words are limited because
the pain constricts my thoughts and restricts
my smile to grimaces misunderstood. I’d
love
to uphold my end of the conversation, but I’m
not sure what I would say.

There may be words planted years before that
have
wilted at the constant ache that hides them from
the sun.
I never make appointments; they are too easy to miss.
I am halfway to tears most days, and when conversations begin
I feel the hairs on my hands signaling I must not
violate the air around me.

Today I am tired. Weary to the bone.
Today I am hoping for someone who simply feels like home.
Today I should feel lucky to have all I need.
Today my spirit moans and spits up seeds sowed so long ago.

For a few moments I play the songs freehand and hope I haven’t
skipped a coda or stumbled overboard. I slip home as soon as
we are done. I slip home without a word. I never
minded the difficult days before that pain; I would walk through
them like an arch into another place. Now I stand silent,
and wish for a place to sit until the noise is over and
I find a new place to leave heart to hang out again.

Take this mud that cakes my heart and make it the seedbed
out of this pain. Let the shoots fight for the light while the
ache dismisses every dream I once hoped to be true. I’ll wait
until Spring.

On the Backside of the Day

On the Backside of the Day

(“God chose what is low and despised in the world, what is regarded as nothing, to set aside what is regarded as something,” 1 Corinthians 1:28)

We were pretty certain we would arrive before the night fell.
We were convinced everyone would meet us on the road.
We were busting out with words,
we were advertising our prophecies.
We were on our way past the obstructions that
we believed we had overcome.

We found our thrones were just we had left them,
we climbed up and surveyed our territory.
We were royal and carried our scepters with pride.
We were untested though we thought the speeches
were expected because we had so much we had
crafted in our houses of extravagance. We lacked
nothing that we knew of.

And the crowds did come, the cheers convinced us
we were fulfilling all we had dreamed. They left us
breathless as we captured their unsuppressed praises.
Would our dreams coalesce on the backbeat of a waning
afternoon? The permanent residences were
unmoved, though, by our front-functioning terms
of affection. We even sent them invitations to feed us,
to bring the feasts to us, but they did not hear,
it would appear,
and stayed home with children barely born that year.

We had not considered how at a loss we were with our
degrees and plaques and awards and directives. We
knew what everyone needed before they asked, and we
kept loading it upon them long after the day was done.
You’d think we would know by now that God
dissolved the thrones built to boost the earth up
closer to the moon. God burrowed deeply into our
muck to bring our mud-caked bodies close to his.

We were less certain at the end of the day, we
were less filled with convictions; but we learned
the breath we used for proclamation was needed
instead
for soiled reflections of silent servanthood written
down on the backside of the day.

The Joy was Hiding

The Joy was Hiding

(“The God of peace will quickly crush Satan under your feet. May the good will of our Lord Jesus be with you!” Romans 16:20)

I would have written this early but my chest sometimes
feels like lead, keeping out the joyful rays and hiding the
love inside. The quiet interludes I hoped for created an abscess
that only echoed the sounds of unknowing.

So let me tell you this, if I can tell you anything you do not
already know,
I love you till the end of time little one,
I carry you close from last light until dawn.

I will confess that some of my days were eroded by
thoughts turned untrue by fear, the way a child first
climbs a stair. The joy was hiding and I am sorry.
But I extended my hand for you, my finger to catch
hold of you and you took to the stairs with a giggle.

I take everything so seriously. I took it all too hard.
I blamed myself and never felt the freedom to laugh like the rain.
I thought there had to be a chorus and refrain to
cut the darkness overnight. Now, as I’m writing this,
later and better,
I am ready to let giggles turn the tables on all my
cognitive biases that blamed everything on some
present darkness that held me tighter than my
knotted shoes.

I am writing this now, seriously engaging with joy,
and willing to laugh inappropriately if the situation calls
for it.
There are more devils expelled by laughter than ever those
with weeping tears.

We Had Been Disarmed

We Had Been Disarmed

(“The Lord's kindness never fails! If he had not been merciful, we would have been destroyed.” Lamentations 3:22)

Maybe the day would bring something better,
maybe the dawn would shine again. Maybe we were
hiding from the love we thought we never deserved.
Is it all too marvelous,
Is it so hard to believe?
And yet our darkness lingers, there is no argument
against that. The cries of the exiles crowd out the
silence, the whisper, the slightest breath of consolation.
We have heard the words before and assumed
they
were for the well-healed and polished words of
prayers that took elegant sweeps around the room.
We could not talk, the pain was so exhausting;
we could not listen, the syllables were still defrosting.

We had no weapons to lay down; we had been disarmed
at the beginning of the conflagration. We had no rhetoric,
our stumbling tongues met our teeth midsentence. We could
connect the deathly groans that echoed from throats strained
from crying. We were grieving more minutes than we were
given in a day.
And yet we still cried out in hopes we were heard.
We threw up the dust and wrapped ourselves in canvas,
hoping the coming day would wash the pain away.
The rains were slow, and we passed the days squeezing
out the splinter of faith that was remained. We were afraid to lose
even that much,
never wanting to hit the bottom where the embers of devotion
would die far away from their source.

Yet there is where we heard again, like the untarnished
coins of another realm. We felt the low vibrations
in the depth of our grief and hope began to open its
failing wings. From the depths we heard the hymn,
though our position had not changed. And we might be called
foolish for trusting a mere toccata while the atmosphere
demanded a dirge.

And so, we listened and considered these things. We counted
the days and the shades, the shadows and the rings that were
made by the same sun that had risen during our better days.
And we knew, though the pain was deep, that somehow, we
were heard and we would not be destroyed. We heard the
refrain of mercy, a kindness that, in short,
never fails.

Gatherings Like This

Gatherings Like This

(“Therefore, accept each other just as Christ has accepted you so that God will be given glory.” Romans 15:7)

It was all so small, but warmer than it had been
in a decade of Decembers. Small family, restful smiles,
grace and a place where words and action met in
a holy embrace. It was quiet and laughter like a
Christmas eve with a dozen adults and children
evenly scattered around the room.

We might have wished for snow but that mattered
very little now. It was time to eat and share
gifts we had hunted near the end of the year. All the way
from newborn babies to a man in his seventies, time
seemed endless as we inhaled the atmosphere that only
these kind of gatherings can bring.

A guitar, waiting in the corner, was lifted and strummed.
“We Wish You a Merry Christmas” started from small mouths
to older, and “Silent Night” was sung like a lullaby though no one
would be sleeping for hours from now.

More Than the Partisan Breath

More Than the Partisan Breath

(“The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” Mark 12:31)

Listen and let your mannequin advertisements
hear the announcement, the proclamation that there
are no more chants to learn,
no more verses to memorize of new songs about the
old and dusty windows shielded from the wind.
There are no more rules to post on your sidewalls,
no more careless canyons of echoing sand, no more
patronization of the high voices that pretend to know the
pitched perfect when all they truly know are
the chapters they have repeated from living sun to
dying moon,
the uneasy accidents that sometimes they find
while acting out on their own.

You are closer, if you will only slow your drawl;
you are imparted, if you will only blow out your candles
and watch the smoke rise weakly toward the ceiling.
Did you see the migrant combing through the fields so
late in the day that his sweat looked like halos around his
head.
Did you see the homeless family encamped under the
freeway access, wondering if all of life was just an accident,
a fate to be erased.
Did you see the mothers with holes in their calendars
where festive parties should have lived.
Do you see the fathers flogging themselves to pay
for the sins the gravel preachers could not be expunged.

If you will see them you may be able to love them.
If you hear them, you will find the medicine you need to
heal your disorders before you ever invent any for them.
Let the days bring you home again and let the nights
invite you to explore more than the partisan breath
that loads the shoulders of those who have already carried
labors and lesions, sadness and seasons of gray which
never seem to change.

Will you see in them the God you insist you love with
all your heart? Will you spend the time? Will you make a day?
Will you send them invitations to walk the forest paths with you,
to breath the misty air with you,
to dine seaside like royalty or family
listening to the seagulls fight over scraps of food.
Will you open every locked thought you’ve had
and remake your household with a faith that refuses
to walk past anyone without

A breath of wonder that you learned the lessons of love
too late. And you exhaled the dust from your unstuck
throat and found a sandwich to share with another child
of God
along the road or sleeping on the sidewalk. And learn
that their story is deeper than time or apprehensions ever
allowed.

With Joy Our Common Chord

With Joy Our Common Chord

(“Be in agreement with one another. Do not be proud; instead, associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own estimation.” Romans 12:16)

If you inspect long enough, you’ll come across my worst
faults. They are not hidden, though I don’t wear them like
a banner day to day. Some people hide them, don’t they,
and burst into slowing hearts to declare they are only their
to fix the situation.

Others call before they visit and once they arrive, they
show their delight in our friendship, knowing every failure
On my platter. We don’t laugh; we have both been caught short.
We don’t laugh at our light sentences, we laugh because we
share the same humiliation we once thought other people deserved.

I am ready to ride. I am ready to walk downtown with sandwiches.
I am ready to befriend the homeless with nowhere to go.
I am ready to wait for the next boot to drop.
But until then, with joy our common chord,
we will invite the friendless, and take their loneliness
into our own being for an hour.

There is a student at the high school who is transitioning.
Some parents forgot to instruct the children in understanding and
empathy. Some parents attending meetings, pleading for
simple kindness toward them. It is everyone who knows everything
that keeps our world from the warmth of humble words
and wisdom’s love. I’d sit at table with you, spend the day with you,
and listen carefully to your heart, and hear your story like
it was always the first time I had heard it. If you wept,
so would I. If you laughed with joy, I would join you.

I’ll join the dawn with the same resolutions. Nothing controlling my
mind
except for the universal, uncompromising love of God. I will
find the sorrows and join them as long as I can.

Between the Stars and Planets

Between the Stars and Planets

(“I’m now eighty years old. Can I discern what is pleasant and what is not? Can your servant taste what he eats or drinks? Can I still hear the voice of male and female singers?” 2 Samuel 19:35a)

Late into the day the light dims and the sounds around us
are interpreted by the rattling cages of hopeful listening.
We once heard the frogs calling by the pond,
the owls hooting above the trees,
the folksongs sung by young lovers in the meadow.
We remembered that though our children thrive,
our footsteps have become more halting and we
wish we could twirl like them in playful squeals.

We had spent the prime of our days like castles built
above canyon walls. We had armed ourselves with word
after
word, and forgot most of them by the end of the day.
We explored food and the music that accompanied it.
We recited memorized planets from first to last and
all the asteroids dancing between them. We had a way
to look at the sky that discerned between the stars and the
planets and could see well past the end of space, at least
in our minds.

We stayed up late with the best of friends, played music
like it was a carousel. We were serious about our joy;
we played the homemade cassette over and over, two
sisters harmonizing to simple guitar accompaniment.
They sang of oil anointing the head, of sheep imitating
the shepherd and all of it so simple we dove into the songs
like angels swooping the skies.

Today the voices are crackling, the fingers are swollen and
the lyrics escape me. But I remember the people, the warm
smiles
we could wait all day to see, the voices that calmed our
unnecessary anxiety, our uncanny laughter at the silliest of jokes.
Today we would wait even longer because we are spread
across the miles like dots on a map spread across the floor.
And our days are warmer for the joy of our youth.
Some days the evening claims too many of our memories,
but sometimes, unexpectedly, a friend calls to say,
“I miss you.” And you can hear the music one more time.

An Uncaptured Bird

An Uncaptured Bird

(“For Christ is the end of the law, with the result that there is righteousness for everyone who believes.” Romans 10:4)

The sounds that surrounded you were solid
as they recited every rule you had ever learned.
You thought it was freedom, but it was a prison cell instead.
You thought your efforts gave you wings and forgot
how the remains piled up and held you down.
You insisted you were open and untamed but everyone
saw you tied down by all the effort you took to prove
how you could break through every yoke,
see through every strand, stand on the precipice of
pirouettes like magnets unwinding every attempt
you took to prove yourself, to convince yourself that
every vow you took could be an endless loop of
righteousness. You believed that every hour of prayer
turned your solitude into rhinestones of proclamations.

You were not untrue; you were only bidden by
recoiled words that suggested what you learned was
hidden
from the unconscious and uncommitted. You imagined
you were flying with your feet nailed to the ground.
You partook of the cups of canon rule and never gave up
on your attitudes of holy effort.
You only fastened your hopes to how much better
you had become.

There was a freedom only measured by confidence that
you no longer needed to show off for the everlasting or
the mortal. You stood like the light of day, like the light
dew of the morning, and felt the breeze rise beneath
your wings as you stood and leaned back into the
grace that, unattainable, had enveloped you,
from beginning to now,
without you noticing it. And the joy filled
your lungs, and the wings flew like an
uncaptured bird carrying its song toward
the sun, toward the sun. And the bird carried its
song free on the breeze and singing like
a zephyr celebrating the day.

You Had Little Choice

You Had Little Choice

(“For this is the word of promise, “At this time I will come, and Sarah shall have a son.” Romans 9:9)

This cannot make up for the promises I made;
I always hope to be better, to play the scales more carefully,
to walk the log across the stream more cautiously.
I probably should have stood up for myself when
seated in front of a dozen accusers trying to get to
the bottom of my offense.
I never defended the charges, never insisted I was
innocent.
But I lived with a crowd of people pushing my pedigree
like they were judges waiting for my next indecent apology.

There is no one to blame but myself. My only wish would
have been for a phone call now and then, not to catch me
in a verbal twist of fate, but to prove there was grace when
I was convinced there was none.

Sometimes babies are born by accident; sometimes they
come like blurry little hailstorm. Some come right on time
and some drag their feet when entering this world.

Sometimes children hide in plain sight, thinking they
are invisible. Sometimes adults shroud their intentions thinking
their privilege projects their intentional interrogation that
sucks all the faith from the room.

You cannot stop the coming nativity,
you cannot prevent the child that is to come.
There is preventing the birth that accompanies
the dawn.

After the pledges come the completion.
The acceptance following the words pregnant
with promises. There are no more words to surround
your preoccupation with squeezing the souls of miscreants
like sweltering lemons in the sun.

You had little choice; we all know that. You had fewer
options than we understood. And yet, and yet,
even the sinners can be cured by a word, or maybe two,
about babies that carry on the unfinished consequences
created by God’s partnership with mere humans who,
surprise or not, trip themselves up, stubbing their toes
like toddlers learning to walk.

Words in Single File

 
Words in Single File

(“They will be my people, and I will be their God.” Jeremiah 32:38)

Hungry and breathing on our own,
we played darts in the low-light bar.
We never saw the bullseye, never scored
a winning high. All our research had come to this:
The water was green as jade and the air puffing
like tobacco ash.

Walking and waiting in the sun,
we looked for frisbees on the browning meadow.
We never threw it into the brambles, though
we picked some black berries to share.
Nearly winter now and our thinking came this:
dogs are the perfect companions for Autumn
afternoons
when we saw winter looming high above the hills.

We adopted new languages we all could learn,
angelic saying and quotations of the sages.
We came out of the corners when we heard
the sun raise its head; just a single ray
piercing through the clouds.

Forgive my for being here before,
I don’t think I had learned the lesson.
But no one offered me a beer when my
thirst is all I could feel. Some stayed around
for a few more orbits, some jumped off at
the first stop of the sky wagons we flew.

We can be family; we can be sheltered.
We can withdraw the blame that rose from
the words of those helter-skelter ones who wore
gloves to sanitize the entire procedure.

All he wanted, (I should write in the first person)
All I wanted was words in single file,
inviting me to the party again. But, with their
enhanced theology I never stood a chance.
I am guilty, I’ve known that longer than the
accusers’ memory. But that does not exempt
(you or me) from covenants of siblings, of
celebrations of family.

On the Telephone Wires

 On the Telephone Wires

(“For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” Jeremiah 29:11)

 

Stuck inside that space between longing and hope
I felt the deepness of Autumn walking December
through the cedars and pines. And my heart,
silent like a dog sleeping during the day,
hoped for so much more that could be imagined.

We made the arrangements the best way that we could;
we never imagined that no one would show up,
that everyone acted as if they had never heard.
We were surprised when there were 100 birds
lined up on the telephone wires.

We spent most of the day watching our imaginations
wander away. We listened for the words that
silence could not douse. We listened for the songs
that sounded like home, that translated every word
into a language we always understood.

It doesn’t take much to move me off-center so far
from home; a password forgotten, a car driven to slow,
a name you remember but who has neglected you.
I am too old for tears, and someone would surely say,
“get over it”. But I cannot remember what it might be
with my memories becoming o so muddy.

So I turn toward the sun and remember it is
hiding behind the shrouds in the sky, the
gray fog that makes its home halfway
up the hills.
I know we return one day and until then
I’ll read and hope, write and condense my
longings onto paper. I’ll commit them all
to song carried along by tomorrow’s freshening
plainsong breeze.

The Space Between Us

 

The Space Between Us

(“Offer the parts of your body to God to be used in doing good.” Romans 6:13b)

I would have shown up, I think you know that.
I would have given you everything you needed,
everything I have that could heal your broken heart.
I would never hold back,
never blame you for the uncured wounds you carry
like hastily written plans for a defensee strateghy to
keep you from being hurt again.

You knew I would show up. And that is why
I wonder where your words for me have gone.
I would walk as long as it takes to be by your side,
to write the letter that sets it all straight, to
line up the sights so you can see the distant
daylight again. I would point you toward the full moon
filling the wintery darkness with new light.

I know it must still hurt for you because it
still hurts for me. Oh for that one last conversation
where we hug like it means something and we walk away
with tears or smiles. Oh for the open words that
salve the wounds that cripple us like walkers on the road.

Here is my hand, offer my yours. Here is my heart,
still pained over things I can never change. Share with me
your own heart
and pernaps that days will shine brighter

We are both beautiful, you and I, and have been
since before we met and we doubted our worth.
I, me, thou and thee. We are pronouns to everyone else,
but given names to each other. I call your name and you
speak mine and we get closer to resolving the unhappy
nature that led us to doubt the intimate cradling
that surrounds the universe, that invites us all to
discovers the space between us immeasurable.

Announcing the Dawn

Announcing the Dawn

(“This hope will not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” Romans 5:5)

Shades of pale blue christened the opening sky;
there were songbirds waiting for the dawn to begin.
The were ready on their branches, attentive at the stations
to usher in the first rays of sun.

While we wait to awake from a dreamless night there
are hearts beating the overnight timing. Can you repeat
the stories we have memorized as children.
Would you repeat them like nursery rhymes?

Are we listening for the Spirit to usher us to the
middle aisle. Are we ready to finally admit how
empty we have begun. Are we waiting for the
fullness that will make us complete? All I know
is feeling full at the table is better than the pronouncements
of patent lawyers telling how it is supposed to be.

I’ve got the evidence in my hand;
I’ve got the witness within my breathing.
I am away now and the Spirit, already dwelling
within like a dove in a box; I understand now
the nearness that is closer than the implications
of dust.

Someone sent me a postcard engraved with gold
and love and it arrived just in time to show me
how fulness feels, how the dove coos,
how hope, fragile and strong, would never
be without breath, without life,
without the opening song of the robin
announcing the dawn.

How Narrow the Places

How Narrow the Places

(“Or does God belong only to Jews? Doesn’t he belong to the nations as well? Yes, of course, to the nations as well.” Romans 3:21)

How can we narrow the places God inhabits;
how can we design a temple so exclusive that there are
more waiting to get in than mumble prayers within.
How many children belong to you, only the first two
and not the last?

Heaven delights in every song of the nations,
from leaps and tambourines to dulcimer sounds in
the mountains. Where do you think God
exists if not in your neighbor, if not in the
sounds of relief once the plague has run its course.
Would you withhold bread because they come
to you with a different language, vowels and verbs you
misunderstand. No one should need to beg to
be loved in this glorious family. No one should be
left out in the cold.

Take me up so I can see the wide expanse of your
invitation. Elevate my eyes to perceive the eyes
of your children brighter than the ocean reflecting the sun.

Listen, my darlings, and you will hear the music that
resonates among the stars and spheres; enjoy the
sound of
divine creation that began far before our false
divisions claimed that others had
deceived us with their worship, and we were
truly the only, decidedly the foremost of
those formed by heaven.

But like two dancers in the night, while the moon
smiles above an endless sky;
perhaps we will perceive the inclusivity of the
Kingdom we thought we were fighting for.

The Old Paths

 The Old Paths

(“Yet my people have forgotten me and offered sacrifices to worthless idols. This makes them stumble along in the way they live and leave the old reliable path of their fathers. They have left them to walk in bypaths, in roads that are not smooth and level.” Jeremiah 18:15)

What made us choose a road so unknown?
What made us turn away from the beloved highway?
Did we think we would find
something to soothe our minds
and unfold our wandering hearts?

Our parents were our navigators, for
better or worse,
but we chose our own way with views of the
valley and the desert beyond.

We gave up our perch on the mountain,
we abandoned the well-worn paths.
We found the old ways tired with tradition;
we needed a change, to our ambition.

But we hear a word coming from all the
points of the compass,
we see full spectrum what we thought we
had seen before.
It dawned on us as another sun set,
that the light and dark, the moon and sun,
the stars and galaxies, the sand and the dirt
were here long before we thought we were experts
of navigation.

We had shredded our maps and set out on our own,
only to be lost once the first tree of forest was
behind us.

But we heard a word saying, “Here is the way,
walk in it.” We were alerted this time, rested from
our funk and frivolity. We chose the way we
barley saw and followed the voice that
transcended it all.

Like Picking Up Fall Leaves

Like Picking Up Fallen Leaves

(“He told her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed from your illness.’” Mark 5:24)

She had heard the stories like picking up
fallen leaves from the lawn. She had wished for
them
and turned her face to feel the sun.
She knew the sweet fragrance of new cut hay.
She gave away every resemblance to her younger days;
she tried to remember them like sunshine before the rain.

But the day it all began, she cannot remember the date,
but she still knows the moment when her body betrayed her,
when it gave way to a disease so chronic it threatened
to become her. The walls closed in on her isolation
while she heard the accusations that she must have failed
someone along the line to carry such a persistent haze.
The day it became and this day were connected like a
seam of blood-red thread encompassing everything.

She longed to sing in the choir again, her solo voice
had torn her up and down. She wanted the voices beside her,
resonating with her own alto altogether.

But she had heard the stories, and then she heard the throng.
Was it him? Would he walk though her neighborhood?
She listened as the airborne mixture of mere humanity
floated through her window. She caught a glimpse of him
and, hope for hope, she halted, seconds waiting like a
statue coming free.

“If only” she thought. And she continued to wonder as she
felt her feet leave for the front door. She must move stealthily,
between the bodies pressing in to see him. It would be easy to
be silent
while the crowd shouted and murmured for attention.

“If only” she decided. And walked between the narrow
lanes of bodies. She moved with purpose, her fingers
tingling with possibility. Within a couple of steps,
she reached our her hand to touch just the robe along the hem.

She turned around to return home, her sickness destroyed in
that single contact, but he spoke. “Who touched me?” Before
he even spoke shoe knew she as well.

And so this daughter, on a day of grace and faith
went in peace and found a few devoted friends to share
coffee in the afternoon.
She was once wooden clogs and now is
Cinderella’s slippers.

For Your Aching Wounds

For Your Aching Wounds

(“Surely there is some medicine in Gilead. Surely there is a doctor in Gilead. So why are the wounds of my people not healed?” Jeremiah 8:22)

I awoke to the same pain that plagued me day after day,
a heart pain, a soul pain, longing for awakening.
There it was, after all this time, an offer for healing in
the middle of tears flowing like rain. Oh, how little faith
must I have to
imagine
Jesus asleep in the boat while the storm rages.
Jesus laughing with friends while I feel unhealed.
I have plenty to eat but feel I am starving. (Can the
reader relate?) Are your hands splintered from pulling
too hard at the oars? Are you bruised from the hilts
and hints of swords? Are you weary from the way
the pebbles soar from the sling?

There is a balm for your aching wounds. There is
a salve for the open hurts that linger too long.
There is a day when healing arrives on the wings
of a love too transparent to ignore. Once there was a time
when we ignored the kindness divine that flooded
heaven and earth,
but now we have nearly drowned in the mercy flowing
from hills to dells and taste the offering of hope.

We shift and turn our aching tunes toward the one
who has changed our name to fit the family we nearly
walked away from. All the broken ones stand in
amazement and find the healing promised to
every son of daughter of the white sands of an
endless sea.

Loan Me Some Seed

Loan Me Some Seed

(“And when sown, it comes up and grows taller than all the garden plants, and produces large branches, so that the birds of the sky can nest in its shade.” Mark 4:32)

I began by wanting to ask you for a loan,
but I do not need money, I do not need bills,
I wanted you to loan me some seed that would grow
within my sorrowing soul. That would grow like it was
in nurturing soil. I’ve spent afternoons napping
and reading until my head ached too badly to continue.
I wish you could loan me something living that
could clear my head. The fog is bursting from within
the places between my brain and the rest of me.
I’ve settled in trying to compensate for this disabled
exposition with words written like togas wrapped around
my heart. I was a taller tree once, some time ago.
But then the drought hit and I could not survive;
the dangers were all around, waiting to seduce me
into another faithless action of cowardice. I turned around.
I don’t ask for much anymore, just a few trinkets,
sharing a beer at the bar, driving in the hills,
a cadre of cadets who carry no agendas but only ask
for light to guide the way.

Come in for a drink, come in for a story, tell me about your day,
tell me about the joy you remember from the days I have forgotten.
Sit down across from me, let me see your eyes;
let me hear the syllables like seeds dying into the ground.
Sow in me the mercy you have experienced;
take me as mere as mud and make me a planting place
for branches large enough for the birds of the air to
to roost upon, finding shade from the heat.

If you will do this tiny thing for me, I would be
eternally grateful. I don’t deserve great offers of dollars,
just simple seeds in the dirt that lays here in the dark.

You Can Choose

You Can Choose

(“’In that day, declares the Lord, ‘the king and the officials will lose heart, the priests will be horrified, and the prophets will be appalled.’” Jeremiah 4:9)

You were playing games and changing the rules;
you were throwing the dice disguising the results with
light flashing like saber tooth tigers competing for survival.
You thought your prayers were the answer when you
filled the altar with dead words and loud admonishments.

You who proclaimed the end of days, will you be ready
for your justice to come calling? You were ready to deport
every dark-skinned neighbor over their birthplace a half
century before. When God meets you at the end of the road,
what will you say to justify the cruelty your declarations
incited?

You kings, you should never have imagined you were monarchs
giving matches to strangers to burn down the meager cottages
of the poor. From the throne to the backyard chickens, you
thought you reigned with impunity. Instead, it will be you
who will lose heart when you see the hand of God reducing
your words to sawdust to trample underfoot.

Take a breath you purveyors of underhanded mischief.
There is still a chance for your redemption. Walk away
from the conflagration you have created with
heat of your hatred. You thought you would never be
found out, that no one would see the loathing you
learned despite it all. You had your chances;
your stances were arrows aimed from your thrones,
and you thought they only advanced your cause.

You can choose today how you will learn the dirges of
the disheartened. You can change your tune; you can
unfold your cartoon character and feel the pangs of
hunger your policies have caused.

You can choose today. Look into the eyes of the One
who sees everything.
You can choose today.

The Dancing of the Restored

The Dancing of the Restored

(“Healthy people don’t need a doctor. It is the sick who need a doctor. I did not come to invite good people. I came to invite sinners.” Mark 2:17b) 

You have diminished the rooms of the righteous,
and there is no more space for perfection. Then
we will learn the loneliness of the soul that keeps us
from looking others in the eye. We look up,
make a tiny connection, then gaze at the ground from
of fear of being found out. What would they see behind
our imperfect eyes. 

  Remember when our wounds were our trophies,
when the only way to the light was through the hole in our soul?
Remember the meals we have shared where people watch
through the teeny cracks in the doors? Remember how our
hearts were full as our eyes beheld the rays of light that
passed through the windows in the gray wall interior?
Remember the food abundant,
the wine pouring like springs from the stone? 

We never recovered until we knew the diagnosis
included our inattention to detail and our desire to
stand front and center
with applause coming from all around the room. 

We were not shamed into this. It was only as long
as we felt we deserved the top of the mountain
and we never admitted our disease. Once we knew
how the valley held the answers we thought only
belonged to the heights we started our hike to
the lower places where the granite meets the
meadows. 

We discovered the dancing of the restored,
the joy of sinners whose hearts, redeemed and whole,
have learned to celebrate even when the sun has disappeared
behind the mountain peaks.

It Should Be Second Nature

It Should Be Second Nature

(“The Spirit of the Almighty Lord is on me, because he has chosen me to serve him. He has sent me to tell good news to poor people. He has sent me to comfort people who are very upset. He has sent me to tell prisoners that they are now free. They can go out of their prisons!” Isaiah 61:1) 

It should be second nature, this message for the poor;
it should be our constant theme, this raising their banner.
Now in spiritual affluence, gone is the poverty that others
placed around your necks making you lie face down in the dust. 

It should be our first response, this comfort for the distraught;
it should be our song most joyous, this melody of delight.
Now with their wounds assuaged, gone are the deepest cuts,
the hardest to heal. Now only trust that scars are simple reminders
of healing. 

It should be our primary work, this demolishing of prisons;
it should be our loud refrain, setting the prisoners free.
Now with bars broken, gone is the isolation that kept
you bound in perpetual darkness. Walk free, walk out,
sing your ballads of abandon above the mountains. 

There is contentment ordered from heaven,
there is room to roam for once proclaimed from above.
While you thought every word that kept you captive
was a divine decree, the words came that set you free
and what you never dreamed became true on the day
the prophet spoke the way of love that meets us closer
than from the future they feared. Their deliverance is
their legacy. 

It should be celebrated, this image of joy skipping
underneath the sky.

Stuck on the Floor

Stuck on the Floor

(“I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” Isaiah 57:15b) \

i would do anything to ease your pain,
to sit with you while you struggle to breathe.
I would not utter a word, because each syllable would be
an
intrusion into your grief.
I know there is nothing than can ease your pain. 

How do we lose someone precious,
where do we take our sorrow?
Where can we find the end of our heartache
when the end of a beloved comes too soon? 

What if we could have prevented it, what if
we asked him to stay longer so the intersection
where he met the t-boning truck was free and clear?
What if, what if, what if, we had prayed harder? 

We never pray hard enough, do we?
We beg heaven after the events, but sound like
silk on the days before. Is God that angry;
did God take away the apple of my eye
because I found faith to flee too often? 

Did he look both ways, did he have a lapse in judgment?
Did I rush him out the door, did I call him home too soon?
I cannot breathe, the air is lead. I cannot bear
to see another face when mine is crushed and
wrinkled. Everything that is wrong in the world has
landed on me and I fear I may never breathe the same again. 

Don’t tell me God is with me now. Don’t tell me God
works
in mysterious ways. I am subtracted, I am absent,
I am divided from myself, I am stuck on the floor and
wanting to be alone for days and days.
It is all too new for your Scriptures and your prayers. 

  It is all too new.

Like Picnics in the Shade

Like Picnics in the Shade

(“How beautiful is the person who comes over the mountains to bring good news, who announces peace and brings good news, who announces salvation and says to Jerusalem, ‘Your God is King.’” Isaiah 52:7)

The bridge spanned the ford
beneath greening skies.

The feet were beautiful along
the bluing banks.

The sky was descending along the
redding horizon.

The announcement of freedom was a prism full
of promise. Was a leap across the river.
Was a well-timed emancipation. Was a
well of water upon our parched tongues.

We had been disconnected. We were dejected
most days, sunny or haze. We knew the way
home
but the roads were well-guarded.

We started the inward journey as soon as we
understood that
no one could harm us on this way of open meadows.
No one could boast of conquering us like dust.
We were learning that trust looked a lot like
siestas in the sun.

We rejoiced like cranberry sky, strawberry wine,
and honeydew. We held our voices higher than
we had in epochs of time. We heard the message
and sang the words like an anthem of deliverance.
We spoke like we had know for years that we
were no longer captives, though we felt, sooner than
later
that we were imprisoned outside the fault lines
of mediocrity. We heard the news announced like liberty
unrestricted. And we shared it like picnics in the shade.