The Silence Spoke Volumes

The Silence Spoke Volumes

(“(He) gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” 1 Corinthians 11:24)

The moment was intimate, the silence spoke volumes,
yet we felt like strangers, caught beneath the weight of his words.
There was a line that went out from him through all of us,
there were tears unbidden for we knew not why they came.
There were days we were so obtuse we missed the meaning
by miles.
But tonight we felt so helpless, like we should have grasped the meaning,
we should have joined in the metaphor,
we should have pieced the parable together.

We did take the bread, that was the custom. It was his words that
caused our confusion. We remembered the words that
admonished us before for missing the point. What should
we say now?
We were better off silent.

It was subliminal, it was suggested and silent but
when the bread was broken, we could not understand
how the body was his bread, how the bread was his body,
and now, the silent part, we were also broken and given.

Our throats were frozen, our words garbled, our vocabulary
suddenly so limited we could choose no coherent response.
We sat in the moment and could not dream a future without
him breaking bread with us again. Was that what he was hinting?
We could not conjure a memory that would invade our quiet
misunderstandings.

You asked us to remember, a simple act we thought we could do.
We had not planned on you leaving so soon.
But, if you are given for us, break us open like bread to
spread us across the meadows and plains to help others
remember you, here and there, again.

We Took the Backstreets

We Took the Backstreets

We took the backstreets too often
trying not to be seen, hoping not to be heard.
We were convinced that everyone was happier than
we deserved and so we made the shadows our friends.
We deserved nothing brighter than the alleys,
or so we thought. The spotlight blinded us and sent
us scattered across the way. What would they say when
they saw us dressed so differently from them, handsewn
rags from mediocre wardrobes. We never thought the songs
were for us and so we never memorized the lyrics.

We took the long way home nearly every time we
returned. What would we say to those who thought
they knew us and paused to chat or ask us questions,
or insist we swallow some offered food with them.
We should have trusted them. But we had trusted others
and their food nearly poisoned us right in front of everyone.

We had no way to measure the honesty of the light we met
along the way. He had no means to assess what harm there
might be in giving them space within our shivering minds.
We had been treated as paupers before, morsels received from
clenched hands. So we found ourselves suspecting every
motion from shoulder to elbow to hands.

We would give anything to walk through the neighborhood,
stop at the cul-de-sac and chat with the children and puppies
with eyes happy to see ours. We would throw our hearts wide
open to let the better words lodge as their parents saw us and
laughed along with our improvised conversations. Maybe the
light can shine again, maybe we can come out of the shadows,
take the front road and not the alley. Maybe the pain we
experienced
was inflicted by people with as much pain as ours. Maybe
there was a place to play like sunny afternoons in meadows
that musically laugh the healing songs of human bonds. The
clash we once felt might be the beginning of lively moments of
daily discovery like a child finger-painting the sky.

Springing from Within

Springing from Within

(“But if someone loves God, it is certain that God has already known that one.” 1 Corinthians 8:3)

Suddenly the air was clearer, the skies without fear,
the echoes without terror. What we were used to hearing was
war muted by the long lines of melody played over the
top of the clouds like a violin motif inviting us home.

We felt it like love streaming in tropical dreams,
like a mother’s nickname for her newborn child.
We simply sampled what had been offered from
eternity past into late night conversations loosened by
a couple of glasses of wine.

How lovely is the handiwork, the sculptured horizons,
the landscapes of brilliance and the offers of peace
on earth. Why we had ignored it made no sense to
some who had hummed that tune from their earliest
breaths.

But for others those days gave way to harsh assessments
of diving expectations, adopting overbearing stances
like brick walls disguised as fences. But some refused
to let go of their notions of liberation, their images of
deliverance. For them every heartbeat was another reason
to sing the most astounding of songs. Eyes upturned,
their hands were full to share the food and warm words
to the onlookers simply hoping for something better than
hyper-critical evaluations of the crowds.

They knew the jargon but found it empty. They
used to use the same language too. But, astounding,
and alarming, the moment their hearts had turned the
old dialect was found wanting
and empty on the scales of exuberance.

Now, where once there were armaments of warfare in
the names of their god
they found and sang and walked the ground like
pilgrims and nothing more. Their nothingness was
turned to cantatas of simple tones that toddlers
could learn and fill the rooms with unqualified love without
judgment. A new song of emancipation springing from within.

Danced Like Toddlers

Danced Like Toddlers

(“As soon as I heard the sound of your voice, the baby inside me jumped for joy.” Luke 1:44)

Could all this mean that we were born to be dancing,
scooting around the rhythmic floor with higher dimensions?
Could our feet move at the first sentence sent from the
purest hearts? Could our hands clap at the sound of the
leaves falling for joy? I’ve fallen for stories like this before,
and was sometimes deeply disappointed. But what if we still
were meant to listen for the next story, then turn our ears
toward the familiar music with a new way of hearing. We hear
the frequencies as we listen with new angles, as we attend to
the old tunes with simple guitar and drum and feel like
sliding all the way across the ballroom.

The pulses of joy rearranged our thinking,
the words barely full-throated and we were ready.
The echoes off the walls and mountains, the repeated
verses from peak to peak celebrate
a dawn like no other. A day hardly begun
and we are ready to walk the way we had
hoped to follow so many ages ago.

We swore we had attempted it, we remembered
the day it left us behind. We mourned our losses,
we grieved the silent pain. We could not resurrect
a single note of the ancient song.

But this refrain, reframed in such solitary silhouette,
opened the cracks where the light had filtered
in for ages. But now, unhindered, the music drew us
to cacophonous celebrations. Oh, that we were still young
enough
to cartwheel across the yard. Our voices are aging
and barely find the notes, but it matters less than the
dancing that renewed our crooked feet. That day when
the song crept in to find us in our darkened caverns
was the day we walked into the light, finally, in years. And
old as we were from the hiding and cold, we danced
like toddlers trying to hop for the very first time.

Across the Great Expanse

Across the Great Expanse

I stood on the steps and gazed across the
great expanse stretched from yawning valleys
to sheltered coves. The complexities sent me
spinning. I’ve had days when all I do is
remember people 50 years ago whose names
I once spoke out loud. I watched you laugh
dozens of times from corner to corner dodging
the looks of thawing foothills. We followed them
there
and hiked the slopes like we were as harmless
as we looked.
We cheered the occasional thunderstorms that
scattered us across the landscape. We counted the
seconds between flash and boom and knew they were
getting closer as hair stuck to our heads dripping rain
from our faces to our shoulders.
We slid down the fall line, mud escorting us to
the flattened overviews where we wondered why
the cows didn’t follow our downward adventure.

What I miss is the bliss that rises from the thought
of one simple day acting like a child who wants to be
an adult. The sweet adolescence when everything mattered
but nothing was sacred. The time of our lives when
we treated scat and the blues and rock and jazz like
parts of a whole we imbibed like wine.

What I miss are conversations till midnight, slightly
tipsy;
just enough to make the truth come out. And we
dabbled in open-source voices and sounded out our
serious vowels as if they were jokes looking for a
punch line. I miss talking with you and thinking we
knew everything about what was to come.

Shall we meet up at the park where our kites
would fly above us, and where salamanders soaked
in the sun on the banks of the stream? I’ll meet you there,
these many years later, and see if we can recreate the
scenes we once shared without fear, sharing them like
warm sun that begs our hearts open fully and unafraid
to laugh at how silly we are at these late days of our lives.

Unsnapped

Unsnapped

(“To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless.” 1 Corinthians 4:11)

I became unsnapped from everything that
held me tightly,
untethered from the orbits that explained everything.
The strings of lights hung from the eaves,
the deer wandered through the yard. I was
learning to walk, to explore, to live like a
vagabond, a drifter, a nomad. We were better
at being ragamuffins than royals, so we pulled
up an old folding chair and wondered what the singing
was about.
We were enriched in our poverty,
homed in our wandering, healed with balms
of lowly scents from the muddled petals from
flowers that grew in the forest.

The truth is, I always feared being poor.
And I missed the beloved’s smile that looked on
my paucity as a gift. What should I give away
to know your love deeper than I have before?

Once again, I hold onto the things that have escaped my grasp,
the memories that were felt so deeply that they
color my moods like finger-painting.  It is too late
to learn to play a new instrument or think about
buying one. I should play even if I play alone,
leaving the sound to encase the walls of my sitting,
to gently adorn angels I imagine live between the
strings of my mandolin.

I unzipped myself from velcro attachments and
found, though poorer, my days were fuller than I knew,

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.