Of Feasting and Wine

Of Feasting and Wine

(“Jesus said to them, ‘I am the Bread of Life. He who comes to Me will never be hungry. He who puts his trust in Me will never be thirsty.’” John 6:35)

Nourish my soul again like an apéro in France to enhance
my waiting for the later feast that would fill us until deeply
slumbering.
Brighten my eyes with refreshment like waters from the
mountain spring that set my mind to waking refreshed.
I feel hollowed out, not listless, but unsure of where the
next step should go. I feel ready to meet a dozen questioners
who laugh between bites and sometimes sing when the
meal is over.
I never wanted to take my meals solitary, but avoided
the call to ordered
groups
that met over stir fry and casseroles to revisit their
latest protestations about everything they thought was their
proper use of their locked up Spirit of God.

Their meals made me blush, my face, sometimes red
with hurt and anger held back, wishing I had not joined
their buffet. I found their sustenance wanting,
I found their repasts repeating words that had already found
their targets with arrows sharper that truth. I arrived
late
to avoid as many of their scattered incantations as I could.

If only I could find some, even merely two or three,
who would share a meal in joyful reverence, in laughter
that is
invitational,
in stories told about stones overturned while preparing
their flower gardens.
We knew their roses were the most fragrant in town.

Even the rain outside my window cannot muffle
the water being poured out over our wounds. Even the
clouds could not cover the waiting in our hearts for your
eternal food. I can taste it on my tongue, this new dish
served that never runs out. I can feel it running down my
throat, this new wine that revives the weariness that weighed
heavy in the air.

Full, complete, revived and ready to meet the
path I will walk today. The new energy caught up with
me and pointed me to the next banquet of joy.
I’ll show up early and hopefully hear another
traveler’s tale
of feasting and wine.

Unexplained Lunches

Unexplained Lunches

(“So they collected them, and filled twelve wicker baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves that had been more than they could eat.” John 4:26)

We wondered and pondered our way around the fields;
nothing escaped our pierced view. Cannily we knew that
just a few moments ago there were unexplained lunches
on the lawn.
We walked the aisles between children and easily
saw the sun in their eyes, never going down too early.
We were unprepared to serve the crowds sitting on the lawn.
Voluntarily we moved among them,
we had read the books before, memorized the scripts
and repeated them like expanding ideas etched on the sand.

Some were meager, some were scarce, some were simply
the median expression of daily hunger. But all showed up
to hear something like an invitation to the biggest dayclub
ever known. We sat like sundials measuring the time across
eventual horizons. We recognized our names in the
phasing of everything we remembered and some of what
we should have forgotten.
We thought of antique monuments erected while we
waited for the closing prayer. We wrote poetry in the mud.

Every basket was filled; every mouth was smiling.
We noticed the atmosphere had changed and so
midair
we promised we would gather without waste;
we would serve without fainting and would remember the
stories that fully adorned the day.

Concrete Creations

Concrete Creations

(“Even before time began God planned for Christ Jesus to show kindness to us.” 2 Timothy 1:9a)

I woke up with nothing to do and stayed that way
till far after noon. I sip my coffee; I drink loads of water because
my physicians are making sure I do. So, religiously I put ice in a glass,
pour the water and drink four or five glasses a day. If you read this would
you be kind enough to attest to this with my favorite practitioners?

It is not entirely true that I have nothing to do,
my fingers are tapping out these words, aren’t they?
But I forced myself to sit here today although there seems to be
little of the artisan words I desire to punch out of my brain.
And perhaps grace covers that. Perhaps grace fills the starved
and closed quarters in my mind.

I’ve written about these things for 25 years now and I seem to
have less to say the farther I go along. I had it all down pat,
I knew how to write a riddle or parable. I knew how to turn
the ending in such away that you wanted to stay all day, or
sometimes
you wanted to simply run away.

But I never wrote wanting you to be bored, or to scratch
your head
wondering why this word was glued to that one.
Like the disciples locked up in a room after the resurrection,
I have become a hermit, talking to no one for hours at a time.
I confess my words sound hollow because they come from a hollow
mind. I once
knew what I believed,
and now I am not sure. The pendulum has not swung for me.
Instead I find myself in the middle where it has come to rest with
no movement at all. I wait for the breeze to shift. I pray for breath
I can hear. I wait for the Spirit to be bestowed even though I have
no point of reference to know full I can become.

Truth? I feel empty. Other truth? I feel full. Have I been on a diet
that of so much fast food that I slowly make my way to what would
otherwise, have been inevitable. I must fast a meal or two to open this
place meant to be filled renewed. I must open wide the doors for the grace
to flow through. I must not puzzle over nothing to do; perhaps that is the
best way to receive. Yes, I will breathe. And breathe. And welcome the
grace of the Spirit to fill me complete. I will tell you what these moments
create once they pull me into the reworking of the words I use for art,
even when I am listless.

So I hope to become full of concrete creations that paint sacred
landscapes where holy places can be found.  

Technically the Timing

Technically the Timing

(‘Those who are at ease have contempt for misfortune as the fate of those whose feet are slipping.” Job 12:5)

The timing could not have been more perfect,
technically it should never have happened.
But you find him near the cliff’s precipice and could not
refrain from words that pushed him over the edge.
You had no taste for his tears and so your imagination
ran wild
finding tenured reasons for his downfall.
You thought you could burst the final thought bubble
of peace
he held on to.

You should have known the signs that pointed toward
an uneasy reckoning for careless words without ears.
You forgot the destination he was heading for,
forgot the fate that pointed away from your unsanitized claims.
You tucked it all away like yesterday’s insanity and
quietly went home to your candlelight suppers.
It was too easy for you to ignore the pain so apparent,
the grief so transparent. You purchased your tickets to
calloused hearts and hands.

You only had one thing to do; you had no excuse for
your ignorant betrayal on the sands of indifference.
He hoped to hear hope like a distant waterfall but
all he knew were your uncorked opinions. You poured
out the canister of iced indifference. Your cold
decisions froze him in place while you left him
aching for relief like the rising of a midsummer sun.

You could not have timed it better,
he slid on the icy judgments you left and,
once he fell you could tell how right you had been
all along. You were certain he was guilty of every
heretical handheld encasement. Otherwise, he would not
be so bitter when you ignored him purposely while you
tour the country in your cadillacs of champagne.

A New Place to Listen

A New Place to Listen

(“Do not neglect the gift that is in you, which was given to you by prophecy when the elders laid their hands on you.” 1 Timothy 4:14)

I heard you crying like a child who cannot wake up.
We cradle them until the brightness returns.
We wait for the sun and forget the rain,
we talk until 2 in the morning, we drink coffee
until the same.

Our tears were distilled and run through the mill.
Our weariness overtook every plan we had made.
Could I tell you one more time how it means so
much to me
to have you fan into flame what sometimes disappears
beyond my fenced imagination? I fear sometimes
that insulation has hindered my brain and I’ve forgotten
the exact, the point, the meaning of it all. I want to give
it all away
again.

When we reach so distantly, insisting there must be
a way to discover something new, we play some jazz
and memorize the patterns that improvised over our heads.

I took a bottle of wine to my friend who had cried
for days. He could not put his finger on it, and I knew
less than he,
so we poured our glasses and reminisced on better times.
We recognized in each other’s eyes the questions that had
hemmed us in like concrete. He told me he never imagined
he would turn solo after so long. I was silent, I knew what
he meant.

We once understood the steps in the dance that brought
the delight of heavenly joy. We were players, we were
instrumentalists, we were singers some of the time.
But now we couldn’t find a venue to play. We hummed
a few tunes while we finished our wine and decided to find
a new place to listen to the music we missed and find
one or two who would learn them through like children.
We were ready to be useful again.

Sit With Me Awkwardly

Sit With Me Awkwardly

(“To him who is ready to faint, kindness should be shown from his friend; even to him who forsakes the fear of the Almighty.” Job 6:14)

Your lectures were limitless as you gazed at my pain.
You consulted your books and diagnosed my improbable suffering.
You discussed it amongst yourselves and came to conclusions
no one could understand.
You never sat in my chair but just stood on the porch
launching your next catapult of guilt my way.
Did you ignore my tears
or just think them unmannered as hell?
Did you assume
I forgot heaven’s kiss and turned away far
longer that allowed? Or did you argue with your friends
assuming I had overstayed my grief? You could have spent
more time saying nothing and
I would have sat with you all day.

Who taught you about misery? Whose prayers did you
assume should have healed me? What cures did you offer
before listening to my list of hundreds I have tried?
What courses did you prescribe for me that you left
untested? Did you taste the bitter medicine yourself?
Did you ever cry for companionship while being schooled
like children?

Turn on some music to soothe this ache of mine.
Make it instrumental, make it maximum. Make it
wordless so the notes themselves fill in the spaces
between us. Or just hum a tune,
I don’t have to name it or recognize it.

Or just
sit silent
(awkward, isn’t it?) Just sit silent and let our
breathing synchronize to prove we are still living.

Can you find your way to bear my pain, to shoulder a
handful of the granite that weighs me down? I fear the
absence of God, but your presence and your words only
push God farther away. Will you learn the agony that
burns my brain and then silently be the Christ I need?
Sit with me awkwardly and let us never question the
power of flesh and blood mortality.

To Be Seen in Public

 

To Be Seen in Public

(“May the Master of Peace himself give you the gift of getting along with each other at all times, in all ways. May the Master be truly among you!” 2 Thessalonians 3:16)

 

Veils of asbestos keep us apart in the way that words
remain unheard. All we remember is the last conflict and
how we had been proven right. The judges consulted briefly
and crowned us correct. We stopped talking after that; after
one win
we did not want the chance that we might miss the boat.
So beside the cry of the doves cooing, I hear no more arguments
from you.

It is an uneasy peace where no one talks and everyone thinks
there is nothing wrong. I doubt the Prince of peace ever imagined
we would hang a blanket between us to unsolve any future conflict.
There was a time when we walked together through a torrent of rain
and we shared the one umbrella we had. We were still soaked, but
only strategically.

But we forgot the words somewhere along the way. We left and
went our own path after the rain. We ran into each other downtown,
just a block from a mega million-dollar church. We greeted each other,
the obligatory hug, and shared updates since the storm. Then
we walked away again.

I heard you had lost your beloved, the one of your dreams, the one who
clung to you in every challenge of conscience. You were both in
a scrappy sort of love. There was no perfect picture way to describe it.
But love had battled hard and it hit you deep and sharp when she
lost the last battle of life.

I reached through the blanket that separated us, I tried to find your heart.
I spoke words of sorrow, wrote odes of remembrance, but there
was no sound from your side, no response to the offer of consolation.
It is an uneasy peace the relies on silence. It begs the questions
we never asked.

I am still here, and you are still there. Who knows how much
longer we have. Let us walk to the coffee shop around 2,
let ourselves be seen in public, and recount the ways we had
walked together so often we knew the route by heart. And
if the silence is because of me, I will beg your forgiveness. And
If it is due to you, all I offer are my hands outstretched to
the same friend I knew those many years ago. Our
lattes were hot, so we took them outside and walked along
the river. And there, the blanket was blown away by a
swift breeze that caught us by surprise.

The Fog was Ankle Deep

The Fog was Ankle Deep

(“Jesus said to Nathanael, ‘I can guarantee this truth: You will see the sky open and God’s angels going up and coming down to the Son of Man.’” John 1:51)

The fog was ankle deep as the sun
warmed the wet morning asphalt. It slunk like
snake tracks and spoke of something that wrapped
us all up like common denominators, like children returning
from exile. It hinted that we might all have wings if
we only inhabited the thin places where heaven seeps
through.

It makes us doubt our own significance as if the breath
was taken out of our lungs at the very thought that
there may be more than we imagined going on within us.
If the sun can coax land-locked clouds on the ground
why can we not linger while spirit breathes a presence
we had only guessed at until now. What if the very place
we stand
is also an anteroom to the throne? What if we are invited
to enter in like Spring coaxing the cherry tree blossoms?

I’ve stood here before, thinking I needed to knock down the door
and crawl on my hands and knees to prove my piety.
What if the throne is unoccupied? Or what if, instead, it
is filled with the author of nurture? What if every blade of
grass invites us to sing around prayers like maypoles
and mumble inaudible but well-intentioned alleluias?
What if our morning walk is just the start of
the very heartbeat we had been waiting to hear?

Can’t Quit you Jesus

Can’t Quit You Jesus

(“The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” John 1:29)

I can’t quit you Jesus, though
heaven knows I’ve tried. I walked out
of your house where the whoops and hollers
overshadowed the Spirit flowing in living streams of love.
I left behind every edifice where people name
the anti-christ time and time again and call for
armageddon to be fought to prove the fat-armed
god
they serve is ready to return with an ax and sword.

I can’t quit you Jesus, and I
wish I hadn’t waited so long. Disabused and
enlightened by the primeval light I walked out
to hear a quieter persuasion like daffodils smiling
for the sun. I lost you in the sanctuary; my heart was
famished for love. But you vanished from the place
I had always expected to find you free.

I can’t quit you Jesus, and I
know I am not the only one. We were enchanted
by the lover of our souls only to be bowled over
once we wondered how universal it had to be.
Stones were politely thrown at that heresy that
could not see the divisions between A and B.
Borders were drawn so precisely that we knew who
had to be in or out.

But I just can’t quit you Jesus, though I wonder
what the warriors in the pews must think. They
make it so distinct,
like weeds among the rye they are ready to clear them
out to protect their perfect lawn.  I was angry with you
for deceiving me to become such a fool. I started at only love
but the occupants of your house have retuned every chorus to
sound like marching orders. They ran out of time.

I remember dancing with you, Jesus, and my eyes wet
with tears at the thought of your touch. I remember simple
homes where circles were enlarged to make room for the next
outcast to come in from the storm. That’s why these memories
that inform me there must still exist some way that insists
holy kisses can begin a passing of the peace that
leads us to follow a now unfamiliar path. We walked
out and woke up reborn. And usually without a hint of
your permission. But we walked.

I can’t,

I simply can’t,
I cannot even quit your Jesus. I cannot.

Wide Open

Wide Open

(“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was fully God.” John 1:1)

Wide open is where I want to stay,
walking on the paths, laughing daffodils and
seeing your Lyrics in every passing cloud.

Every missile launched rewrites the history
that divine language has conceived. Every
reference to war
erases the First metaphor written in
holy DNA; the life of the Beloved.

Every day is a rehearsal and bids us
memorize
the Song we first heard that caused us to
swoon at the mention of the Prince of Peace.
Every moment bids us to come closer to the
Sound we might have rejected had we
shut our ears to the Song that carried us
from a single spot of dirt on the earth
you created in Artistic collaboration.

Every piercing remark leaves a scar on
the hearts that were meant to dance at the
invitation to war-no-more.

We are curious
and want to hear more. We throw ourselves open
and listen for the beginning from the end,
for the Message you sent from front to back,
around the utter reaches of universal stars to
the patch of earth occupied by two simple feet
learning to Dance anew.

Firstfruits

Firstfruits

(“We will bring the firstfruits of our land and of every fruit tree to the Lord’s house year by year.” Nehemiah 10:35)

We took it all and laid it in piles,
treasures of golden wheat, bushels of dates,
apples round and red.
We gave away as much as we could and heard
the answer from heaven. We were only taking
what we were given from our fields and sharing
them candidly. We remembered how it all looked
like ruins,
the walls leaning and falling into the ground.

We captured the evening sun as it drew the shadows long;
we sang the ancient Psalms we had learned from our birth.
We stood together in the pleasure of bringing the firstfruits
of our fields.

We laid the sheaves side by side like open doors to the
interior of the house. Children ran between them, in and out,
side by side, chasing each other and giggling as the parents
paid little attention. There was safety in the air and amity
along the dusty paths. Everyone imagined a renewal,
everyone captured the revisions the sun cast upon the
exterior walls.

We held back nothing. It was our privilege that sent us there.
We felt no reluctance, we were so joyful for such a hearty harvest,
and the chance we possessed to twirl like dancers
and bring our best this time of year.  

The night grew cooler and we gathered around campfires,
warming our hands and finding new ways to rejoice.
We told our storied history, our deliverance from mediocrity,
and thanked, hands out and up, the One who supplied what
we had brought.

Ready to Announce

Ready to Announce

(“We had the courage through God to speak God’s good news in spite of a lot of opposition.” 1 Thessalonians 2:2b)

From the moment I opened my eyes the only
conversation I wanted was the one about grace.
And wider than I imagined, deeper that some friends
unknew, I awoke to speak more coherently than I ever had.
There is a lot to say that embarrasses me now, so many
stories halfway through their happy ending.

Threatened with hell, the sensitive hearts cry like God
would soon send them to the fire, to the everlasting flames,
to the torture of ages over a simple lifetime of missteps.

Threatening hell, the whitewashed tombs harden up
and put a Halloween mask on Jesus to scare the aching
hearts into catacombs of shame. No one showed them the
Father’s smile.

Peacemakers belong as children of God, but big-hair
and butt-hurt purveyors of steel grip doctrine don’t
waste a minute to imprecate anyone they think has
eyes too wide open. They see anxiety as evidence of
demons in crying eyes. They yell that depression
belongs to the devil and a dozen more people hit
the floor begging for some sort of change.

What if we woke and sat next to the dejected,
What if we took the hands of the anxious and,
without a word invited them into our space.

This is what opened my eyes. This is what made me see.
People needed more than fiery proclamations. How
can we reflect the father when all our affectations
pain him angry and ready to smite with wrathful fury.

Woke, I see the wrinkles from constant agonizing prayer
that pled to take every misstep away.

Nothing will keep me from being the Good Story
no matter how many take me as the original heretic.
I am ready to announce the world-wrapped hug
that God calls us to embrace. People, your doctrines
may be strangling you. Christ meant for you to
be free.

Kids Playing Giddily

Kids Playing Giddily

(“Here there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all and in all.” Colossians 3:11)

The lenses I used to use only saw the unabused
and kept the battered in the dark. I could see them
if I wanted
but only to point out their obvious flaws.
Did hide them or did they shrink from my view?
I could not help but think their invisibility was their own failing;
my blindness was sanctified by voices from emperors and pulpits.

Then yesterday I was wondering where all the lonely people go
when I refuse to see them in their fully grown human glow. Then yesterday
the light broke in and shattered the mirror I had been primping in.
I looked again and saw the cracks and splinters that had hindered
my access to the truth.

I thought I might be pulled into the uncrafted classrooms
that taught
nothing but invented stories about the minds behind the
eyes of the people I never wanted to see. But yesterday I
sat down in the back of the room and heard languages I
did not understand.

But the cadence was familiar. The emphasis on the third syllable
of a sentence or the rising of a voice after a question. My pilgrimage
had led me here so I decided to stay. They gave me a name tag
for my shirt and I wrote as plainly as I could. I learned these were
all graduates from a school just down the road from the
block I grew up on. Now I heard their voices and they sounded
like my neighbor’s kids playing giddily in the yard. I had to admit
I missed the playfulness and changed my lenses to see

Everyone who was different from me. And I joined them,
learned their language, and sat in their circle learning the
inclusive invitations of the spirit’s voice.

Enfleshed

Enfleshed

(“For the full content of divine nature lives in Christ, in his humanity, and you have been given full life in union with him.” Colossians 2:9-10a)

I once thought you were so elusive that
I needed to deprive my body to find you.
I wished for hours filled with supernatural encounters
and only found silent noise. I heard so many stories
of weeks spent fasting to find epiphanic endings.
I only found
my hunger increasing opposite to my bold resolutions.

I collected invisible souvenirs; I deposited hours of
agony and fears. Why did I ever think you demanded
so much of me for so little return?
I ached for visions and enlightened dreaming, only to
wake from stops and starts that halted my sleeping.

Now I think I see you in every grain of sand;
I taste you in every sip of water. I remember you wore
skin just like I wear skin; your feet ached like mine do
at the end of a day.

I was afraid to be alone; the emptiness frightened me.
I bargained with begging chips and cried in ways so
hard to explain. I expected to hear voices in the dark,
and see angels singing with words I could understand.

I still hate loneliness, I still sting from too much solitary time.
But I am finding you wrapped around the scars that, if I
may say,
were entirely self-inflicted.

Embodied, you are. Human and fully. A habitation
wholly enfleshed. Sacred flesh and blood.

You were never obscure, were you? Though I thought you
demanded I catch up with you, you singled me out
and found me in the middle of my unanswered questions.
Filling me before I asked, embracing me though I thought
I was a myriad of miles away.

A Cup Poured Out

A Cup Poured Out

(“Father, if you are willing, take this cup away from me—nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.” Luke 22:42)

It looked like the wounding of a heart,
a cup poured out of grief and passion.
Are we your children that you could
hold us so tightly it hurt?

What would I say to you
watching your pain strewn across the
garden floor? How could I intrude
on a moment of intimacy and separation?
But how could any of us leave you deserted;
how could we be so close and you be so alone?

Every moment in time converged in fervent questions;
each self a smaller self than the one we had spent a lifetime
mastering?
You took the world’s weight upon your shoulders;
you loved us better than a brother. Yet we grew weary
and left you dangling with our desecrated punctuation.

We failed. We floundered. We sounded like worn-out children
thinking we understood it all. We thought we could capture
a place beside you on the heights.

And how did we overhear such a prayer that set us
to dozing? Still we slept uneasy while you emptied
your dignity to grab hold of nurture and boldness.
But you let loose of anything but love. You induced
a painful delivery. For who? For us?

We had come dressed like we were going to a party
while you donned the servant’s garments and
sweat like blood hit the ground. And then we woke
from our slumber to find them taking you away. And

We panicked.

We were outnumbered and outmaneuvered,
leaving the imprints of your pain still wed on the ground.
We could not wait for angels; we could not measure
the weakness that transforms human foibles and
finally found us afraid for our lives.

How could we ignore such a cry from
a friend who asked only that we stay awake?

Empty but Filled

Empty but Filled

(“I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little.” Philippians 4:12)

I am empty but being filled,
I am full but not slowing down.
I am flowing but not reckless.
I am thankful and that sits sweet upon my
tongue
like chocolate and mint in the afternoon.

There is a presence that inhabits it all,
a weight that does not burden,
a strong power that lays across my shoulders
like a yoke shared in joy.

Cancel my subscription to constant pleas
for more. I will dine in the dark, or I will
feast in the light, but I will be fed, nevertheless.

Disquiet my constant apprehensions, invade my
anxious silence. Fill it, oh Holy One who comes to recover
what was stolen, to redeem that which waits to be seen.
Take my shadows out of the caverns I’ve carved and
turn me around to face the light, to feel the warm and
nearness of the pleasant rays upon my body.

I have been without,
I have been within,
I have stolen moments,
I have them back again.
I picture the perfect from my
uncertain soul. But I find,
loose or windy, that the words of peace
can settle into the crevices between my shadowy self,
and bring me to him alit and gracious for all I lack,
for all I discover, for all I’m given, for all I return.

Just two hours before dawn on a late winter night
I felt the gravity quilt
enwrap me slowly.

I have learned, for now, that empty and full are
only words,
and that the Only One can inhabit it all.

We Are Here Now

We Are Here Now

(“But whatever things were assets to me, these I now consider a loss for the sake of the Messiah.” Philippians 3:7)

I never imagined that all my work might
go up in flames.
I never dreamed that it might be the beginning
of a renewed carelessness. I had not planned on
such an early exit. I had not pictured a retirement
so soon.
I never planned on setting aside the fire which
I thought had been my all.

I think more carefully now about what comes my way.
I consider anxious thoughts and wonder why they still
can find their way to my fingers, to my gut, to my freezing
stop-motion when I am in a crowd.

Nonetheless, I am setting aside the false I that I’ve know
so long.
I haunted me and I drug me across the dirty fields.
I left me shortly satisfied only to thirst again.
I festered like self-righteousness while we rode home
in the back of the deacon’s Cadillac.

We are we now. Christ is not out of my grasp,
He is not at the tipping point of the last day of my fast.
He is within, revealing my true self in beauty I
never anticipated. Don’t mistake me; I still want I
more often than we would like. We are each other now,
fully like ocean tides and sand. Like salt dissolve in
water, we are more we than I ever thought.

Sometimes it’s the Company

Sometimes it’s the Company

Sometimes it’s the company you keep,
and sometimes it’s the weather beyond degree;
but mostly it’s the patterns in your brain engraved
over volumes of time. Like well-worn paths on
the way to a winter’s garden we reimagine
our backgrounds unintentionally.

I’ve visited the alcoves in the museums;
I’ve torn open old pages in the magazines
and I remember every imagination that never
found its wings. The hunt for daylight continues
around every tree that has lost its leaves.
I’ve lost my breath waiting for answers
to every aching circle I’ve prayed.

I have so few troubles, and I don’t mean to complain,
but sometimes not all is what it seems to be.
I feel like I’m mourning for a sliver of devotion
to the rules and gods I postdated. I feel like
its storming a silent squall inside my mind.
I lose my train of thought; I’ve lost touch with
certainty. My mind is not empty; it’s my thoughts
that have blocked mere enjoyment further out
of reach.

The dullness is harsher than the depression,
it reveals nothing but emptiness within.
Once I encounter the divine crossing my path
I stop to let it by and it fills me instead, even though
It still feels like emptiness inside.

Walk into the Warm

Walk into the Warm

(“For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6)

I saw the ways that sleep overtook you and
the moments you woke fresh-faced from your dreams.
I could remember the days that left you begging
like an unconscious tambourine. You tried every
escape you knew and yet
the discontent
only grew. You were sure there was a way
to scribble a new portrait that appeared more like
the appearance of the divine you had imagined.
You were so afraid of failing that you
masked your innocence with a succession of
prostrate prayers with your face to the carpet.
You learned to preserve the emotions that
collided against the walls of your heart.

Take a breath. Ease yourself into the day.
Lay aside the effigies you erected to present
yourself to the world. Even though it feels like
slow-motion
there is a trajectory within that moves you
to the wholeness you crave.

You can come into the light, you can exit the
cavernous unrest into the un-echoes of transformation.
You are far away from the starting line; overland
your journey is nearer than you imagined, sooner than
you knew. You can walk into the warm and feel your
icy nervous system melt like a baby being born.

You do not need to hide; you do not need to subscribe
to every anxious thought. You will finish this marathon
with life left over to smile as you survey the distance
you have come.

One Moment to Breathe Free

One Moment to Breathe Free

 

I know the rhythm of life you yearned for;
I know how you longed to hear the voice that
allowed you to begin again. Apart from
the notions of unity there was the constant motion
that pulled you apart from life as you chose it.

I know how you wish it all would evaporate;
I know how your brain runs backwards from night
until day. Every situation feels like an uncrossable ocean;
every moment like sand dunes void of life.

A single day goes by that allows you to breathe and
you think it is over, that the hours could be sunny
and alive. But it lasts only a moment until
the abusive memories enter like arrows
through your heart.

You wish there were hugs that lasted forever,
but you wince at the thought of the touch of a hand.
You wish you could speak the deepest part of you;
you wish you could be heard for all that you are worth.

Years of pain have eroded your joy. Laughter
feels so uncommon that you question anything that
makes you smile. Convinced you do not deserve
even the simplest pleasure,
you go about trying to please everyone else with
tongue-tied fervor. There came a point where
every thought was called an illness, every need
a mental weakness until you were convinced
you walked unworthy of the things you needed the most.

How can I listen better; how can I gently hold this
place where you can safely say what you have not
said in ages. You do not need to be appropriate with me;
you don’t have to guard your words or your wants.

I would stand beside you, hold you, give you all the
time you need
to open those scary thoughts that make you feel unloved.
I would kiss away the pain, embrace your quivering heart
and tell you, until you can repeat it from memory,
that you deserve love, you deserve affection, you
deserve the gentle touch that only wants to
bring a smile or dry the tears you sometimes hide
so no one will know.

I feel your days go by; I know your fluttering
memories. I would give you a sky clear of clouds
and full of love. I would remind you the
moment you forget that
you deserve it all.
You deserve it all.
And the color of love might just fill your
face again. Here now,
let me kiss away the doubts and warm
you like a summer day even though
midwinter stays. I would give you anything,
I would offer you everything to give you
just one moment to breathe free and hopeful.
You deserve it all.
You deserve it all.

Much Further than Yesterday

Much Further than Yesterday

(“Wake up, sleeper! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” Ephesians 5:14b)

My thoughts can scatter like marbles
out of the bag
rolling across the floor with some lost
underneath the couch.
My thoughts can darken like fog forming
on a late night downtown
blearily luring me to sleep.

But I can see straighter, eyes opened,
and light filling my miscreant mind.
I can find the sun I had lost track of,
the moon I had forgotten existed in the
middle of the night. I search the stars to
keep me awake with patterns drawn over
eternity.

I could go out for a ride while the smog
chocked my lungs;
I could turn back and find the coordinates
for the home that had challenged my dying thoughts.
I could order the same food as a day ago
and think it was the first time ever.
I could let my brain get some rest
and see things anew once the sun rose again.

I could wake up like a baby waiting to be fed;
I could go outside and feel the dew on my feet
while my eyes became accustomed to the light. I could see
much further than I did the day before yesterday.

Wrapped Itself

Wrapped Itself

(“You still lack one thing: Sell all you have and distribute it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” Luke 18:22b)

What has wrapped itself around me like a boa
squeezing the life from me? What have I wrapped my hands
around so tightly my knuckles have turned white from my
over-protection? What is it that, so shiny, captures my
gaze? What has cemented my feet into this tiny island of
wanting what is mine?

What have I missed with this hoarding habit of mine?
What has twisted my devotion like broken handlebars on
a brand-new bicycle? When did I decide to
keep it all to myself? When will I relax my
muscular grip on all that glitters and still is not golden?

I’ve always feared poverty; I’ve never owned very much.
But the way I save myself looks like a miser blowing the
dust off his last penny.
I have worn out the paths I thought would enlighten me;
I have fallen over the edge when no one was watching.

Who is this that is calling me; who is it knows my
name so well? Who wants to ease my clasp around
dollar bills or diamonds? I’ve always thought I might
lose it all too soon so do not give away as much as
I could.

I have a talent for pretending consecration, for
acting like a penitent face down on the carpeted floor.
I don’t mind giving as long as I have enough for
tomorrow’s good meal. I don’t mind giving so long as
I get what is mine before I sign the check.

So, here are my hands, as open as I can offer them.
Here is my heart, as supple as I know how. And
lately
I sit and wonder politely.

Circles of Pain

Circles of Pain

(And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.” Ephesians 2:22)

The pain has grabbed me around the neck today,
pressing its way into every thought,
cauterizing open wounds
and blinding every well-meant phrase.
It’s been that way for two days now
and I could not sing and could hardly finish
a walk in the cold February air.

I planned on writing something full of spirit,
full of life and daffodils rising before a hint of
spring.
Instead I record these words and know they have
little meaning to those who can walk through a day
with doubts cast aside like rubbish and last year’s
party ribbons.

There must be some sense to this all,
I used to say.
There must be some purpose that leaves me
more whole by the end of the day.

I planned on wondering about how we all
are just walking each other home,
but I can barely give myself permission to
leave the house.
I planned on igniting some well placed
lightning
to scare the pain away.

Do you remember how we used to sing
with
only a guitar and made-up songs? Do you
remember
how we used to walk on the same hills where
the cows grazed on late afternoons?

There must be some sense to it all,
these memories that take my time away
from knowing anything for certain.
There must be a way to embrace
the new wine the spirit brings and
share the cup like sneaky teenagers again.

I got up from a nap to write this.
I was hoping it would do me some good.
But I pause before each line and want to
lie down again
except that sleep eludes me and
the pain
makes me homesick for the dwellings
of friends
where we gathered in laughter and naivety.
I’d call you again, but it hurts to speak
about the transfixed nature of this circle
of pain.

So, for now, I’ll repaint my boundaries
with hopeful words of remembrance
and how good it felt in those days so many
decades ago.

There may be a space so safe that spirit
draws open the tears and reminds us
we may not have this chance again.