Above the Weakening Waves

Above the Weakening Waves

“Jesus said, ‘Come.’ And Peter left the boat and walked on the water to Jesus.” Matthew 14:29)

I’ll be the first to admit the whipping wind almost
was too much for me. The day turned on a dime and the
evening screamed like a child with a lost toy. We were
afraid

we would never get home. Once the storm hit, we
threw out hope like a lifeline cut in two. We could not see;
the waves crashed, and the wind was a banshee. No one
predicted this, no one had it on their radar. The radio scanned
for boats nearby but all we heard was static etched by lightning.

Fear rose like a monster from the waters. Our throats were tighter
than the rigging we hoped would hold.

We thought he was a ghost. The tempest tainted our vision.
But we heard the words urging us toward courage and we thought
we knew; it was so familiar. I steeled myself, shivering in the wind.
“Could that be you?” And then insanely I said, “If it is,
tell me to join you on the water.”

All he said was, “Come”.

I cannot explain it, or why I asked. But putting my feet over the side,
I touched the water, and it was solid under me. I was dizzy with
wonder; my breath escaped into the waning storm. I could see
him
as I had seen him so often before.

Then the wind whistled, the waves spit, the boat still rocked like
a jazz band warming up, and I saw it from the corner of my eye.
My feet slipped. “Help” is all I knew how to cry. And “Lord, save me!”

I felt my hand in his, the strength grasping me. He told me my
faith was small, but I thought
I had endured pretty well. It was the storm that spun me away.

But his presence calmed me and calmed the wind and waves.
Like a morning after thunderstorms our hearts were overcome,
believing, hoping, wondering, stuttering a new faith
that danced above the weakening waves.

Let’s Not Pretend

Let’s Not Pretend

(“Even though you are so high above, you care for the lowly, and the proud cannot hide from you.” Psalm 138:6)

>Did you notice that day was new,
and did it seem they had all forgotten you?
Were the walls still stained with grease and pain,
did you ever try standing and found that you were faint?
Where is the mighty magic promised by the priests,
where is the comradery promised; where are the feasts?
It is frosty in their presence, the center is sub-zero;
I want to meet the fiery ones, I want to know another anti-hero.
Maybe being alone is the best option, maybe missing the day:
Maybe my pain is the place God meets me, my ache when I pray.

I don’t discount your stories of falling under the power, healing the blind,
uttering tongues that no one can understand. But from here it looks
like so much showing off (I hope that is ok to say). Jesus kept his
works semi-secret, like only one square of chocolate left,
dark chocolate that only pairs with a good red wine.
I haven’t tasted either for quiet some time. Here is what
I know…lowly to proud…

Life passes at the same rate for all of us. We all have an
end date stamped on our best years, and no hand stamp to
get us back in again.

So, let’s not pretend any longer. Do you see that homeless man
begging for bread or cash or a place to lay his head. That’s where
you can discover everything you have ever wanted to know about God.
Do you see the religious man bellowing, casting lost ones into eternal fire,
scolding struggling ones who have tries so many ways, and proudly announcing
the Second Coming is coming within days or months (apparently he has
an inside track.)

So, let’s not pretend any longer.

A Patch of Sky

A Patch of Sky

(“…so that you may know that the earth belongs to the Lord.” Exodus 9:29b)

I looked up at the patch of sky above me;
I looked out at the swatch of green before me.
I saw clouds pulled across the blue with kite strings;
I saw myself imbedded in a shadow box of early afternoon breezes.
Sometimes it goes without saying that certain stories need to be told.
Sun or rain,
the words can be heard in whispered portraits of the day.
A doe crossed the road just beyond the cemetery
and disappeared into the stand of trees and brush.
She didn’t know I saw her. She sauntered like it
all belonged to her.
I walked toe to heel hoping to get closer to the
next one that crossed my path.
The air was thicker today, and I heard the
blackbirds say there were still hours to stay
in the middle of the afternoon.

Like Cottonwood Fluff

Like Cottonwood Fluff

(“And above all things be earnest in your love among yourselves, for love covers a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8)

Toss it into the air and let it float back down
like dandelions or cottonwood fluff, till it surrounds
the day like childlike joy. There is more than enough
to spare. There are voices in the air that call like
church-bells
to announce a new canticle for each doubtful heart.
The starting place is clear, the finish is certain,
but our steps in between demand a lighter hand.
A mother stays home, no gas in the car, and needs
to take her daughter to the doctor. And the breeze
blows as it will
until anonymous help finds its way under the door.
A father fears he has ruined a son with words that
should have been held back. But like a bursting dam
they escaped his mouth, burning the boy’s smile that
used to, unbidden, break the monotony of the grind. He
wished he could take it back, unwind the tone he
never meant. Don’t we all give vent at the worst
possible moments? He feared he was losing his job,
losing his mind, fusing shame and guilt he unloaded
it all in an unintentional moment. He was certain the words
went deeper than all the thousands before. He would
take the fire into his own bosom if he could.
And yet, last Christmas, every family game was punctuated
with laughter, and he began to believe in forgiveness again.

We all dream until there is nothing left to dream.
We all wait until the last moment, but love should never
wait at all.
Born of love (the Parent of us all) and dying at last
(the new Jerusalem) we pave our way (Via Dolorosa)
between aches and joy. And most of us could use
at least one more friend.

Moss-Covered Rocks

Moss-Covered Rocks

(“We are like clay jars in which this treasure is stored. The real power comes from God and not from us.” 2 Corinthians 4:7)

What did you expect to find underneath
the moss-covered rocks? What might
crawl out
from crouched tunnels in the mud?

We wait hours for the sun on our face,
we sit in steel-backed chairs wondering
how much blood they will take
to test our disease.
How we pass the time,
how we cross the generational lines,
how we turn our faces and
align our minds toward darkness or shine,
how we offer up questions or
resign the debate with silly answers
no one believes;

How we measure the invisible waves
all decides, destination or journey,
how wide our world is and
how far we can see.

What did you expect to find up above
the world so high? What might
crack the night without making a
sound?

Enclosed by medical appointments,
grounded to the couch for more than a day,
it is easy to see time leaving us behind.
And we wish for more candles, or
shorter distances,
or instant telepathy that would
play our affection completely for
every person and every place
that brings them to memory. Some
have launched me like a dad lifting
his daughter to the sky.

Angels never masquerade; it is we who look away.
Happy boys who tell the patients in the waiting room
that he
hopes they have a good day,
and nurses from your hometown
appear like something solid yet
surreal.

There is more to find in a child’s smile
or an advocate’s laugh
or the life that teems beneath the soil

Than time can ever fill.

Expansion

 Expansion

 

(“But the wisdom that comes from above is first holy, then peaceful, gentle, compliant, filled with mercy and good fruits, unbiased, sincere.” James 3:17)

 

What would I say if I knew you could see everything
in my heart? It’s elastic, and there is more than enough
room for you. But you will have to make do with darkened corners
and lamps askew. Too many see and ask for new lodging.

 

There are as many thoughts as there are minds,
as many dwellings as there are hearts.
I enjoy most neighborhoods with sky above and dirt below.
But my abode takes some getting used to;
to be honest,
I’m not quite comfortable there myself.
No wonder I seem to slide through the sidewalk cracks
so easily. Where are the gentle spirits unafraid to sit under
the holes in my ceiling?

 

Up against the sky, look at what the light can do, in that moment
you may hear everyone’s heart beating. You may hear your own
when the minute gives way to fire-lit dots on the hills.

And what you thought a single star was the universe
exploding like a chrysanthemum. Your explorations are simply
thimbles of truth.

 

We know less than is known, fewer than can be counted
minus the mistakes we’ve made in our reasoning.
We expect God to move in with us, packed in the uhaul with
the rest of our holy and righteous stuff. We expect God to
agree with us while we shoo away the shit-hole countries from
knocking on our white suburban doors. We find our holiness squandered,
call dissidents rioters, and heretics inhabit the shacks across the tracks.

 

But hearts are elastic, not ceramic. Hearts are created to expand.
The universe started smaller than a dot and has made room for
every imagination, every circus act and traveling band. There are
clouds that weigh a million pounds and
thoughts that float weightless, synapse
to perception, (can you spot the difference between the two pictures?)

 

We are so sincere we make that wax melt in our candles,
we are so fervent we keep our doors locked tight.
We are so sacred we erect borders and fences,
we are so correct we write with indelible ink.

 

Let us go to the laundry, you and me; let us stake our claim
on our purity and precision (do you still have the original buttons?)
Or, as with all cloth and earth-wear, are you willing to swear that
imperfection is our common wardrobe hid beneath capes of incomplete
polyester. 

 

Up against the sky, again, you and me; let us be little again
and let night swallow us until we see
the universe expanding to take all of existence in its grace.