The Footsteps were Relentless

The Footsteps were Relentless

(“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Psalm 23:6)

He awoke to the sounds of the city just beginning
and blinked the night from out of his eyes.
His sons had already left for the day and this
wife kissed him goodbye moments before his eyes were opened.

He felt like orbits had spun around him unchanging for
year after year. There was love enough for everyone in
his small house and family yet he felt unsettled, and
he was embarrassed to say, deeply lonely.

He knew the incongruity that left him well tanned on the outside,
and shuddering sad within. Face to face he had
little to say though he knew his words carried more meaning
than ages ago.

He barely remembered what it was like to shop for gifts
until the perfect one jumped off the shelf and came prewrapped.
He wished he could shop anonymously, but now he lived in
a rural village and no one was new. He felt guilty about that
too.
Why would anyone avoid the friendly glances of neighbors
and friends. He thought he had run out of things to say
and the rest got caught in his throat. He had been captured
by his words so often that he rationed them like rain.

He had to admit, in his quiet moments, that though he
was often misunderstood,
he also was asked for wisdom he was not sure he had.

He could not argue with mercy; he could not debate with goodness.
The tiniest footsteps crept up on him over time,
like a grandchild wanting to surprise Papa with their hands
over his eyes.
He could not deny the eternal home he had found;
he could not explain the melancholy that captured him
mid-sentence when he only wished he could sing better.

He got out of bed and, walking, listened for the footsteps
chasing him down, the footsteps he recognizes everywhere.
His mind clattered with unease and built fences to keep
his precious wounds out of sight. But the footsteps were
relentless, and he stopped to try half a conversation
in the late morning sun.

More Like Trumpets than Cannons

 More Like Trumpets than Cannons

(“The wolf will romp with the lamb, the leopard sleep with the kid. Calf and lion will eat from the same trough, and a little child will tend them.” Isaiah 11:6 [The Message])

Do you see where you are swimming,
can you feel the rising tide,
do you hear the play-sounds coming
from just outside your preconceptions?

The world is brimming with shalom,
the hallelujahs are from babies, from bouncing children
on trampolines with
pet dogs frolicking in the dewy grass.

Do you watch for the river to rise,
do you see through the disguise of the
hardened pharaohs and pharisees who only
sing when they are well paid? Do you
listen to the free-song of the river and rocks,
the whistle of the sand and the bird-flutes above
the marina? Do you wait for the dawn, do you
walk there at dust,
do you see the resolution, the turning of the day
that presages
the revolution of the ages
to teach us all, near and far,
to study war no more.

Kneel at the banks, and bring one more,
to kneel beside you. The scores have been settled,
the conflict that bent us like predatory bludgeons
is dying downriver. Diving downriver into
the baptism that overflows with shalom.

Let us listen; the peaceful sounds are shouted,
more like trumpets than cannons,
and the children will lead the victory parade
from downtown to battlegrounds now refurbished
for picnics and play. All the sun does is
tickle the river below. A lightshow,
a spectacle of wine-cheered rejoicing that
earth is bubbling with the laughter of children who
will
never ever study
war again.

Ages Since I Climbed

Ages Since I Climbed

"Six days later Jesus took with him Peter, James, and John, and led them up a high mountain, where they were alone. As they looked on, a change came over Jesus." Mark 9:2)

I must confess, it has been ages since I climbed a mountain
of any significance.
I hate to complain, but the rivers and the plains,
along with the curbs and concrete of the suburbs
have left each day that passes grieving and lazy
without a hiking companion.

I wouldn't stay there long, at the apex of the journey,
perhaps long enough to see the eclipse of the sun
by the brighter transformation of the One I have tried
to love so long.

I told you long ago I would wander wherever You led.
I've been through the dark valley, stuttered on the desert echoes,
watched wheat ebb and flow, canola grow like mustard waves.
I've jumped when they said jump, and fallen over dead when
the scene demanded it. I've frozen my toes in sliding snow
wearing only my Sunday shoes. I've made friends whose souls
were mated to mine; and lost the same friends over politics,
cigars and beer.

They call it a family, Jesus; a family. Then why, when we disagree,
does this family become silent, change their addresses and keep me at
such long arm's length that I can't hear their words for listening.

But now age and health demand I stand as seldom as I can.
And yet I'd like to climb, find the time to. I'd love to share the path
with you. A night or two; I'd need to take it slowly. A friend or two,
one's I've known since we only knew Jesus was our friend.

Maybe I haven't lost you; maybe I'm afraid you think I'm no longer on the hike,
because I've adopted some travelers, received new brothers,
embraced outcast sisters, and shunned the warlike expressions of
a Jesus who wants to kill just about everybody who doesn't climb
at a space very close to the end of time. Maybe I'm just afraid
you think I'm not climbing the same mountain as you.

It has been ages, Jesus, since I've climbed a significant peak.
But on sidewalks and asphalt, tiny ekklesia and the emptiest skies,
I still want to follow, to wander, to meander more in Your lonesome ways
than a thoroughfare crammed with cocksure doctrines
and duct taped compassion. Just dig me deep as I travel on,
and catch the tears I weep when I miss the rest of the family.