That Calls You Beloved

That Calls You Beloved

(“Look, my God will help me. My Lord will support me.” Psalm 54:4)

I’ve seen what the external voices have done to you
building a brick red barrier around your heart. I’ve seen
the locked door that sealed up the most human of your hopes.
I’ve seen how the music has changed, how it challenges your
perception of time. If only the days would end sooner;
if only the quiet would be sweeter;
if only the love captured deep inside you would win the day.

I’ve heard the same voices; you know I have. They still
show up in my dreams, don’t they? And yet you live with them
like words to your face to channel away any joy you had
accumulated over months of collecting the smallest moments
like semi-precious stones discovered along the riverbank.
You hid them away and hoped they would not be found.
You wrote about them, journaling the discoveries that
helped your chest relax, that steadied your breathing,
that allowed the tears to flow without embarrassment.
You hid your writing too; fearful it would be discovered
and cycles start all over again.

I know how you want to be alone to heal,
I know how loneliness can pierce your head like thunder
invading the middle of the night.
I know how you deserve love, I know how you wish
to be held, and pampered, and treated with everything that
love means.

Your trust is like a frayed rope. You feel ashamed that you
feel only half human, when you would rather live a heart
wide open to the ones who see you truly.

Instead, you are not allowed to speak your mind or it
will disintegrate into screaming. You wish you could
stand outside and let out all that has been stored within so long.

I see you. I love you. I want to hold you. I want to tell you
the truth that lies deep within you. I want to whisper you are worthy,
I want to sing that you are more precious than anything I could find.
I want to kiss away the tears when they come and let them drop from
your eyes to my fingertips.

I want to be your new voice that you hear until you hear your
own voice again. I want to tell you, even as I write this, that you
are a diamond for me, as rare a jewel I could ever find.

I want you to know that, besides me, God is especially
fond of you. Fond like a mother’s cuddle, fond like a father’s
laughing eyes. Fond like a light that guides you to the
end of the trail, hand in hand.

Write to me and send it like a letter to the sky.
Write everything you cannot say and find every word
that sticks in your throat. I’ll read every line of you,
I’d drink a case of you, I’d memorize it and repeat
it back to you.

So, I share this very quietly, my words mere sighs
beneath the noise of apprehension. I will never compromise
what I say to you, your worth, your esteem, your value
in my world.
In this wide world.
Hear the voice that calls you beloved in each breath
you take.

Standing Alone in the Rain

Standing Alone in the Rain

(“No one has ever seen God. The only Son, who is truly God and is closest to the Father, has shown us what God is like.” John 1:18)

I’ve seen you staring back at me,
I’ve heard you whispering with my own voice.
I’ve deduced all there is left to deduce of
who you actually are.
But nothing changes with me,
nothing shines more brightly.
For an hour I laugh and come home
and cry
and forget what I was laughing about.
I never was much good at praying anyway.

Everything feels just slightly out of reach,
everything is cloudy while my friends enjoy the sun.
I’d change my colors, but they are all greyscale,
they are all dots on a screen waiting to be seen.

My guitar sits untouched.
I thought I would be writing music by now.
My words are pedantic,
my happiness a chest of moldy memories,
faint joy for a second of hesitation. Today,
if I must speak honestly,
reminds me why I cannot trust myself,
why I always rush myself to imbibe a spirit
that will get me through the night.

But it is the day that burdens me. The sun,
even when it is bright, is heavy, is gravity,
is elusive. My heart lies inside with the shades pulled tight.
Can anyone imagine what it’s like to have
nearly
everything you want and be squeezed into a box
full of unfulfilled promises?

Before they turn the lights out, I should tell you
I don’t mind standing alone in the rain.

Like Cannons of Rain

Like Cannons of Rain

(“We are the temple of the living God, you see, just as God said: ‘I will live among them and walk about with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people.’” 2 Corinthians 6:16b)

If I told you tomorrow I’d be gone
would you save the day, would you hide it away
with your keepsakes?
But You may as well try
to store the sun ‘round midnight.
If I heard my ears would soon be closed,
would I memorize the way the songs make me feel?
Would I heal
outside
where the lightning scores the skies,
where the electricity conducts itself like cannons
of rain?
If I told you I’d never set foot in this place again,
would you remember my name? Would you etch
it on the front door? Would you sound it out like
phonics?
But you may as well try to name the gods,
pin down the angels,
catch the waterfalls midstream.

If I felt the warm no more, caught the smoke
of campfires on the ridges beyond the river
and then turned to go home,
would you come look for me? Would you
insist our way of life could exist on the
warmest beach
or coldest church bench?
If my fingers played notes hidden between
the black and white keys,
would it be another reason to cry heresy?
But you may as well try to keep the
hummingbirds away from
the climbing jasmine.

You might as well try to keep me from
exploring sanctuaries of light with gray
pronouncements today.

Today I will lay me down in peace. Today
I will cram my mind with unimagined things,
and laugh that we could be so certain about
which compass points are holier,
at which destinations the gods dwell.

Once you mark it on a map the mystery
dissipates and hardens like grime. Once
you build your monument
the sighs become yawns and we turn our
mattresses over so satisfied that we simply
cannot be wrong.

If I told you I don’t know how I feel about
precise measurements, would you still claim me
as a worshiper waiting alone?

A Loop Through the Cemetery

A Loop Through the Cemetery

(“Whoever would follow me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.” Mark 8:34b)

I nearly stayed in bed all day with
pain and darkness
binding me and
reminding me
there was no one to talk to until
late afternoon.

I am sorry for my moods. I am sorry I am lost.

So, I walked past an empty lot
with lots of empty spots for forthcoming homes.
Stay tuned for developments.

I am tracing circles and arriving nowhere.

So, I looped through the cemetery,
read the names of a dozen friends and
one name glued to a niche where
my best friend’s ashes are shared with
another. I think he would rather have been
alone.

I am tracking far too slowly. My hips ache.
Dollops of snow anchor the hills to the
river below and crystals above.

Four white-tail deer found their lunch
just outside the cemetery fence. I knew they
would leave once they saw me,
but I approached anyway. They turned their
backs on me
and disappeared into the woods.

So, I followed the road to the top
of the hill
where the douglas firs shade the slush
on the shoulders. I hoped to see a face,
but turned around to start back home.

I nearly stayed in bed all day;
did I mention that? The pain never left,
the darkness turned to sludgy silence,

I sat down and wrote these words and
could not bring myself to understand
what good my dying would do.

I do not mind the solitude, but I was not made for
loneliness.

I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

 I Could Not Fight the Fog Today

(“Suddenly Jesus met them and said, “Peace be with you.” They came up to him, took hold of his feet, and worshiped him.” Matthew 28:9)

I could not fight the fog today,
I could not squeeze anything out of the morning.
I could not see the clock today,
I could not tease another moment of sleeping.
The fog did not lift,
the air did not open,
the clock whacked at my misunderstanding,
the sleep would not hold me in its arms.

I weary walking down the road hoping to meet
a man or woman
to see through my façade,
to feel the days that tread on my heart,
to see the escapes that are closed to me,
the open doors that are locked from the inside,
and the stone that has been rolled over the opening
of all I once was.

What I once was
was less of me
than who I am now.
And still the showers of blue rain
drown joy. Alone there is little joy.

I’ve believed in the resurrection nearly my entire life,
painted eggs were always figures for the one who
sprang from the tomb and hung around for awhile to
greet the women who saw him first, and all the others
who hid (like I hide) and unlocked their doors from
the inside.

So I wait for a knock on the door, and a greeting from one
I have longed for.
I wait to hear the footsteps in the garden that bring life closer
to me.
I cannot exhale the fog. I cannot whitewash these blues.
I cannot invent a hundred invisible friends to remove this
granite lonesome from inside of me.
I walk by a cemetery nearly every day and
all the graves are undisturbed.

My honesty has never bothered God (that’s my guess)
it’s all the rest that worry me. Laser advice pierces my forehead,
prayer promises are sent on autographed cards. I do not blame them,
they hold on to the same uncertainties.

Here today, there are no supernatural greetings on the road; just
asphalt, rain, fog, and a clouded mind.

Whether Surrounded or Alone

 Whether Surrounded or Alone

(“He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?” Romans 8:32)

It was not an accident,
it could have been foreseen,
when the floor rose up to punch me
in my face. Severe anemia stole my balance,
I went down without thinking. I went down without
feeling a thing until
the floor and my nose met near midnight and
as far as anyone could tell
I had been in a barroom brawl fighting over
the levels of whiskey in an old-fashioned.
It was not my first fall, not by far, but one of the few
that could not be chalked up to
a moral failure or indiscretion. My blood was simply
lacking oxygen. And my body stopped mid-step toward
the bathroom
and awoke with laminate and dust on my face.

And what shall we say about these things, how shall we
describe these incidents of black-eyed madness? How shall
we understand self-care in a community that has forgotten
village meals and the healing of homemade soup to lonely
stumblers who spend their days alone?

Some have family. And I am more than blessed, my soul
lights up like Christmas to even have them near. And
yet,
failure should not exempt us from
visiting participants from the hamlet who have also
secretly crashed smack-dab in the spotlights left on overnight.

Perhaps as the sun takes years for its final setting
we know we would be weary whether surrounded or alone.
But we do not desire the tears to end,
but to be seen, collected, and shared; a toast
to humanity’s spectrum, the gift that includes pain and
joy, sometimes equally in the same moment of time.

EverySong

 EverySong

(“He has brought down rulers from their thrones. But he has lifted up people who are not considered important.” Luke 1:52)

You have been waiting for the miracle to arrive,
we have been waiting too.
You have been watching for the change overnight,
we have been watching too.
The skies crowded with blooming clouds and
the earth shook like the barrel of a gun
and we were all stunned that the end had not
begun.

You were aching for a new frame of mind,
we were aching too.
You were asking for further review,
we were asking too.
The grains of sand tore at your shoes
while the pains in your head shrunk every
thought of rescue. We were all hoping
for overnight lifeboats to arrive.

But the tides turn slow as leaven,
justice arcs less sharp than mustard seeds.

The foundations, our assumptions,
the ascension to the throne;
the notions, the oceans,
the VIP receptions; alone we
hoped to be seen by the mighty
and be changed in an instant
as proof we were waiting like
a bride for her groom.

But the healing arrived well after
all the RSVPs went home.
The relief was chanted like a solo
sung into the unknown.

You have been searching for heaven’s reversal,
we have been searching too.
You have been schooling for the final rehearsal,
we have been schooling too.
The lame will walk, the blind will see,
the pain will be swallowed by nickname’s embrace
and the lowly;
and slowly the oppressed will see freedom’s
announcement in every song and
every story told of
the kingdom to come.

When Songs Came Easily

 

When Songs Came Easily

(“God, create a clean heart for me and renew a steadfast spirit within me.” Psalm 51:10)

It is hard to find your heart in the snow and fog,
isn’t it?
And when the silence sounds like avalanche clouds
it feels like someone has
hidden it.

Something disrupted the rhythm, someone pounded it like a drum,
someplace you left it behind, somewhere before first and begun.
You knew it had been perfect once, you embraced the days of
warm grass and girls with braids. You picked wildflowers for their
hair.

You weren’t sure if it was broken or just over-exposed,
but the weather grabbed your throat every time you spoke
about another day tied in knots. Frayed at the ends and
twisted in the middle, you were not traumatized by your hurt,
you were traumatized when you were left alone with
your hurt
even when
you told the
best of them
that your ache was about to destroy you,
that your skin was fragile, that you could use an angel
or a vagabond,
or anyone with arms that sounded like
mom frying eggs for breakfast.

It is hard to find your heart in the prose and smog,
isn’t it?
And when the thunder sounds like approaching locusts
if feels so illegitimate.

You would get over it if, mirrored by a friend, you
discovered it was still the same
as the days when songs came so easily
and no one was shy about kissing you on the cheek.

At Home Weary Hobo

 

At Home Weary Hobo

(“I will put my teachings in their minds. And I will write them on their hearts. I will be their God, and they will be my people.” Jeremiah 31:33b)

You are at home weary hobo,
we have seen the ashes of age covering your
face.
You are welcome repainted wanderer,
we have heard the dirges of miles echoing each
trace
of the journey. Here and now
we
invite you in.

Oh mother, hear your children. Oh, look inside their
reflective eyes. You are more than the pain inflicted when
you asked just a moment away from home. You are not alone
and
the drill sergeant words that keep you from healing
are barbs that stuck after the shock waves were gone.
Oh mother, see your children. Let them silence the
monotonous loops ingrained. Let them love
away the shame.

You are found wrinkled plow horse,
we can feel the scars upon your back.
You are cherished smoking candle,
there is joy enough with us to ignite
the night until the morning has waxed
wide enough forever

To light the way for each vagabond
to the eternal day.

Prayed Alone

Prayed Alone

(“He alone is immortal; he lives in the light that no one can approach. No one has ever seen him; no one can ever see him. To him be honor and eternal power! Amen.” 1 Timothy 6:16)

I dreamed I saw a man,
a small man,
a round man,
crowded on his knees
into the dark corner of
a half-pew. He prayed alone.

I dreamed he saw me,

just a guy,
a plain guy,
edging next to him
as he half arose from his
long kneeling. He prayed alone.

I dreamed, we did not speak,
two humans,
too precious
to despair alone;
I joined him in the shadow
cast by earth. We prayed alone.

I did not know him,
maybe me,
or a son.
Maybe a mixture
of everyone I’ve known who,
swathed in light, had prayed alone.

They Also Traveled Alone

They Also Traveled Alone

(“And you, my sheep, the sheep of my pasture, are my people, and I am your God, declares the Sovereign Lord.” Ezekiel 34:31)

It wasn’t a game, this vagabond life unleashed
near the end of marking the map carefully, reading
the words like carpentry, measuring twice and cutting once,
never allowing the slightest variance, never taking the unlost
navigation of nuance.

Who would leave me? Who would stay? Who would say nothing
so I never knew either way? The landscape was gray, the air
heavy and filled my lungs like lead, like the dread of becoming
a gypsy alone.

It should not matter, I told myself. I need to get where I am going,
though the destination is befogged with doubt and unknowing. It
should not
matter. I could tell others had traveled the same route, and by the
footprints I knew, they also traveled alone.

I was too old to wander, too far along to travel that far from home.
I was too lonesome to travel single, but no one I knew was on the path.
I was too unsure to travel friendless, though some spoke on my behalf.
But all I wanted was provision to make it home, all I needed were
contributions to shorten this exile with a check or a song.

You see, I know less than I knew before. I probably know less
than the initiates at baptism’s door. I’ve shed so much skin,
emptied the backpack entirely. The days and empty sidewalks,
the pain and the silence are grinding me down to the barest bones
of belief; the dust of a soul undone.

This detour seems like a moving away from faith and
the beginning of unbelief. The destination stays clouded,
the navigation unclear.

Yet, less knowing than hoping, in the emptiness, the thinness,
the silence and the desolation, there was, not much more than
the opaque slice of dreams, another who walked with me,
another who watched my feet, another who believed in me
better than all my unbelief. I’m still a vagrant and I still wander,
but I wish I could travel far beyond the sign posted “lost”.
Then, maybe then,
another would discover me waiting where the streams run dry and
the meadows have turned to brown.

Coffee, Alone

Coffee, Alone

(“It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth.” Mark 4:31)

Slept well, woke up at 8,
Ate some toast, went back to bed,
got up at 11, and now I have 3 less hours of
pain
today.

So full of things I cannot control,
my head is a gyroscope of spinning memories.
So full of aches I want to forget,
my head is a guinea pig of constant experiments.

Will a walk clear it? Will the sun steer the aches another direction?
Will the birds wash it with their songs; occasional butterflies land
close enough to distract me long enough? But my days
are faceless,
and my faith lifts only my heels for
the next step on the sidewalk.

I go to coffee, alone, the pain still my silent companion,
and hope the barrister recognizes my face from a month ago.
But she is a college student, the shop is full of customers,
and I’m a new old man in line for a latte.

I eavesdrop on two students at the next table to
pretend I’ve had a conversation. But I pick up only words
that sound like other words which I wish were the words
I understood.

Slept well, woke up like paste,
rolled over, hands on my head,
checked the clock at 12,
and wasted one more morning
escaping the pain.

Each day my world shrinks,
12 hours to 10,
50 pages to muttering,
5 friends to waving at strangers
as they drive by.

Can this seed still be planted, and live,
and grow, and thrive? And be recognized as
fully alive even in the corner of a forgotten garden?

The Used-Up Troubadour

The Used-Up Troubadour

(“They sing to the music of tambourines and harps, and the sound of the flute makes them happy. Evil people enjoy successful lives and then go peacefully to the grave.” Job 21:12, 13)

Music never disturbs me, never blurs my travel from
opening sentence to thesis to end. I never turn it off
(except when I’m writing) the soundtrack of my life;
Donovan and the Mamas and the Papas; Iron Butterfly and
the Carpenters; Dave Brubeck, Count Basie. Led Zeppelin and
Keaggy; all played the ages of my unstaged history.

But, tenting alone with cold autumn sod as my bed,
barely a single hope drops from the night dew into my head
afraid to nod off and dream. Most times, in my fright,
they woke me screaming at a time when forsaken was not
the word; a man must have friend to find himself forsaken by them.

Other times, in my singular hope, sunlight in a sliver brightens
the slowed connections between the ever-tiring synapses. Nearly
waking
my heart believes the reverie to be my reality, and
waking
my eyes are shattered like the last note sharpened far out of tune.

Those times the merry songs are taunt and mock; their
perfection bears little introspection, and their joy only as deep
as the next round of beers. Those times the rhythm, like gypsies
round wagons in the night, despite the tambourine scheme of things,
I’ll crawl behind the third or fourth layer of trees in the grove.
The crackling of fish on the camp stove is a better tempo for
my addled brain.

Too many have watched me jump the hurdles mid-chorus;
song and fun and joy and spun, I’ll still dance (less often)
without a reason. But, the days when I was left bleeding on the sidewalk, I mean bleeding,
not bruised; I mean leaking, not misused; but that time people danced and sang while I
hoped I would still breathe tomorrow and my children would know their daddy was
going to be ok
because

For a time, he never sang the songs he once danced anew.

And Carried

And Carried

(“They departed in a boat by themselves for a deserted place.” Mark 6:32)

I want to be alone (I told them)
and cried after the last one left (and carried her dog out too)
This silent place amplifies the drop of each tear,
(like the boom of a rubber-red playground ball against the hollow wall).
This silent place occupies every open space, couch or chair
(reminding me who, 20, 30, 40 years past of the ones who may still be sitting there.)

I want to be alone (I write them)
and still edit my phrases down the middle of the river (the rapids at the banks
would surely alarm the satellite men scanning people like me for movement
outside the lines)
I edit my phrases (and still call it poetry)
when poetry should be blood on the page, question marks and slashed phrases
so sharp it makes the reader want to rip it out of the book and burn it before
the questions creep between the place where eyes and brain always meet.

(I edit my phrases) I answer, mostly, as I’m expected (and argue once
the last inquisitor has exited, with my deserted self) He carried his doctrine out too.

I am in the dunce’s corner (I chose the seat myself)
without reading (magazine <weekly reader>, book <Fahrenheit 451>,
poetry <cummings, ferhlinghetti, Byron> ) and wear the paper crown well.

I know as much, but no more (only on different matters, different scores)
I have read widely, sang wildly (still different matters, but scorched the scores)
all upon a lonely corner because (enthralled by words my ears heard through my eyes)
the bell had rung, the day was done (and never noticed the last student leave).

I wandered home late (others carried out the doctoral theses well)
walked through the park (barber shop quartets in summer)
entered the front door where

Mother’s Remington always sat upon the dining room table. Next to it,
Father’s box of latin flash cards and a wall of books from Microbiology to
Faulkner. (I learned to edit myself far later, when big men with large desks
misread an innocent piece…)

I want to be alone.

(The faith, reason, here-and-now part of me knows that the disciples found that desert spot and experienced the miraculous feeding of the 5,000. This bit of knowledge I post at the end of this piece in case any firm believer firmly believes I have lost a marble or a screw has wriggled loose.) 

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Did you hear the alarm voice half an hour after
you were awake? Waiting to wake, the morning creeps
in, peering through seams in the curtain, ambient like
shadowless illumination. Those days I pray the rain
will force me to stay inside where I have every reason to
hide
with my head buried beneath the pain.

Four years, the chart begins, but the horizon fades
as if the sun will never set upon this season
of missed hours simply holding my own. And
most of my friends fear
their prayers go unanswered.

This pain is the pen now that has scraped away the last
upgrade to my face. The lines are bare, bone and woodgrain,
etched without my knowledge. Like siding weathered
on the old beach house, the storms have blown unrelenting,
pelting the old boards exposed to the shore.

I do not fear the flood, nor rain; the sun forces my lids
shut like slits between the curtains. I do not fear the
silence, nor alone; the conversation and rattles of
pots and pans
are the interruptions my pain cannot stand;
I am sorry for the startled gaze, the mumbled grimace.

I fear my prayers go unanswered, I pretend we are closer,
You and me;
I lean upon the only image I have,
place it between my ears, between my eyes,
and resolve I will not falter, I will not retreat;

There is no resting place for the invisible,
no convalescence for pain without a name
(at least a favorite; migraine or tumor).


They call it NDPH, I call it a spear that impales
what used to be my best intentions. Now I cannot wait
until everyone is gone; though my affections
have only grown for the love of those
who refuse to let me suffer this invisible foe
alone.

Solitude or Isolation?

“The little child grew up and became strong in spirit. He lived in lonely places until the day came for him to show himself to Israel.” Luke 1:80

Last Sunday I mentioned the dangers of living in isolation. Things become intensified and magnified when we cut ourselves off from others for too long. If we tend to be fearful, our personal segregation may make us even more paranoid. If we tend to think too highly of ourselves, isolation can result in a greater conceit. We have no human interaction to provide the normal checks upon our inner fears or haughtiness.

At the taco dinner served following that morning’s service a lady showed me the notes she had taken, saying that there were good things about being alone as well. I was quick to agree and her point was well-taken. I think it can be summed up in two words: isolation and solitude.

John the Baptist practiced solitude. He found the quiet of the “lonely places” helped him become better acquainted with God. As the woman at church said, “Sometimes I need to get alone to get my thoughts together.” She needed solitude to keep the everyday noises from drowning the quieter voice of God.

I think modern society has produced great isolation and not nearly enough real solitude. In a greater degree than before we have the opportunity to work at home. Or we commute to work with people we never see outside of work. If we attend a large church we may not have real connections outside of scheduled weekly services. Families live farther apart and move more often than ever before. The chance for life-long friendship is almost a thing of the past.

I hope this is merely an observation of our culture and not someone longing for the “good old days”. I swore when I turned 50 I would never become one of those who always looked back and wondered how the world functioned “today” when things were so much better “yesterday”. Mother Teresa commented that the western world has a poverty, not of money, but of real relationships. We go through life without many relationships that go much deeper than the surface.

A few years ago I wrote for the weekly newspaper in our town. For Veteran’s Day I was assigned a story about a man who had served in Viet Nam. I was told to go gently, he had some experiences which had greatly affected him, and he might clam up if I were to probe too much. The paper wanted highlights, not an in-depth report.

I called and set up an appointment. When I stopped by his house he welcomed me, and we sat at the dining table, just two men; nearly a generation apart. He began to tell me his story and where he was stationed. He brought out his old uniform, and he laughed when I asked if he could still fit into it.

That was the first fifteen minutes. I spent another hour with him. I do not remember exactly how it happened, and it may have been because he knew I was also a pastor, but before the first half hour was up he was spilling out his heart to me. He told me things that he had told no one. “I haven’t even shared these with my wife,” he told me. The tears flowed, and I saw a man who had suffered isolation for years, even having good friends and a supportive wife. He was afraid how people would receive him and his heartbreaking stories.

John the Baptist practiced solitude. Isolation often enables us to hide our hearts from others. Solitude is meant to produce exactly the opposite. As we are alone, just our thoughts and God, we encounter the choices between continuing to hide who we are, or open ourselves to the God who already sees. Solitude teaches us to stop hiding.

Our solitude may be fifteen minutes during the morning, a day during the work week, or even several days in which we get away alone, and let God speak to our hearts. Solitude always has and endpoint, isolation seems to go on forever. Solitude invites God to open our heart, isolation is a way to hide out from God and others.

As we learn that it is safe to be open with God, we receive others with more grace. As we see people like my Veteran friend, we become welcome hearers whose only role is to let people tell their stories with acceptance. People need validation that their story was ok, that they will not be rejected or abandoned because of something they consider too dark or hurtful to share.

Having spent time in the “lonely places” John the Baptist could be truly “on point” as he started his ministry. In that solitude he learned what many of us only learn second-hand. We learn “about” God, but He knew God Himself. Perhaps a bit of solitude would teach us all a little more about who God truly is.

Pencil Me In

Pencil Me In

(“Know that the LORD is God. It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:3)

Every club I venture application loses
all exhilaration by the first meeting I finally
attend (after knocking off three or four reasons
for putting off opening the door to a basement
or unused restaurant room smelling like rainy season.)

The usual u-shape, folding tables and plastic whitecloth,
the chairs back-to-back down the middle and the hamslice,
potato cheese, and coffee chilled in the cold cups left out
since the morning rush:

They are all fine people and never complain about the food,
although occasionally they mention the desserts leave something
to de desired,

And I know it is me, and not their traditions;
my apprehension, and not their conditions
that leave me eating alone at my desk (I call it
“more work than I can manage).

Golfing leagues pray for my slice,
bowling leagues are great guys, but the vests are weird,
and the shoes are smeared with antiseptic prevention.
All the service clubs want my attention,
then try to scoot me to their annual convention
with more guys where wear vests and buttons
and shake hands in very good faith.

So I know it is me, and not their expectations;
my silhouette, never their accusations
that leave me wanting to see
Shields and Yarnell at Union Square again.

Call me a loner, I’ll understand, (it takes me
months to call someone for coffee)
I will take my lumps; I know mud, I know sand,
and I remember play dough oozing through my hands.

Those are my thoughts while I await the reading
of the last meeting’s minutes and the not-so-bad
rhubarb muffins.