Wrapped Around Hope

Wrapped Around Hope

(“For I will be merciful toward their evil deeds, and their sins I will remember no longer.” Hebrews 8:12)

You could not have timed it any better,
the fates aligned, and the angels faced the
future with their eyes as fierce as tigers.
Too many gave up taking themselves all
too
seriously.
We live with pain, pounded by the past
and fooled by the future. We look for answers
to manufacture gods in our own image.
Signing on the dotted line, we expect to be
charged with misdemeanors and felonies,
admitting our criminality, feeling like guilt
with shame running down our chins. We hoped
we would be better by now.

We memorized every misstep,
memorialized each sin.
We sat on Santa’s lap knowing we would
never deserve what we’d asked for.

Still,
we wrapped ourselves around hope.
We tried to elope before the wedding began.
We tried to leave early from the annual board meeting.
We wanted to hide away because people always save
the harshest words for the conclusion. What we need
is benediction;
what we hide are the contradictions that drive us
into undercover dungeons.

Yet,
the light is washing away the cobwebs,
the morning is inviting the lost and lonely,
the afternoon is singing songs set free,
the evening invites a quiet contemplation.
And the angels turn their faces toward the
sun as we watch them glorify the one who
opened the skies for us well before we gave up
all our vices.

Better Than You Think

Better Than You Think

(“Restore all that was hers, together with all the revenue of the fields from the day that she left the land until now.” 2 Kings 8:6b)

Afternoon. The tunes were irresistible, the
thoughts coming sooner than expected. She
had learned how little changes when change is
all you want. Afternoon.

Midnight. The candles were extinguished,
the dreams came thinner than desired. She
went to bed later but was too weary to distinguish
reality and visions. All she wanted was a winter
moon to lure her to slumber. Midnight.

Morning. The warming was unreliable, the
thoughts from the night came swarming. She
had placed an order for peace. All she desired was
a space within where it could all begin. But storming
had taken her best thoughts hostage. Morning.

Annual. And ten times over the trip around the sun
tripped her up again. She prayed, she groaned, she
wrote it factual and substandard. There was nothing
left to do
that she hadn’t
done before. The shore kept receding from the sea.
Annually.

Infinite. And it all feels like it will never end. It was
once all innocence and expectations. Now it is
cold nights and restless days. Her mind stayed
ever vigilant while she wished for contentment.
Infinite.

Invitation. There was one place, one pleasant conversation,
that made a few moments easier. Together was a road
walked late in the day with nothing to say but
you
are
better
than
you
think. They always met at the same location.
Invitation.

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

(“Little children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth.” 1 John 3:18)

 

The fires I once warmed my hands beside
have gone out; the embers have died. The
magic words
that supplied my point of reference have all
be redefined.
These recipes, these ingredients,
these passages of time no longer taste the same.

I sat on the beach often enough to feel when
the wind shifts and the spray spatters across
my forehead. I sat well into the evening as the
sand crabs scampered out of sight.
There has always been a longing for
nights like that: a bonfire on the beach,
the sound of foghorns rolling,
stories told and often repeated,
guitars strummed while we meet for
the first time like it was the last time
we would see each other.

I sat on the back pew and wondered,
(I used to call it praying)
if the words were still any good this far down the road.
The divine spark feels like wintergreen,
the inspiration another long winter’s day.
I crave, I cry, wait like I’ve never
waited before,
for someone to tell me all my past
has been forgotten.
Or for them to say they have never
gotten over the way certain words made
them feel. I laid on the back pew,
my head couched upon a hymnal,
while the ache ate its way to my consciousness.

The fires can be relit, I know. But I long
for more than memorized words. The food
tastes better when shared with you.

A Better Vocabulary

A Better Vocabulary

(“Now no discipline seems to be joyful at the time, but grievous. Yet afterward it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness in those who have been trained by it.” Hebrews 12:11)

I hear from somewhere beyond the hills,
there is revolution in the air. There is movement
that turns the breeze away from nascent factories
to cedars spreading their aroma across the valley.

I found myself hiding behind the window
wondering if anyone
could see me at all.

I hear there is a renovation on the beach,
a multi-level casino, or maybe a resort. It
could bring in millions and employ locals for
a few years.

I don’t know if it is true; I find myself doubting
my purest thoughts. Sandy oceans sometimes pull
me out to sea. I’ll swim parallel to the shore to
find my way home.

I hear there is repeat performance in the park,
a group of friends who learned a few songs together.
They hadn’t spoken to each other in years until one asked
“Do you know this tune?”

I think it is true. They invited me to play, though
I had to learn the music for the first time. I had to
play the lead guitar on my keyboard sounding like a
Hammond B3.

I fear from somewhere in my past,
there is a reunion planned like rain. The last time we
met the words were hot, the words were iron, the words were
hidden beneath un-sunny dispositions. I don’t know why
it needs to be this way.

But I would attend. I can constrain the polyrhythms
for a day. I can coat the syllables with intentional goodness,
I can refrain from rehearsing our old ambitions.
You’ve hit the rocks, I’ve hit bottom. We both know
a better vocabulary by now.

I Could Have Coasted

 I Could Have Coasted

I could have given up long ago,
I could have bought the homeless corner
next to the stranded avenues.
I could have coasted.

In my head the days were always struggle,
the dead threw taunts at me,
the living were beyond my reach.
I could have toasted marshmallows and
hot dogs to attract a crowd;
but that is not where companions are found.

There was a wife and a husband and
two beloved young adult sons.
She was a church person,
but not churchy.
She was grace and Lutheran and
Scandinavian. Her husband never
attended; he felt he did not fit because
of his smoking habit.

Her husband died, cursed cancer,
and left her weeping for the man who was
better than the church people knew.

Within the year a son also died,
offensive tumor, and left her weeping for
the empty space in her house. She felt barren.
The nurse,
a pastor, and the mom were
with him until the final breath. He was
better than anyone you have ever met.

And she remembers the pastor who was
in over his head,
who took the train to Minneapolis to
sit with her during her son’s last surgery.
And she remembered, 30 years later,
and tracked him down, in a town 1500
miles
away.

I could have given up long ago,
I could have buried my face beneath the
fog that weeps over the hills. But she
would not let me forget that

Simple acts of presence may be
the sweetest moments we share.

The Hat

The Hat

(“So why do you judge your brothers or sisters in Christ? And why do you think you are better than they are? We will all stand before God to be judged.” Romans 14:10)

He walked into the room with his hat
covering one eye. He always wore it like that;
no one knew why. But they made 1000 guesses
every time he arrived. Was he partially blind?

He didn’t hear their conversations but knew the
temperature of the room. He would have just as soon
been at the bar around the corner; after all,
they gave him the hat when he retired.

Tilted across his head, the hat provoked conversation
while he never said a word.

You Cannot Love an Icon

You Cannot Love an Icon

(“The earth is filled with your love, Lord; teach me your decrees.” Psalm 119:64)

You cannot love an icon,
a mask you’ve fashioned to hide the
goodness in your opponent’s face.

You have severed the connective tissue that
binds you, love to love.

Get an education,
come out from the shadows,
join the celebration
that heals your icy biases.

Beware when people call evil, good; and good, evil.
Beware when love is meant for only a chosen few.
Beware when war is called peaceful; peace, uncivil.
Beware when outrage is mistaken for the truth.

The world is flooded, an unending stream,
a placid lake of uncaged love,
a river that causes deserts to bloom.
(Don’t unearth the outcasts too soon.)

Get a renovation,
step down from your tower,
take a long vacation
from all your fiery minuses.

The world is brimming, earth saturated
like a lava cake with chocolate,
a comfort that causes the hearts to thaw.
(Erase the conclusions you’ve drawn.)

Cross the street, cross the divide,
get over your unbridled myopia.
The sacrifice of love is a stronger law than
the weaklings of hate. Look love in the face,
undefine the abominations you think have
sealed their fate,

And dig in the mud, take off the makeup,
remove the icons from your venerated shelves,
and learn, oh learn,
the love that loves
better than ourselves.

See Her Better

See Her Better

(“If there are poor among you, in one of the towns of the land the Lord your God is giving you, do not be selfish or greedy toward them.  But give freely to them, and freely lend them whatever they need.” Deuteronomy 15:7-8)

What do I know, you know;
what have I seen behind the screen,
the half-closed eyes of the mother, (I assume)
the grandmother, (yes, once again)
those eyes, cleansed by the crying of endless
days sitting in the same spot above the boulevard
where passersby take the pedestrian bridge.
Yes, those eyes reddened by countless tears;
her face pulpy and sallow and barely seen.

On the Mexican winter she rides on the hopes
that those who know her will not miss her. We barely
see beauty of cascades tipping over rocky cliffs after
a month of walking by. So we see even less this
disturbance to our soul
after a week of crossing.

Does she pin her hopes on tourists in this fishing village
filled with spring breakers and old couple romance seekers?
Will they see her better, covered in her native best; hues
bleeding across the shawl and stopping at the holes worn by
constant wear? Or did they cut their budget so close that
dropping pesos in her cup means one night sober,
or one less souvenir?

Or perhaps, it is often true, there is enough left, but we
hear the religious impulse from our idols of self-advancement,
“You, get a job”. We are jesters in the court of
capital palaces and advancement.

But some, hearing the words of the better God, hear words
spoken to them, “Give. Do not let your left hand know
what your right hand has done.” And quietly,
they slip their hand inside their pockets, grab a wad of
what they will,
and slightly, and sleight of hand,
silent as they can, slide the bills into the cup
without breaking stride.

Milk, a roast, diapers, or one more week
with power; the hearts of an aged widow and
an unknown traveler meet once,
and only once. But again love has leapt
over hurdles and past benches of cultural inertia.

Found My Hope

Found My Hope

(“What is faith? It is the confident assurance that something we want is going to happen. It is the certainty that what we hope for is waiting for us, even though we cannot see it up ahead.” Hebrews 11:1)

I found my hope in better things than bathing my brain
in acid poured from angry yet unredeemed. I discover
larger breaths of love that blanket the earth; sunshine and rain,
righteous, unrighteous, colonized and desert. While we cling to
our angry gods,
our tyrants who teach us
that every brain is shriveled dust except
the brain that sees the world like us;

The Father of All, with hope that pours from an endless store,
begins with more than our short-term fuse, and refuses to drag
His feet
over nuance. While the religious battle evolution and
“secular science” and “doctors without Jesus” He extends
His grace with a grasp so great it can only be missed

By those who have been blinded by their own idols
and

Those who believe they have believed the perfect faith
because they have hated the lefties, harangued the righties,
and learn that telling half-truths gets people’s attention
so much quicker than the mud-and-air we mostly know.

Lay down your taunts, they shatter faith.
Refuse to insult; the menu of the King never included
demotion or demeaning. Faith and Love are first cousins;
You cannot spit and kiss with the same lips.

I found my hope in kindness; the smell of dewy alfalfa
on an Indian Summer day. I found my assurance in compassion,
the fragrance of morning glories that follow the Sun.

Don’t tell me of everything you’ve rejected. A grocery storeprovides, on the little town’s corner, victuals to all, familiar

and foreign. But tack it “secular” and a certain segment will
bar the door, complain to the papers, boycott the soup aisle,
and puff up their chests with more hot air than an Death Valley.

I have discovered my hope in waiting for mercy,
and dropping my messy crumbles that harmed the hurting.
I found my promise in crossing the canyons that separate
with anyone who needs to opposite wall.