A Change of Clothes

A Change of Clothes

(“In the same way, the victor will be dressed in white clothes, and I will never erase his name from the book of life but will acknowledge his name before My Father and before His angels.” Revelation 3:5)

On second thought, maybe it would be better to
light a fire than sit outside in the cold. Maybe it
would be advisable to invite the blazing glow back
to the front row of the evening.

We could sit around the table swapping stories
like baseball cards,
and rolling our tales out like dice. We could
evaluate their veracity. We could measure their
capacity for the truth. Or we could,
one
more time,
trust our friends who understand the rhythm
of winning and losing, of joy and pain. We wouldn’t
mind that much that we heard those lines a dozen
times before. They do not lose their truth even
with the embellishments each time they are told.

Is this what it will be like, to be known and
warmed by that knowing? Will our stories flow more
freely? Will our questions hang in the air without immediate
criticism? Will the systems of religion and politics fall under
the weight of the unadorned truth? Will answers matter less
than honest doors left open for perusal? Will we hear
the varied interpretations and anoint all of them true?
Is this what it will be like, to be seen and heard beyond
our talent for song and fashion? Will we create more space
between us even though we have grown so close?
Will the summers last forever; will our tales dangle in the
sky?

On second thought, I’ll light the fire and invite you to
warm yourself late into our waning life. The body gives
out over time, but the mind, oh my friend, the mind
never stops believing in eternity.

A change of clothes would really do us good.

Camp Meeting/Flowers of the Field

Camp Meeting/Flowers of the Field

(“If that’s how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and thrown into the furnace tomorrow, won’t He do much more for you—you of little faith? Matthew 6:30)

For the time being, let us assume I am
breakable. Not much of a stretch, that.
And yet when the cracks appeared I
hid them under rebuilt aspirations.

You were angry once, my friend, when I stayed
halfway back in the congregation. Masses wept
at the front (they call it the altar) and you joined them
wetting the moldy carpet with your own tears.
I did not.

I had visited before and come away with knives
piercing my eyes. I had knelt a hundred times and
felt the stare of every soldier who wondered why
I was there. And so I said

No more.

I stayed in my seat. The music wrapped round me,
the glossolalia rose and fell with the crescendos that
swelled
from the well of penitents hoping demons would
leave them alone and go back to hell.
They hoped to escape the flames themselves.

No fault remains but my own. But I had already
paid my rent on nights like that. I would confess
even more
but everyone abhorred what they already heard.
I needed to let God speak a better word while no
one
cross-examined my soul.

So, I am sorry I didn’t repent so openly;
I’m sorry I grow only in the quiet. Two
decades later
I know so much better,
and hope bouquets of kindness

Take the place of tears and bitterness.
My sanity demands it. My spirit has been
restored to its original dimensions.

There is More

There is More

(“Then Abishai said to David, ‘Today God has handed your enemy over to you. Let me thrust the spear through him into the ground just once. I won’t have to strike him twice!’” 1 Samuel 26:8)

It is true, the belly lies exposed.
His head still as night while the late fire glows.
There is more trauma than you know,
more caves that hide my innocent soul.
You have seen the spear pierce the doorway twice
within inches of my breathless life.
But I will not press my advantage here
before the sorry face that reflects only
stars and flames
here at rest before my feet.

How long does the piercing take before the
sainthood begins?
How long the weary suppression of every
song I love to write?

It is true, my judgments lie exposed.
My words shake like dice thrown for someone’s clothes.
There is more madness than we know,
more kings that chase some innocent soul.
We have seen beyond the inflated price
stuck upon the heads of breathless life.
But if I did press my advantage here
before the hoping eyes that borrow only
stars and sky;
won the day, night the defeat.

How deep does the weeping dig before the
morning is joy?
How far the pebbles in my shoe on every
shore I yearn to see?

And into another afternoon of waiting for
a voice still too far away to identify. Surely You
know
I wait only because
You promised to arrive before my
pain has taken its toll.