Letters Flying Everywhere

Letters Flying Everywhere

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 36:3)

Days before the latest dawn
the thunderstorms snuck in under the blue.
They left the sky cleaned and calm.
We could breathe again, unsullied by the
rain that washed the dread away. The breeze
was easy.

There were echoes of war, distant booms of
violence that crowded those who were listening.
We heard what we had never heard. We begged
for streets free from combat boots and full of
summer sandals shopping for new colors to wear.

I want to write with words wrapped around bombs
exploding purposefully with letters flying everywhere.
I want a conflagration of vowels spinning between the
pages and consonants so crisp they smell of burnt bacon.

After that I’ll write about trees and flowers again,
about bees and buzzes, about sunlight and breezes.
I find my mind so occupied like an overpour at the bar,
that I barely can mutter intelligent sentences.

But look around me and scout the extravagant lyrics
unconnected to the chorus or bridge. Please excuse the mess;
I was just given the arrangement a day ago and my fingers
haven’t traced their melody long enough to make sense.
But once I get my cadence down, once I memorize the breaks,
you’ll be able to dance right up to the final coda and laugh
that the night was over so soon.

Until then, we need words that ignite over night skies to
keep us in line. We need more rhymes to teach us the
daily grind for peace we never knew we would fight.

I Am No Longer Parallel

I Am No Longer Parallel

(“This is why he can completely save those who are approaching God through him, because he always lives to speak with God for them.” Hebrews 7:25)

I’ll outwait the heat wave,
I’ll watch for the message that comes straight from your hand.
I’ll hear little that makes me understand these days,
the way the world teeters and totters these days.
I’ll send you my words on the page so there can
be no mistake about what I am trying to say.
I’ll circle the wagons,
I’ll circle the tags and pricelists until we come
to an agreement. All answers will be in the
range of the standard deviation.

I use my poetry to hide my intent.
I write these verses to disguise the signals I sent.
I read your messages and have to fill in the blanks.
My words are the words between your sentences, even
though
we both lose a little meaning this way.
I’ve uncovered my heart, please let me see yours.
I’m missing a few crucial ingredients to finish the
recipe I hoped would satisfy me completely. I’m not entirely sure
what it is I am hungry for.

I used to know how to pray, or at least the words to say
kneeling under a pew that would include tears I held in
before mere mortals. I used to know the escape routes,
the roads that took me insanely close to the edges of my mind.

Now I want to say it all without metaphor. I want to say
I think I never knew anything I once believed. Will that
still save me? Will that make the dying delayed? I do not
mean to frighten you with my words. That is why I use
simile and parable. But here it is: I am no longer parallel,
I’m at odds with myself and I have no idea the destination
at the end of the day. Perhaps I’ll keep on writing until I
run out of words to say.

The Foghorn Rumbled

The Foghorn Rumbled

(“You keep completely safe the people who maintain their faith, for they trust in you.” Isaiah 26:3)

The foghorn rumbled through the mist
like a rumor, a hint of memories carried above
the river months ago. It was the safest song
to hear
on a day like this.

Too many days alone turn silence into a
jumbled abacus;
nothing adds up. Houses of old friends,
now occupied by strangers,
repainted; the same moss tempers the driveway.

Some trails never change;
season to season, the view remains the same.
Some sounds pierce the day and sweep the mind away
to imperfect visions that
draw us toward the yearnings we feel
are more touchable than the boulders we lean on
watching for an opening in the sky.

And today, punctuated by foghorn bellows
and occasional doves, rust and white on the wing,
may be the place we rest after
all

The longing is done.

The Master's Fragrance

The Master’s Fragrance

(“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God.” Romans 12:2)

I will not be a copy, with words etched in strict architecture.
I will not be a clone, with genes spliced into a stonework façade.
I will not be written upon by ink that dries,
or by toner that flies as it prints a thousand duplicates
a thousand at a time.

I am not on display, nor a twice-dimensional brochure thrown
away
before it is fully read.
I am not a twin, nor an exact match made by mold of sand
that pressures my contours and sets me on the shelf, a price tag,
the same tag, of the 100 others on exhibit.

I am the perfumer’s brew, an essence, a changeable compound of
citrus and earth, lavender and soot, musk and magnolia.
I am the master’s fragrance, and though part of the original batch,
the aroma is my own. Take me, compare me, spritz me in the air,
and then tell me I am just the same as the bottle you bought last year.

I am incense, I am prayer. I am the candles that melt until the wax
congeals
un-candlelike,
and the scent permeates the places between person and person,
each perceiving a reason to pray. Though none tastes the fragrance
the same way.

So, diffuse me, as I am made; disperse me, recreate me.

For my former self is still covered in sand, smeared with ink,
and cracked in all the places the craftsmen hurried their work.

But You perfect me, with me so unsuspecting of such favor.
Infuse me with essences of winter into spring,
pour me and melt me, like a candle reused on the chancel
month after month. I’ve had chances I’ve squandered,
so please let these moments be enough
to transform the paper and stone
into light and cologne
that incites songs both holy and sweet
that leave me alive and completely undone.

When God Weeps

When God Weeps

“‘Look,’ said the Judaeans, ‘see how much he loved him!’” John 11:36

Jesus was on the way to Lazarus’ tomb. Martha, Lazarus’ sister had met Jesus on the road, falling at his feet and saying, “If you’d only been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

Jesus had received news of Lazarus’ illness, but delayed two full days before embarking for Bethany where Lazarus, Mary and Martha resided. The two sisters and their brother were good friends of Jesus and he stayed often at their home. Now, though Jesus’ friend was very ill, Jesus did not hurry.

Most are so familiar with this story that some of the emotion of the narrative escapes us. But think about Martha meeting Jesus on the road after her brother was already dead four days. She knows, she believes, she has no doubt that if Jesus had been there earlier, he could have healed Lazarus.

Jesus tells her that her brother will live because he is “the resurrection and the life.” Martha holds tight to her trust in Jesus, despite her grief, telling him, “I believe this: that you are the Messiah, the son of God, the one who has come into the world.”

They both make their way back to the house to find Mary being consoled by their friends. Mary immediately tells Jesus the same thing as her sister: “If you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.” Jesus sees her tears and the weeping of those around her and is stirred deeply within, to the point of being troubled.

He asks, “Where have you laid him?” They invite him to come and see.

And then, the memory verse every person knows, because it’s the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” He burst into tears. Not a single tear. Not a little sniffle. He wept. This isn’t the sort of tear you wipe away with a tissue during a sentimental movie. This is deep, from the gut, weeping.

This should astound us. Jesus told his disciples before they left that he was going to Bethany to “wake up” Lazarus. Jesus knew that in only a few moments his friend would come walking out of the tomb he had occupied for half a week. And yet he weeps.

Please don’t picture Jesus here with a tear running down his cheek. This is red-eyed, snot-nosed, full-throated weeping. The preacher would stop preaching at the sound. The singer would stop her song. Everyone would turn to hear where this wailing came from. And they would see the Son of God in full-on waves of grief.

Had we been there I have little doubt we would have said the same as the friends who had gathered: “See how much he loved him.”

Do you see it in your mind? Can you hear Jesus’ weeping? Here is the one who is perfectly human. Jesus is the full representation of what humanity is like. And humanity cries. Humanity weeps. Humanity grieves. Humanity openly expresses pain over the love of someone we lose.

This is important for us. Have you been raised to hold back your emotions? Did people ever say to you, “Don’t cry”? Well, Jesus won’t say that. Cry. Weep. If you are in a situation that feels dead, it is perfectly human to give sway to the emotions within.

Please do not think it a lack of faith to let the tears flow. Please don’t let your culture or upbringing prevent you from giving full expression to the present grief or pain. You may have finally reached your breaking point at your job. Your children may have wandered so far, your heart yearns for them. You may have a breach with your parents. You may even be in an abusive marriage or relationship that once seemed alive. There are actions you can take, but please don’t refrain from weeping.

In the dead moments of life, weeping is the gift God has built into our very being. Now, some of us are more prone to emotional display than others. Only you can know your true self. But please, do not hold back because it does not seem appropriate. Let the tears flow. Pain is real. Grief is real. Dead-end jobs are real. And death is real. So real that the Son of God himself wept deeply as they approached the tomb of the one he loved.

Which brings us to the next observation; not only is it human to feel grief, but God grieves with you. Do not hurry to Lazarus’ resurrection without stopping here for a moment. I don’t care what sermon, what book, or what preacher you’ve heard; your tears are no sign of a lack of faith. Your weeping does not show mistrust. In fact, God weeps with you.

Your pain is God’s pain. Your grief is God’s grief. Your frustration and confusion are His. When you want to bang your head against the wall, God is there, not to scold you, but to hold you. When the hurts of a thousand memories crowd your mind and you wish you were over them by now, God does not upbraid you for your lack of faith. He settles in right with you and weeps so openly that if someone else was in the room they would say, “Look how much God loves her!” “Look how much God loves him!”

And, by the way, once you have learned this to be true, you are able to weep for others as well. Your tears will come more easily than your judgment. Your heart will be moved by those you once dismissed. You won’t be afraid to embrace those whose lives are shattered because You’ve felt the weeping heart of God. You no longer feel compelled to tell people, “Come on, look alive!” You have learned to weep with others.

Above and beyond it all is life! Jesus knew the depth of his friends’ grief, he expressed the overflow of his own love for Lazarus, but he also was about to show that he ultimately comes to bring life, abiding life, eternal life.

So he stood at that tomb, raised his voice and shouted, “Lazarus—come out!” And Lazarus did. The graveclothes still hung from him; his face still wrapped in the cloth. They untied him and Lazarus was restored to his family.

Please do not be hard on yourself if, in the middle of what feels like a graveyard, you don’t feel very alive. But here is what I know. The more you open yourself to truly expressing your heart and the more you open your heart to God’s empathetic love for you, the closer you will be to knowing within that, no matter the situation, there is life. That life is in Jesus, fully and completely, and he loves you so much he will weep with you though the healing takes a lifetime.

A Silent Decade

A Silent Decade

(“Then God told him, ‘I will certainly be with you, and this is the proof that I am the one who is sending you: When you have led the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God here upon this mountain!’” Exodus 3:12)

It has been a silent decade, a desert of hearing,
a midnight of seeing and the oceans are grey, the river
is iron,
and the oars do not cut to take me downstream.

You are not to blame, though You speak much softly than I prefer.
If I leave here, if I find a new abode with the same household but
wrapped with connections I’ve missed, how do I know

You will go?

And how do I know

I won’t be missed?

I’m too broken to start anew, too old to venture a capital campaign;
The locusts are in my ears and the wasps are in my head,
the brain waves, though never measured, are surely morse code jazz.

I want to walk the marble halls with my sons; the coffee and scones,
carroty beers and earthen pages of books we found just hours ago.

I want to unload my decades-old burden and walk the Pacific Trail.
ha! I do not move further than from lounger to icebox when blackmailed
by my pain.

I do not move alone. I am tied forever in love. And she has always tagged
along.
But it’s always been my song. And now, when I need a new place, somewhere
to be born again,
I cannot ask her to carry my tune again.

Promise me the rains will fill my longing. Pledge Your presence though my senses
tingle alone. Go or stay, I need a way to be unwrapped completely and unafraid of

The self I’ve always been.

The self I’ve always been.