From Slave to Free

From Slave to Free

(“So if you consider me your partner, welcome him as you would welcome me.” Philemon 1:17)

It matters like the dust from stars falling into themselves,
it matters like the dust that comes from those final implosions,
from those super Novas spraying elements of carbon, helium, and hydrogen
into open space.

Surrounded by uncountable machinations and
propelled by undeniable afterthoughts we should not
hesitate
to call each other partners in a world full of unexplainable
light.
We kept accounts and hoped our tempos would synch up
before the end of the day.

We sang the same songs when we were together, and now
apart
let us sing them again, listening for the straight beats and
the syncopation. I am sending you back the one who could
only talk out of tune until I taught him the hymns you and I
both knew intimately. He was glad to learn, the runaway child,
and anxious to know if he could sing them with you.

So we set the tempo and worked on the temperament;
he has been found to be quite useful to me.
Shall I send him back to you with the song, he has
the lyrics fully internalized but he does take some liberties
with the tune. He is freer than I am, I think, in this regard.
And perhaps freer than you expected. But he is overjoyed and
ready to pay back anything he owes you. And what he cannot
I will cover. Imagine with me, this miscreant, this fugitive,
returning to you with a heart full of the same delight you heard
from you at night. Laying on his bunk he ached to learn the
songs of the spirit he heard from your house.

Having them now in his innermost being, he longs to join the
chorus as a son to you. Receive him, if you will, as a member
of the chorale. You won’t be disappointed, his tone is rich,
his tempo heavenly, and his visage is changed from slave to free.

When We Emptied Our Pantry

When We Emptied Our Pantry

(“And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.” Hebrews 10:24)

Now that I think of it, we should have white-washed
the entire edifice before the strangers came to play.
The shadows would be silhouettes in the late afternoon sun.
We poured milk for the lime-faced children who asked for
nothing at all.
They deserved our attention, they reserved their laughter
for the moment we appeared.
We shared cookies newly baked for the skinny-faced children
who squealed for it all.
A lot of us questioned why,
a majority assumed we were required to distribute
the goods we had in store. But some of us wished
there was more that we could do for the baby-faced
children who shrunk silently around the corner.
It is the height of embarrassment to admit there are
no baked goods back at home.
I cannot describe our motivation,
we had not thought it all through,
we were only daylight decorations,
we thought it came out of the blue.
But the children played brighter, roses on
their cheeks, chocolate chips melted in their hands.

We decided to travel there again,
to memorize their names,
to baptize their happy eyes,
to bring sandwiches of peanut butter,
and instruct them silently to fly.

And yet we sprouted wings once our feet
hit the asphalt,
we were heavier too, weightier than
our many words we displayed uncarefully.
And all we wanted was to get lost among the
throng of the needy, and have enough even
when we, unready, emptied our pantry
uncarefully.

Woke/Provocation

 Woke/Provocation

(“And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.” Hebrews 10:24)

Buzzing between sleep and the dawn,
someone took it upon themselves to
unshake me from my late dreams.
Chilled with ice, the water hit my face
and every nerve was alert.
I had not forgotten to set my alarm for the day
and had no pressing issues ahead of me.
Provoked and awake, my made-up world
unwound like the mist above a lake.
It did not occur to me that I could not
be late on this particular day.

So,
I awoke.

Woke,
what a word for the mornings, what a seeing of things
as they are and not as I wish or remember.

Woke,
what a spiritual state of things
that turns ingrained mediocrity to love
that is like the sky,
embracing everything.

Woke,
what a personal way to see my neighbor
who is ignored for some abhorrent doctrine of
hell
and
sin
and
inside knowledge.

Woke,
what a lovely word that the enemy
has obfuscated with deadly
flumes of smoke.

I saw my twelve-year-old friend Amy on
my walk today and her big black dog
raced to greet me.
I reached out my hand and
petted his solid ribcage. “Hey,
Samson!”

I do not think Amy heard,
but she shouted,
“Hercules,
come here.”
And my memory, provoked,
awoke
to the name that defines him.