Pathways Converge

Pathways Converge

(“Don’t withhold good from someone who deserves it, when it is in your power to do so.” Proverbs 3:27)

Help me learn the language, help me
hear the sounds that mean another soul
could be seen if only I opened my eyes.
One song fades as another one begins,
pathways converge and we are brought together again.
I know you never liked what he did,
you know he wished he never had.
He knows every shattered choice he hoped
would fadeout like the ending of a radio song.
He felt like he was stuck in adolescence,
like he was still trying out for the football team.
He would paint his eyes a different color if
only that would change his view of things.

Help me discover the buried treasure, help me
correct the judgments that make me close my hands tight.
I have done worse, I think, than he thinks he has done.
I would buy him dinner, I would share a drink with him.
I would convince him nothing he did would prevent
me from being his friend.
I would not publish a single sentence he said.
I’d give him my heart as a receptacle for him
to place every shivering thought. I’d ask the
only questions that matter, questions of hope and
none of the statements that would shatter the
aging walls of his tears.

Help me learn his language, help me listen,
help me give what I’ve been given. Help me
receive his fearful confidence. Help me see it
through his eyes.

When Events Converge Upon a Week

When Events Converge Upon a Week

(“Fools will be punished for their proud words, but the words of the wise will protect them.” Proverbs 14:3)

Just a week ago I said goodbye to my
beloved raven-haired sister. Her, with the native
cheeks,
dark eyes,
and voice that commanded attention.
Oh youngest of us, why were you first to go?
She, with a love as large as the world.

This week I shall exit the tribe I’ve been allied with
for forty years. Early I believed nearly everything I read.
Early I danced in tongues and let visions capture my wrongs.
Early I sang the love songs, and maranatha songs, in circles we thought
the whole world understood.

But in the middle I stumbled mightily with few arms to catch me
and I fell right into the only hands that could hold me; the fingers of
grace. My tribe was divided. So, I took a drive with a decade friend
who cried with me over the hardship. And he never stopped the car
to make me walk back across the frozen landscape.
Another, four decades my senior, knew my worst, and called me first
and center and last, until his last breath escaped his jolly body that
that filled Oklahoma space like Santa Claus offering you a choice
at every altar call.
But others cross-examined me, accused me, used me, and now no more know
my name.

But I do not exit for these reasons, Indeed, they are reasons for my stubborn soul
to say. But that same soul has made a journey it began before I knew. And now,
seeing cheers for charlatans and few ears for discussion, I have become an
ally
to those who felt rallied against by muzzles trained upon their most sensitive
tears and tastes.

This week is nearly a year since I retired from shepherding people I love,
people loved, people imagined by God before the worlds began. A dozen
years I spent on the banks of the Columbia, leading with love, pouring out
grace
from a tap that never ran dry. And my health nearly died, but I tried; crawl,
sing or stutter, to utter new to the old; mercy to the sold; comfort to the unfolded
hearts that gushed when touched ever so carefully.

And now, pain is my only companions, save a few friends who step in an out
of this muddy river I’m isolated in. And I fear I’ve said too much, I’ve spoken too soon,
I’ve gone too far, I’ve laid open my wounds;

I fear I’ve frightened those I love the best. I fear I’ve heightened the anxiety
of friends I cared to calm. So, sometimes, ever so slowly,
I sink beneath the murky current, wishing I could hold my breath for
at least 20 minutes
and friends would forget my failures and just remember
affection is all this heart ever needed to heal.