Take for Granted

Take for Granted

(“So the people were in two minds about him—some of them wanted to arrest him, but so far no one laid hands on him.” John 7:43, 44)

Mold him, decided; confusion, misguided.
The books are words end to front proving nothing new,
exchanging cartoons for truth, in the hunt for the real Jesus,
the appealing Jesus, the Jesus I can put my hands upon,
get a grip upon, make up my mind about, prove I was
right about.

Scold him, united; behold him, shortsighted.
The portraits, a Caucasian and renaissance man,
handsome and well-tanned, hair well-curled and not
a single eyebrow misplaced. Paint me a modern
Arab for my Christ and you will be closer.

Last night I lingered between two opinions
(I will not share their content here, for they may have
a significant effect upon my future)
but they pulled me two ways, hyper-extending my
dreams and my shoulders. If I were bolder I would
come down on one side or the other, and spend my
final few decades painting life the way I’ve seen it
instead of fitting it into a majority-vote opinion
that is sure to keep me comfortably provided for.

There are simply some things my contemporaries
take for granted
that have always caused me
to squirm in my seat just a little bit.
Why have I never asked what the squirming is for? 

Kept Me at Bay

Kept Me at Bay

(“Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of man will give to you; for on him has God the Father set his seal.” John 6:27)

The morning had its way with me again,
bearing down like the north wind against a lone walker,
parka wrapped closely, head downward into the day,
barely making his way before breathing fast inside
the nearest shelter.

All week long the pain laid siege to my best plans,
starting early, pounding my body with reluctance.
Decision #1, pull off the covers. Decision #2,
put my feet on the floor. Decision #3, is the bathroom
warm enough. Decision #4, pick the blankets off the floor
and find the couch warm enough until the second try
near noon.

From Sunday until Saturday it kept me at bay.
Best intentions became texts and tiny phone calls,
polite apologies for missing breakfast. I eat less
on weeks like this; either my defense against the siege,
or my body bluffing the pain into believing I still have
all I need.

How do I call You, Dearest Friend, on these days;
how do I explain my absence on days I could have
left the pain bloodied behind me, using all my resources
in one morning’s hour.

How do I seek You, Never Hidden, on these weeks;
when the Bread of Heaven is my only food,
when I pray for reinforcements daily while the
week leaves me dragging, fighting the invisible,
the wind, the pain, the words, the same questions
I have for You again. When do I lay down my arms
and rest in Yours? How do I greet the mornings
when the siege-works are set up without warning.

How do I call You, Friend Closely, who knows me,
and, though You can heal me, leaves me helpless
and hoping rest today will gain fresh tomorrow.

How do I seek You, Always, though my mornings
murmur absence? Silence is better than wrath,
mercy is in these moments.

The Man I Miss

The Man I Miss

(“I will bring a gift, and offer a sacrifice to you, Lord. I will praise your name because you are good.” Psalm 54:6)

It was not a snowy wood I stopped by,
I knew little of countryside lanes or gravel roads;
but somewhere a thousand miles from here and
and barely ready to begin my journey
I made the fateful turn that, untested and unlearned,
landed me so far away
I now am uncertain of who I am who began.

Memorization was the skill I was glad to leave behind,
but I lost, too high a cost, the comrades of invention,
comedic improvisation, and jazz dabbling at hand-
writing
on napkins for the final scene’s soliloquy.

Tuition was high and funds were low,
I followed a whisper like God’s forecast of snow,
and turned on my heel to follow (I know, scholarships
could steal what I refused to borrow). I called
it
faith,
and still believe it was so,
but nearer last than beginning now,
I forgot who I might be and only know every
voice that knew I could have done it better or
spoken clearer or
believed cleaner or
chosen sooner or
stayed longer or
prayed better or
grayed later and memorized every line
I should have toed, every step that I was told
would keep me in good graces.

It isn’t the noises in my head left there from people I dreaded
senseless,
(I’m not the only one with an ill-brained acoustic loop)
I erected fences to guide me safe (I felt defenseless)
and found I lost the man I was happy with along the way.

I’m a solo thirsty for a choir,
a monologue craving a scene,
and I want to reacquaint myself with
the good boy who knew the world was
made for laughter, creation, experiments
and late night ice cream runs.

All that keeps me sane, even when the I’ve emptied the
fifth bucket of lonely boy tears,
is know You are good, so good, to love someone
who feels to be only half a human, me plus the
me I haven’t spoken to in two decades:

Maybe three.

One Small Obedience

(“But Daniel determined that he would not defile himself by eating the king’s food or drinking his wine, so he asked the head of the palace staff to exempt him from the royal diet.” Daniel 1:8)

Good food is one of the exquisite joys of life. Not everyone may like exotic fare, but a well prepared meal with top-notch ingredients and perhaps a few items we have not tasted before, is seldom turned down. Growing up in a lower-middle class minister’s family, I had little opportunity to sample much high-class cuisine.