Stuck on the Floor

Stuck on the Floor

(“I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” Isaiah 57:15b) \

i would do anything to ease your pain,
to sit with you while you struggle to breathe.
I would not utter a word, because each syllable would be
an
intrusion into your grief.
I know there is nothing than can ease your pain. 

How do we lose someone precious,
where do we take our sorrow?
Where can we find the end of our heartache
when the end of a beloved comes too soon? 

What if we could have prevented it, what if
we asked him to stay longer so the intersection
where he met the t-boning truck was free and clear?
What if, what if, what if, we had prayed harder? 

We never pray hard enough, do we?
We beg heaven after the events, but sound like
silk on the days before. Is God that angry;
did God take away the apple of my eye
because I found faith to flee too often? 

Did he look both ways, did he have a lapse in judgment?
Did I rush him out the door, did I call him home too soon?
I cannot breathe, the air is lead. I cannot bear
to see another face when mine is crushed and
wrinkled. Everything that is wrong in the world has
landed on me and I fear I may never breathe the same again. 

Don’t tell me God is with me now. Don’t tell me God
works
in mysterious ways. I am subtracted, I am absent,
I am divided from myself, I am stuck on the floor and
wanting to be alone for days and days.
It is all too new for your Scriptures and your prayers. 

  It is all too new.

CrissCross

 

CrissCross

(“I know where you dwell, where Satan's throne is. Yet you hold fast my name, and you did not deny my faith.” Revelation 2:13a)

We hear the electromagnetic hum from the White House
to state houses,
from Supreme Courts to county fair judges,
from legislative lobbyists to the home-town blogger
and it all sounds so powerful.

You feel the static in the air, the murmur of a thousand
deals made on the back of a million people who thought
they had their say. Oh

by the way

Filthy rich preachers pray for the president.

All the while the rivers crisscross the country
lapping lazily at the banks
and no one notices how long they have been there.

FirstBorn

FirstBorn

(“The first-born, as firstborn, already belongs to God.” Leviticus 27:26b)

It wasn’t quite the backdoor
where we snuck into the mansions bright,
but it was nearly the same as burglars
catwalking within the farewell night.
Once we thought we would earn it,
we catered to the high hands,
recited our profession upon center stage
to prove how well we had learned it.

Afraid we were second-class, middle-born,
or diet-free substitutes to the real thing
we disguised our fears with cellophane tears
and kept on climbing the crags past noon
until sunset,
and blackened our faces to skulk into
familiar dwellings, hoping for acceptance
at the dining table, even as unnoticed guests at
next morning’s breakfast.

But You surprised us all!
For those ready for it, it felt like
no surprise at all.
And perhaps that is why
so many others miss it,
so used to living after the fall.

We belong like FirstBorn, such an old way
of viewing things, all things being equal and all.

But God’s Son, the firstborn among many children,
integrated us who once belonged to no one in particular,
harmonized our songs that more than once deferred
to the next man with a banjo.

Before long we hummed dances and spent our late night
securely feeling right at home. Backdoors were used for
going out and in at cookouts, block parties and fireworks
displays sparkling freedom that never needed to check
immigration status.

The adoption was ratified; our lifelong hope to belong,
given full status before which the entire universe longed
to bow.

Days and nights are now the same, comfortable and
ready to find something better than the next warm meal.
A meal indeed, but more to the point,
a family to share a breakfast with,
all complete.