Everything Universal

Everything Universal

(“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.” Revelation 7:9)

The tickets were free and the air was clear.
The arena was packed and I knew very few who were there.
But I showed up because of the invitation;
I drove to the top of the hill to get a better view of
where we were going.
I saw lawyers and doctors,
servers and chefs,
crutches and joggers,
every kind of human I believed.

I made my way down quickly not wanting to miss a minute.
The road was crowded, the line was slow, but no one was
impatient as we waited our turn. I noticed an old friend,
one I did not expect to see at such a raucous and holy moment.
He looked the same and spoke the same,
and I remembered his name the moment he waved at me.
Neither one of us expected to see each other here.
It had been 30 years since we played tennis together
on the weekends.

We parked near each other and walked to the entrance together.
I felt as if her was escorting me. But neither of us had any idea
about what we would hear and see. Myriads filled up around us,
circling the round rainbow throne.

We looked at each other before the singing began. This was the
most indiscrete moment we had ever lived. Millions, and maybe
billions outside the doors were all dancing like the world had
just begun. So many languages but we sang the same song.

We spent the time like we were levitating from the ground.
Gravity gave up its heavy bonds. 

And the Lamb. And the Throne. And our joy. And the Home
we learned we could call our own. Not a single wall,
not a impenetrable barrier kept any of us away. Our
tongues rehearsing native songs that we all understood.
Voices creating a new song from the old. Everything that was
universal
felt local that day.

The Instant that Shifted

The Instant that Shifted

(“I smiled at them when they did not believe, And they did not look at my kindness ungraciously.” Job 29:24)

It was an instant that shifted nearly everything.
He glanced the moment the mouth and eyes sparkled
and never forgot the embrace. It felt like water that
seeped through the silt and sand, purified by
seconds of time. It was a glint like diamonds,
a simple flash and he wondered if anyone else
had seen it. Was it simply and only for him,
and if so, what would the day bring if he tucked it
away like gold coins saved like time.

It was a sideways look, brief and accurate as a
laser pulse. It was barely a grin, that would be to
determined. This was more reflex, the way a baby
nearly laughs at funny faces over and over again.
It was pinpoint, entering his soul, pore to pore,
and saturated his tethered heart. It had not been broken,
but was too connected to mishaps of the past.

He wished he could capture the moment and turn it
around and around in his mind like a recipe for
cake he had eaten as a child. But the moment was enough,
the instant began to fill something deep just because
she had smiled.

Everything You Wanted

Everything You Wanted

(“No servant can serve two masters, since either he will hate one and love the other, or he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.” Luke 16:13)

Have you gotten everything you wanted;
have you wasted your time wanting more?
Have you stashed it away from prying conquest;
have you labeled it for later use?
Sooner or later the accounts will be settled;
credit will be given to the poorest and debts
cancelled in a single
day.

How many days have you set aside:
how many shiny coins are stored in a tin can
in the dark?
Or did you spend it all on diamond swatches
of tomorrow’s greed?
Did the seeds of your discontent
burst like moss too heavy on your winter roof?

What tastes have you acquired:
what timing for this brief untimely stay?
Can we share coffee or give away new
slices of cake?
Can we agree that we want more than will
every satisfy our perceived needs?
Why don’t we leave our opulent windows
and doors
to move outside where the ground is level and
where the poor man sits all alone?
Why don’t we join the resistance,
pool our resources, and swim against the tide?
Why don’t we give away what we will
never entirely consume? Why don’t we
offer our silence against the selfish voices
of rage?

Unsnapped

Unsnapped

(“To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless.” 1 Corinthians 4:11)

I became unsnapped from everything that
held me tightly,
untethered from the orbits that explained everything.
The strings of lights hung from the eaves,
the deer wandered through the yard. I was
learning to walk, to explore, to live like a
vagabond, a drifter, a nomad. We were better
at being ragamuffins than royals, so we pulled
up an old folding chair and wondered what the singing
was about.
We were enriched in our poverty,
homed in our wandering, healed with balms
of lowly scents from the muddled petals from
flowers that grew in the forest.

The truth is, I always feared being poor.
And I missed the beloved’s smile that looked on
my paucity as a gift. What should I give away
to know your love deeper than I have before?

Once again, I hold onto the things that have escaped my grasp,
the memories that were felt so deeply that they
color my moods like finger-painting.  It is too late
to learn to play a new instrument or think about
buying one. I should play even if I play alone,
leaving the sound to encase the walls of my sitting,
to gently adorn angels I imagine live between the
strings of my mandolin.

I unzipped myself from velcro attachments and
found, though poorer, my days were fuller than I knew,

You Can Choose

You Can Choose

(“’In that day, declares the Lord, ‘the king and the officials will lose heart, the priests will be horrified, and the prophets will be appalled.’” Jeremiah 4:9)

You were playing games and changing the rules;
you were throwing the dice disguising the results with
light flashing like saber tooth tigers competing for survival.
You thought your prayers were the answer when you
filled the altar with dead words and loud admonishments.

You who proclaimed the end of days, will you be ready
for your justice to come calling? You were ready to deport
every dark-skinned neighbor over their birthplace a half
century before. When God meets you at the end of the road,
what will you say to justify the cruelty your declarations
incited?

You kings, you should never have imagined you were monarchs
giving matches to strangers to burn down the meager cottages
of the poor. From the throne to the backyard chickens, you
thought you reigned with impunity. Instead, it will be you
who will lose heart when you see the hand of God reducing
your words to sawdust to trample underfoot.

Take a breath you purveyors of underhanded mischief.
There is still a chance for your redemption. Walk away
from the conflagration you have created with
heat of your hatred. You thought you would never be
found out, that no one would see the loathing you
learned despite it all. You had your chances;
your stances were arrows aimed from your thrones,
and you thought they only advanced your cause.

You can choose today how you will learn the dirges of
the disheartened. You can change your tune; you can
unfold your cartoon character and feel the pangs of
hunger your policies have caused.

You can choose today. Look into the eyes of the One
who sees everything.
You can choose today.

You Hugged the Rain

You Hugged the Rain

(“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31)

I remember everything.
Except your words.
I remember your face like the aura
of a child. I see the way your eyes crinkled
every time you smiled.
I remember everything.

I’m sorry if I ever ignored you,
or if I ever cut our phone calls short.
I was guarding my own heart for so long
I sometimes thought an early goodbye was
better than
adding more words to your memory. You already
seemed
to be filled with too many lectures.
But I could have listened longer. I could have.

I thought you were ready to explode like
a water balloon landing on the ground. And then
I’d look again
and the water, seeking its own level,
settled behind your eyes. I know what it’s like
to shut everything tight
and lock it up for fear of being exposed. Usually
I would discover, walking in the cold, that I could
find and alley where the snow had not yet been plowed.

I’m weary too. But I’ve seen you when you forgot the
pressure. You played like a child. You hugged the rain.
You waved down silly hitchhikers to give them directions to town.
But it wears me out too.

I should have met you for ice cream more often.
I should have mentioned the waterfall that washes our
shame away like
the first sunny day following the snow.
I wish I knew because I would have
remembered everything.
Your words. Your pain. Your loves. Your refrains
of distant songs. Your worth. Your worth. Your worth.
I would have remembered everything.

Imported Air

Imported Air

(“God has set everything right for us. Come! Let’s tell the good news…” Jeremiah 51:10a)

He was just a victim of transportation and
found himself walking on imported air.
The rain had finally polished
the stones along the riverbank and so
he sat outside the first sunny day of the year.
A burger for him and some
fries for his pup, they watched for seals
who had gone home for the day.
The smelt, not fit to eat, mostly, had nearly
finished their run.
He was just a well-dressed wanderer and
found himself wishing for christening.

It Doesn’t Always Add Up

It Doesn’t Always Add Up

(“I will show him how much he will have to suffer because of Me.” Acts 9:16)

It doesn’t always add up.
The spirit fills us; we laugh until our
sides ache.
The music spins us dizzy until we fall onto
the floor.
The food fills us; the wine tells us more than
we knew before.
The evening stills us into quiet contemplation;
the night air covers us like a comforter, a down blanket
to deposit our thoughts.

And we think, after days like that,
everything will wind up either
odd or even.
The sun will rise on time,
the sky will mine the aquamarine from the
rivers below.
Then,

Though there was no explosion, everything imploded.
The compass pointed north, of that we were certain,
but the storms blew hard from the south and the west,
the thunder drowned the bluegrass, the fiddle, and the mandolin.
We walked backward against the wind and saw the last
banquet where we had been silly like children.

No one told us that how things begin is rarely how they end.
We learned it for ourselves. We sank our teeth into forbidden
explanations.

Our calculations betrayed us. We learned we were still
only dust.
We found the letter written that we had never seen.
It eased our tiny suffering when we read:
“All the pain and the laughter are in my hands.”

We spoke of love and followed the storm to the place
we ended and
the place we began.

Everything I Wanted

Everything I Wanted

(“Aren’t two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s consent.” Matthew 10:29)

There was everything I wanted just inside
the pair of eyes
pre-empting professional conventions.
Who knows, if you can hear me,
whether words stay glued near me or
break through space and time like
electrons escaping the strong force at
elemental levels.

You told me your story between questions about
my health.
I think we could talk forever, but my insurance covers
only an hour, I think. I should have brought coffee as
a write-off. Between laughs and family angst,
we talked about my pain, my usual topic for our
appointments. And we talked about grief, the subject
that, it seems,
has made me a doula in this latter time.

I went late to lunch and the server asked about my
pain. She always does. And it comforts me. She stays
at my table moments longer than any other and wonders
how I do it. And I wonder too.

There were surprises, two tacos, a beer,
and a friend walking in with new music
for me to hear.
Our shirts matched, imagine that, two sky-blue
guayaberas. He and his friends sat as I exited
the restaurant that feels like home.

Everything I’ve wanted is in this village. The doves
lift their steel gray wings perching on branches as Autumn
paints an earth scene to surround them. I wish I knew their names,
and I would tell them my pain is eased for just a moment
as they sit exposed just outside my window.

Verbs Like Green

Verbs Like Green

(“But as for you, return to your God, hold fast to mercy and justice, and wait on your God continually.” Hosea 12:6)

What if there was a new name for everything;
not verbs like
green or
running. And have you caught your limit yet?

What if hills were lions’ manes, the clouds fastened to
nursery rhymes?
What if Saturn’s rings were alligator dreams, the stars
tethered to geothermal springs?

What if no one was king, what if you were circular?
What if fences were holes in our theories? What if
space/time was clearly a one-way street?
What if the universe is on virtual repeat,
the daylight a single page in a book?
What if everything shook loose until
random was sequential, rational was inclusive,
geology was playful and
immigrants ruled the world?

I won’t say love should be defined,
I won’t say wine should be refined,
I won’t author definitions,
I won’t offer explanations.

I won’t be I. I won’t. I want to
be we. I want. We.

What if we are stick figures drawn
by a kindergarten class.
What if every notion was our last, every
first a cats-eye marble left by
debaters who decided

There could be a new name for

Nearly

Everything.

Please Take the Lead

Please Take the Lead

(“We must keep our eyes on Jesus…” Hebrews 12:2)

Please take the lead,
my steps have lost the time
and I cannot find the cadence again.

These days (no, most of my days, most of my

Years)

My first moment is pathetic,
then becomes septic,
while the tears take time to build
and shed later in the day.

Please take the lead,
I do not follow well anymore.
I am silent the whole day through,
not out of some imposed vow,
but because there is no one to talk to.
I cannot find the radiance again.

I’ve been told you inhabit everything,
so you would think I could see you
no matter which way I look.
That’s a fine thought. But my heart
is still a stone that crumbles too easily.

I am weak, everything about me deteriorates
in my depression and mistakes.
But I used to think I was good. Now I am
no longer sure.

I talk a good game,
but honestly, again and again,
I stub my toe, or worse,
run head-on into an unsuspecting passerby.
One more person I should explain myself to.

I’ll tell you the truth now, I did not want to write today.
It is dark at noon. The air is heavy as untuned pianos
masquerading as sandy beaches. And I know that
image makes no sense,
but neither does this burden I can never lay down,
that haunts me forever,
that drowns every sound of a simple chorus of joy
away.

I would curl around anyone who didn’t care
about my shame. I would talk endlessly.
(no I would not. my talk has been my undoing)

Please take the lead, I cannot see beyond this fog.
I’m tired. I’m alone. I’m foolish. I’m a failure.
I make a mess of the best summer days and
cry on all the rest.

These fears, these anxieties, are only paper-thin.
And just beyond them is where beauty begins.

(yes, I wrote that earlier today. but I am still stitched,
and taped, and stapled, and wrapped in butcher paper
someone left on the shelf.)

Cottonwood Fences

 

Cottonwood Fences

(“…they rounded up entire communities, to hand them over…” Amos 1:6b)

And now, with everything compressed on the back of the
weekly
garbage trucks,
there is more space for storage.
But why do we lasso entire circles who could have
played in the fields on their own
and put them between stainless steel and
wood slat fences alone?

I would prefer a carousel,
I would prefer a serenade,
a glass of lemonade made by the
brother and sister around the corner.
I would prefer the tales they tell.

And now, with every border crossing open season for
daily
bounty hunters,
there is less space for the high bridge.
So why do we herd them and burn our naked brands
into their sun-thatched ribs
and prod them between cornstalks and
scarecrows back again?

I would prefer a round-dance,
I would prefer a folk ballad,
a cup of corn soup made by the
sweaty brows of mothers and sons in from the fields.
I would prefer their invitation to dinner.

I’ve stopped shouting in the canyons that
no longer echo. It’s time to wake up everyone,
let everyone breathe. Or are you paying admission
now
to hand out just a
few days of freedom?

Once you colonize the land,
what will you do with the firsts who
walked it before
you ever erected your cabins with
cottonwood fences.

The Setting of Autumn

 

The Setting of Autumn

(“God has made everything fitting in its time, but has also placed eternity in their hearts…” Ecclesiastes 3:11a)

This is the kind of town where
you can watch Autumn set slowly behind the hills
while
an easy wind exhales with Winter rain.
And yet,
and yet,
I was not ready for the next season nor
expected that harsh pellets of heaven descending
would add to the darkness that remained
well past the rising of the sun.

For all the ice, for all the floods,
for all the harsh north that blew in through
the windows’ thin panes,
there was still waiting to do.
There was still waiting to do
well into the arms of heavy afternoons.
There was still one more word to hear
before the clouds obscured the sun that
had warmed the land. There were no
magic wands,
but there were words that broke through
sleet and raindrops,
sleep and pain.

It was time to listen again.

For Everything

 

For Everything

(“Consistently give thanks to God the Father for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus, the Messiah” Ephesians 5:20)

For the shots that missed and for the love without cost,
we thank you o Lord.
For the homes well-lit and for the late sunset tones,
we thank you o Lord.
For the few who left and for the friends ever true,
we thank you o Lord.
For the blues well-worn and for the unclouded hues,
we thank you o Lord.
For the scrapes that healed and for every birthday cake,
we thank you o Lord.
For the stress today and for slumber’s deep caress,
we thank you o Lord.
For the day we’re born and for the kingdom’s ballet,
we thank you o Lord.
For the dance of spring and for a budding romance,
we thank you o Lord.
For the ice of winter and for its extruded nights,
we thank you o Lord.

For the wings of angels, for the footsteps of pets,
for the mess of our lives, for the failings you bless,
for forgiveness and grace, for lace and tablecloths,
for picnics and breadcrumbs, for love and found,
for the sounds that wake us and the sounds that make us
laugh and hug and pray with our tongues tied up.
For lightning, for thunder, for asphalt, for gravel,
for every thing
and everything

We thank you o Lord!