An Extra Pair of Angel’s Wings

An Extra Pair of Angel’s Wings

(“Nevertheless, you are doing the right thing if you obey the royal Law in keeping with the Scripture, ‘You must love your neighbor as yourself.’” James 2:8)

I have paid my dues for being unwise,
(that’s putting it mildly)
I have missed my deadlines, wildly looking back
at what might have been.
And I wonder where I left my heart this time.

I want to walk the mountain trail,
feel the rocky floor. I want to breathe the
snowy air. I want to drink from chattering streams,
but I cannot do it alone.

I walk, day this, day that,
alone. And yet if someone offers to walk with me,
I usually shut down, just say no.

I need a nameless soul, unformed clay,
without definitions or conditions. If
I know too much about you, I may fear to be myself.

Yet, you know more about me than most others.
Has this led us to a cliff of no return? Did someone block
the access down the mountain? Is the trail marked, “one
way
only”?

I am weary. Overworked? Perhaps overlooked.
The valley calls me, plush and green where the robins sing,
and hawks glide along the upper frame. I want
one
who has heard my song to
sing it back to me just one more time.

And here I am, writing about me. My impulses to
stretch beyond myself are muted; my heart is
either shrunken
or hardened. Is it possible that passions
that once filled my heart
have leaked out and dried in the summer drought?

For one more day the tears fill my eyes and have
nowhere to fall except upon my naked feet. And
one more day I’ll walk and listen and breathe and
search to see if anyone has left an extra pair of
angel’s wings along the path.

An Extra Can of Soup

 

An Extra Can of Soup

(“Now He who supplies seed to the sower and supplies bread for your food will also multiply your seed sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness.” 2 Corinthians 9:10)

Please don’t follow me home only to
turn around and leave me
there alone.
I have no money, but an extra can of
soup and an apple or two. Perhaps Spring
will allow us this modest repast
so I have someone to talk to.

I don’t want to be selfish,
I don’t need the attention,
I don’t want the focus on myself,
I don’t need to lengthen your stay
beyond darkening evening.

I need someone to walk up my gravel driveway,
someone I once prayed for,
or
someone I once stayed with
past the shock, past the incongruent murmurs
of friends with no words.
Someone I delayed with
until the tears were rivers,
until the rivers were dry,
until the sentences became only sighs.

I’ve had offers, I admit. And then the trauma insists
I’ll freeze in the sun
the moment anyone
enters my door. Something keeps the words
choking in my throat. I want someone
I can cry with.

Will you do me the kindness,
(and perhaps I can find a loaf of bread)
to wait with me on days when I am tired of
being brave,
when courage is too exhausting,
when I cannot answer with faith or certainty,
when I only want to nap for an eternity.

Will you do me the kindness,
and hand me a handkerchief, please.
I’ve been waiting for seeds to be planted,
for bread to be abundant,
and a place to lay my head.

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

 

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

(“So Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks and gave them to the people sitting down, and then did the same with the fish, as much as they wanted.” John 6:11)

I don’t know why they ever lied to me,
somewhere tonight they wish they had told me the truth.
I don’t know why they ever kept me from their table,
somewhere tonight they are scraping the extra into the garbage.

Some lives are so shrunken they actually live on
less. Food is sparce, space is frugal, friends are the
ants you try to keep from your dropped crumbs on the floor.

Unless you find someone to hold your diminished life
and not be afraid of its hollow touch, you may end up
just like the rest of us.

I don’t know why I every lied to them,
somewhere tonight they wish I had told them the truth.
I don’t know why I ever kept them from the table,
somewhere tonight I have ordered extra guacamole.

Light is the touch, fiery are the folded hands that hold
my bread
in thanks for the seed, the grain, the miller and the baker,
and for the One who invented seeds and told them to teach
us of abundance when our love is too small,
and our vision too narrow,
and our prayers are checkmarks on a list or
a social network status.

Most days I would take a hug with skin
than the promise of prayer from one I think
would pray anyway.

Having been held in thankful hands by the Master,
you could be loaves and fish to me if only
you would wrap your arms around my neck,
hold my hand for more than a second,
look in my eyes with tears held back
and feed my emptiness the way a mother
brushes back her firstborn’s hair.