Like Picking Up Fall Leaves

Like Picking Up Fallen Leaves

(“He told her, ‘Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed from your illness.’” Mark 5:24)

She had heard the stories like picking up
fallen leaves from the lawn. She had wished for
them
and turned her face to feel the sun.
She knew the sweet fragrance of new cut hay.
She gave away every resemblance to her younger days;
she tried to remember them like sunshine before the rain.

But the day it all began, she cannot remember the date,
but she still knows the moment when her body betrayed her,
when it gave way to a disease so chronic it threatened
to become her. The walls closed in on her isolation
while she heard the accusations that she must have failed
someone along the line to carry such a persistent haze.
The day it became and this day were connected like a
seam of blood-red thread encompassing everything.

She longed to sing in the choir again, her solo voice
had torn her up and down. She wanted the voices beside her,
resonating with her own alto altogether.

But she had heard the stories, and then she heard the throng.
Was it him? Would he walk though her neighborhood?
She listened as the airborne mixture of mere humanity
floated through her window. She caught a glimpse of him
and, hope for hope, she halted, seconds waiting like a
statue coming free.

“If only” she thought. And she continued to wonder as she
felt her feet leave for the front door. She must move stealthily,
between the bodies pressing in to see him. It would be easy to
be silent
while the crowd shouted and murmured for attention.

“If only” she decided. And walked between the narrow
lanes of bodies. She moved with purpose, her fingers
tingling with possibility. Within a couple of steps,
she reached our her hand to touch just the robe along the hem.

She turned around to return home, her sickness destroyed in
that single contact, but he spoke. “Who touched me?” Before
he even spoke shoe knew she as well.

And so this daughter, on a day of grace and faith
went in peace and found a few devoted friends to share
coffee in the afternoon.
She was once wooden clogs and now is
Cinderella’s slippers.

If I Had Not Fallen

If I Had Not Fallen

(“In love a throne will be established; in faithfulness a man will sit on it—one from the house of David—one who in judging seeks justice and speeds the cause of righteousness.” Isaiah 16:5)

If I had not fallen, you may never have found me.
But here we are both lying on the ground.
I don’t have long to stay; I may leave tomorrow.
My hold on life’s meaning keeps slipping somewhere
out of mind.

But still, here on the ground, I can hide
beneath your shade if only, if only, you will
stay around.

These last days the numbers on the calendar blend
former loves and
never-to-be dreams I gave up on long ago.

Take a chance on me, but, with my track record
you will likely lose.

You could be my roaring fire on the days
when everything has
gone up in smoke.

We haven’t spoken about it, but I can see
the end of days from here. The horizon
is only steps away; I need to know you will stay far longer
than the first or second verse.

I do not fear the uncertain veil, only, the way
my kinship has thinned,
I wonder if I may take that final step alone.

If I had not fallen, you would not have found me here.
I could have flown above it all, solved it all like a
Rubik’s cube.

But if I had winged my way in an upward arc, soaring high
above it all,
all my failures would have looked like jewels in the
distant refractions of sun and light.

If I had not fallen, (and I sense you know how far was my
descent), I would not be content to behold the eyes of
another groundling like me.

I can see the last horizon from here, though the journey
may be longer than I expect. It took me days to get here,
with days standing in for years.
It took me years to stop looking for angels
and look instead in your eyes, earthling,
and find every reason to sing.

If I had not fallen, I could not have shared with you this song.

Ages Since I Climbed

Ages Since I Climbed

"Six days later Jesus took with him Peter, James, and John, and led them up a high mountain, where they were alone. As they looked on, a change came over Jesus." Mark 9:2)

I must confess, it has been ages since I climbed a mountain
of any significance.
I hate to complain, but the rivers and the plains,
along with the curbs and concrete of the suburbs
have left each day that passes grieving and lazy
without a hiking companion.

I wouldn't stay there long, at the apex of the journey,
perhaps long enough to see the eclipse of the sun
by the brighter transformation of the One I have tried
to love so long.

I told you long ago I would wander wherever You led.
I've been through the dark valley, stuttered on the desert echoes,
watched wheat ebb and flow, canola grow like mustard waves.
I've jumped when they said jump, and fallen over dead when
the scene demanded it. I've frozen my toes in sliding snow
wearing only my Sunday shoes. I've made friends whose souls
were mated to mine; and lost the same friends over politics,
cigars and beer.

They call it a family, Jesus; a family. Then why, when we disagree,
does this family become silent, change their addresses and keep me at
such long arm's length that I can't hear their words for listening.

But now age and health demand I stand as seldom as I can.
And yet I'd like to climb, find the time to. I'd love to share the path
with you. A night or two; I'd need to take it slowly. A friend or two,
one's I've known since we only knew Jesus was our friend.

Maybe I haven't lost you; maybe I'm afraid you think I'm no longer on the hike,
because I've adopted some travelers, received new brothers,
embraced outcast sisters, and shunned the warlike expressions of
a Jesus who wants to kill just about everybody who doesn't climb
at a space very close to the end of time. Maybe I'm just afraid
you think I'm not climbing the same mountain as you.

It has been ages, Jesus, since I've climbed a significant peak.
But on sidewalks and asphalt, tiny ekklesia and the emptiest skies,
I still want to follow, to wander, to meander more in Your lonesome ways
than a thoroughfare crammed with cocksure doctrines
and duct taped compassion. Just dig me deep as I travel on,
and catch the tears I weep when I miss the rest of the family.