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.

To Bake the Bread

To Bake the Bread

(“Seize life! Eat bread with gusto, drink wine with a robust heart. Oh yes—God takes pleasure in

your pleasure!” Ecclesiastes 9:7 [The Message])

I saw you come in from the fields,
covered with wheat dust and dirt.
I saw your face burnt from the relentless sun,
and saw your hands roughened by the twine on the
rows of bales thrown on the back of the truck.
I saw you come in.

The crop was late this year, a cold spell mid spring
slowed everything down. And now some may not take
the sunflowers off until February after they are frozen and
dry.

But today, late in the evening, we would break bread; we would
throw our stories around like fast pitches at a pick-up baseball game.
We would kid the children who sat in the cab with us. We would thank
the women and teens who brought our lunch to us. We would drink
deeply of water to clear the dust from our parching throats. And
(out of courtesy) we laid our over-hauls in the mud room. We would be
back at it in the morning.

So, with dirt scrubbed hands we passed around the meal. The bread
was there in abundance; hot rolls, banana bread, whole loaves that smelled
like they were still baking. We ate deep (the children ate quick), we ate but
stopped between one chew and the next to playfully thank our host and ask,
“Do you bake all day, so you don’t have to come to the fields?” It’s harmless.
Because mostly they do frequent the fields, pulling double duty: guide the
combines and back to bake the bread.

And tonight, though not the finest wine, the color came back to our cheeks
with each glass. Grandma sipped slowly but was the first one up from the table.
She had a plan, she had a spark, she had an itch to make our simple meal a party.
The crops were nearly in…except for the late sunflowers…and it was time
to celebrate.

She put on a record full of standards from the 40s. The kids and teens groaned,
and honestly, so did some of the adults. But granny knew what we did not,
there is no better dance music than big band music. “In the Mood”, “It Don’t
Mean a Thing (If it Ain’t God that Swing)” The toddlers took to twirling first.

They kept their socks on as they slid across the smooth hardwood floor
surrounded by couches, recliners, and side tables. They spun like dervishes,
and giggled like dolphins showing off.

First dad, then uncle, then cousins and teenage relatives, took one of the
skating toddlers and spun them round to the music. The giggles hit the rafters
and ricocheted back into the room.

Granny and Grandpa were the next up. He took her in his arms like a schoolboy
at prom. Their eyes gleamed. They had waited out the day to eat of the bounty,
and now wanted to celebrate free of restraint.

Everybody in between, after they stopped their complaints, found a way to keep time
to these tunes from another century. And then, just as every was losing their breath,
Grandpa pulled out his fiddle, and Mama pulled out her guitar, and they played
bluegrass, and reels, and jigs. The same songs they always played. Their
repertoire was short, but their execution was precise.

Good food, abundant wine, dancing like there would be tomorrow to do it all over again,
all seemed the most appropriate way to say

Thank You

For a harvest, a hard harvest, that was now nearly in. If they could, they would
have wiped the plates clean, depleted the wine, and danced all night laughing with
the children, some of whom had already fallen asleep on the floor and couches.

Like Cows in the Fog

Like Cows in the Fog

(“’My brothers,’ he said. ‘I have conducted myself before God in a completely good conscience all my life up to this day.’” Acts 23:1)

Like cows in the fog,
black specters on the savannah,
we looked like strangers, but we belonged there.

It got to the point where we always said,
“I’m fine”
when people asked who never made up their mind
to come closer,
to see better,
to hear the bellows of creatures left out in the cold.

We are all looking for a better love,
a higher sun that looks deeper than the droplets that
mask our view. We are all hoping for better apologies,
higher comedies that laugh
only at our own misperceptions.

I know you are not fine. I know you juggle
tears and eggshells on the floor everywhere you walk.
I know you hide it well,
but not from me,
not from me.
I know you seek a cavern deep inside yourself,
a pattern that turns the years inside out,
a hand that takes you outside yourself
for one day or two.
I know you long for,
cannot believe, but hope for,
a light through the fog that sees you
more clearly than you see yourself.

We looked like strangers. But
we hoped to be arranged in a way
that left us leaning together,
unafraid to say,
I’m not as fine as I let on.”
And trust the honesty will pierce the haze
we always believed would hide us from the
worst of days. We need something fiercer than
words that push the best gifts away. We need to
simply

Stay.

The Floor Was Slanted

The Floor Was Slanted

(“…being diligent to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” Ephesians 4:3)

The second the door closed behind us we noticed
the floor was inclined like a piedmont and we had not
quite reached the top.

We were a small band, travelers in the night, roaming in search
for the moments we had lost waiting in the cities.

We knew each other only by reputation then, now we knew each
other by name. We heard stories and gossip then, now we saved our breath
for chatter along the trail.

We were neither success nor failure, we were noticed and sometimes invisible;
clerks, nurses, nuns and writers of verse. We were teachers who had learned
far too much.

Passing a stream, we held the water in our hands. Passing a stream,
we knelt with each other, our knees buried in the sand. Passing a stream,
we waited and appeased our thirst thoroughly watching the sun between
the black branches of overhanging trees.

Some sang, some whispered, some laughed, some blistered in the afternoon sun;
some nurtured, some led, some murmured, some fled their past
along with the rest of us.

But our faces all looked ahead, our feet at last free of concrete and steel,
with no cross streets or street lights, we happily accepted the pain
that accompanies pilgrimage and took our turns at both sorrow and joy.

The second we saw the roofline pointed toward heaven, the
second we noticed the double glass doors with reserved parking out front,
the second we saw the well-suited smiler handing out greetings,
the second we stepped toward the sloping porch and saw the
benches for sitting in the sun

Was the second we discovered our Jerusalem, our Mecca,
our Zion, our Cathedral and we entered quickly to find a
permanent home.

The second the door closed behind us we noticed
the floor was slanted and we soon began to congregate
where the building demanded we go.

The corners were filled with people like us
who argued over the best view from the places up front.