Why Has Your Love?

 

Why Has Your Love?

(“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Arrest oppressors. Defend orphans. Plead the case of widows.” Isaiah 1:17)

Why has your love become tethered to
abusive egos? Why has your love become grounded
after it flew so high? Why has your
love insisted
blood will be spilled when Jesus returns?
Why has your love
resisted
the tears that were once cried for you?

Why have you not dried tears that now crease the face
of the lonely one who is
living as a shadow?
Why has your love expired
like winter leaves mulched to black?
Did you disable our friendship,
did you discover it melted in the first
spring thaw?
Did you pledge allegiance to the next
despot who promised your prayers would be answered
if you only kept out the riff raff like me?

And still I know my complaint is full of
privilege and faint echoes of hoarded measures
against ruin. And still I know my fainting heart
has never beat on its own. And still the phone remains
silent.

Why is your chair empty? Why are your sleeves still
rolled down?
Why can’t you hear the silence
between each beat of my heart?
Why have you left me alone?

Traveling Companion

Traveling Companion

“While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and began walking with them.” Luke 24:15

We had started out early in the day. It was mid-summer and the three of us had been planning the backpacking trip well before Dale and I graduated high school that year. Dale and I graduated together, and Dave was a year older. We had known each other through our teens and attended the same church.

Now, leaving the San Francisco Bay Area behind, we were chugging along toward Yosemite in Dale’s ’69 VW bug. Our plan was to make a base camp on the high plateau of Tuolumne Meadows and follow the trail along the Tuolumne River to its “Grand Canyon”. The adventures of that nine-day trip would fill a small book.

Before we ever reached Yosemite we noticed white smoke and an acrid smell coming from the Bug’s floorboards. Our hearts sank, expecting the worst. Did the climb into the Sierras put too much strain on the small engine? Had the air-cooled system failed? We limped into a small town, found an auto mechanic and crossed our fingers. We did not have time for a major repair, let alone money to pay for it.

We ate a nervous lunch while waiting to hear from the mechanic. Walking back to his shop, we steeled ourselves for the bad news. “Well boys,” he said, “you’ve just got a couple burned-out wires.” Next question: How much? “$90, and I can get you back on the road in an hour.” We combined our finances, paid the man, and continued our adventure.

That evening we set up our tents, talked around the campfire and planned our first day on the trail. Having been told by the Park Ranger that bears were unusually aggressive that summer, we also strategized how to keep our food from their reach.

Rising the next morning, we made about four miles down the trail and set up camp in a semi-circle of Ponderosa pines on the bank of the Tuolumne River. We put our food in a drawstring bag and tied it off to a high branch about a quarter mile from our camp. After fishing for a while we set up for the night.

The sky was clear and it rarely rains in the summer in Central California, so we decided to sleep under the stars. All three of us lay awake, enchanted by the inky sky dotted with diamonds and pearls. We laughed, joked, and were glad we had made it this far.

About 2 a.m. Dave poked me in the side and said, “Mark, are you awake?” “I am now”, I mumbled.” “There’s a bear in our campsite!” I saw nothing, but I did not sleep the rest of the night, every sound a 500-pound bear walking on twigs. Five minutes after Dave gave me the frightening news, Dale sat straight up in his sleeping bag and said, “Bear? Where’s a bear?” Then laid right back down asleep again.

We didn’t complete our trip down the Tuolumne. Instead, we high-tailed it back to our base camp and came up with a plan B. We drove to nearby June Lake to camp and do some fishing. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes were worse than the bears! They were swarming everywhere. Plus, they were so large that every time they took a bite out of you they left a tip for the waiter. We made a quick “Plan C” decision to go visit some of Dave’s relatives in Reno. We swam, did some river rafting and had an incredible time.

Our adventure stays in my memory because of my traveling companions. The men described in Luke 24 were traveling together. Having witnessed Jesus’ crucifixion, these two of His followers were sad and distressed. Then Jesus joins them on the road. He joins them in their journey, asks about their sorrow, and reminds them that the Son of God was destined to suffer before He entered His glory.

It is not until they arrive home, invite Him in and break bread together that they realize who He is. “Weren’t our hearts burning within us while he talked with us?” they said.

My journey with Dale and Dave is one of my favorite memories, and I hope it is for them as well. But, far sweeter, and far more permanent, is the present Traveling Companion I have in the Risen Christ. He has never left me in this long journey; not through the difficulties, nor in my frailties.

We were not meant to journey alone. Be encouraged, invite Jesus to travel with you. Not only is He your companion, He is the Way itself. Rely on Him, put all your trust in Him. You were made for friendship with the God of all Creation through Jesus the Risen One.

Pace and Patter

Pace and Patter

Just around the bend where the trees greet the
river’s corner in obeisance; this is where the daylight
reminds me of the afternoons that
passed far too fast,
the conversations that began so haltingly,
like a long freight train leaving the station,
then gathered speed until the pace and patter of every
sentence
felt like the rhythms of life itself.

Sometimes your eyes captured mine and I simply enjoyed
your voice’s décor while the meaning poured past my perception.
While the light caught the coffee hue, your eyes were
my new therapy. Your invitation kept us in sweet captivity
into the opening afternoon.

Words fell upon words like leaves dance from the trees
in long lazy spirals, barely moved by ghosts or zephyrs,
circling each other and holding tightly their invisible hands.Our sentences were chains of campfire smoke, exploring easily

the air above our heads, the branches held out in open invitation.

And so we explored every question we ever raised,
every commitment we phrased to love or duty,
to friendship and beauty.  And the wisps of our explorations
did not collide in cast-iron conflagrations, but built more
solid for our uncertainties.

There were a few who, sitting apiece in the same place,
upon the same rock, with the same view and
same sun with shade,
rays and shadow made to open the soul to exploration;
with solid argument and booked definitions, broke our conversation
into pieces upon the forest floor. We perhaps talked a half hour;
never more.

But you (and all, and many, and one) knew there was no bite
in our spiced exchanges; only soul and soul in lucid uncertainty
becoming what we hoped, and know now, what it could be;
only love’s best friendship in all its freehand splendor.

Insert Your Name

Insert Your Name

(“Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God’s right hand.” Colossians 3:1)

I no longer go hunting (daylight or dark) for instant remedies,
medicinal teas, flights of fancy or transactions of applause.
My hope is no longer in live oaks that decay, or additional deciduous
fallen and blocking the way. They will eventually crumble away.

I haven’t altered my consciousness in who knows how long,
though I have collected my thoughts and attempted to keep them
dry on the days I cry over one more phone call cut short,
email unanswered, leaving lasting words (the very last words)
ricocheting off the walls leaving indelible patterns and
interior redecoration.

I would tell him, I’m sure, love is secure, the ear arcane.
I would hug her, I would, if she found me with her eyes again.

I have fewer days around friends’ tables,
less hours at coffee and patter,
pain has robbed my easy informality
and turned a dollar of time into mere pennies.

Please believe, and insert your name within the margins of this writing.
What I have missed I would giftwrap and pass on to you.
From my storehouse of hiking trails and lunches at
Denny’s with a high school buddy, I would share every
hour with you that made each breath a treasure. I would
grab your hand (you feel the warm grasp already) and
interlock it with the friendship you think has crumbled
across the trail. You started the walk in the summer morning,
sun on your back, abreast on the hike, and always got home later
than you ever intended.

Let me grab your hand (you can feel the freedom already) and
place it so you face friend and the day, eye to eye, tear to tear,
and let the aroma of heaven erase the last words you spoke and
begin a brand new conversation.

I hunt no longer, dreams are less frequent,
but longings are deeper for the glimpse my soul has seen.

Greet my Dear Friend

Greet my Dear Friend

(“Greet Ampliatus my dear friend in the service of the Lord.” Roman 16:8)

Sit with me, tell me of your travels, make me hear the scattered
play of the grandchildren outside the window. Visit me, though my
socks are scatter around my chair,
yesterday’s clothes lie on the floor nearby. I sleep on the couch
these days,
a concession to day’s pain and night’s shallow dreams that wake me
to feel day’s pain far too early in the morning.

Be a large friend to me; not tall, not broad, but someone whose presence
is unmistakeable. Male: let it be the depth of your thinking, the valley filled
with silence in which I can spill my aching opinions and hear the echo.

Female: let it be the spring aroma in the winter’s depth. The words that
play at my wit, sip the air if you see me twinge, and understand my tears.

Brother: do not rearrange my feelings for your own comfort. Recently
God dangled a happy offering like a carrot, and reeled it in: He and I
both know the insane pain the crawls through my skin. I would spend
a week at the job I had dreamed of and go home early within the next;
headache’s cannonball level me upon the battleground. If I am angry;
if my face is blank, do not draw your happy face upon it. Let it
find its place as God and I struggle one more time over His
curious mystery.

Sister: when you see my depression-dropping-like-angry-rain,
please do not restrain your comfort. My face is red, I’m slapping
myself instead of any face closer. And, I am far too afraid to raise a
hand to God! Use your voice, invented, I am sure, for the cure of
comfort. Speak with the intonation of lullabies and wedding vows;
quickly tell me you wish the pain was gone. And do not leave before
you tell me that I must sleep: “You must sleep”. And do not leave
until the covers are pulled neatly under my chin.

I need a friend. I’ve made dozens. But wind and roads have scattered us;
a tiny minority have left the team in anger. But mostly I’m a hermit now,
locked up by three gatekeepers: Fear, Depression and Pain.

They have done their job well; so if you are an angel and have
an earthquake in your pocket, the doors are locked, but you are welcome
to open them.

Baseball was Cancelled

Baseball was Cancelled

(“Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” Mark 11:24)

Baseball was cancelled today and the breathing grass
had a rest.
It takes nine, they say, and two is simply not enough.
Yet the two did more with their day excused
than the others did at home alone, unused.

I believed longer than I could hold my breath
that my team would grow and run and sweep the
season like Mays or Drysdale. Let me pitch,
an inning, maybe two; right field is lonely,
my glove is new, used only a day or two.

I believed larger than I could vision, revising
data to meet me at the intersection of hope’s
certainty and childish imagination. My speed
and curve, knuckle and slider; were four names
for one pitch inches outside and high.

I read the comics and knew I could become
a caped and super human dressed in primary colors,
seeing behind the lead, taking the lead and knowing
no one teases a kid in bright spandex who

Can also fly.

I heard the radio, watched the black and white,
and my Dodgers rarely let me down. I believed
higher, somewhere over the outfield wall my hits
would land well beyond sightseers cars, on the ground,
found rolling on the sand underneath the slide while I
made the rounds from base one to two, two to three
and home.

I believed it all so well and found I struck out mostly,
pitched silliness costly, and was never picked up for
summer league.

My Lord! Is it possible that, when two show up and
the game is cancelled, my prayers are answered, and
new friends are made sharing bubble gum and baseball cards
in the shade?

Home

“Whoever does the will of God is My true family.” Mark 3:35

Robert Frost wrote that, “Home is the place, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” For those with healthy family relationships, there is nothing truer. Yet, we know many homes that are so fragmented that “home” holds little warmth for some people. Though loved by his own family, even Jesus experienced complete misunderstanding by his mother and brothers. Thinking him “out of his mind”, they came to convince him to return home.

Carrying

“Four of those who came were carrying a man who could not walk.” Mark 2:3

Dale was my best friend throughout High School. We met our freshman year and both went to First Christian Church in Concord, CA. We were not at all alike. I was an artsy hippy, involved in drama and music. He loved tech work and cars. But, what bound us together initially was a girl. We both had crushes on Sheri. Also our same age, she attended another are High School and went to the same church we did. We both had huge crushes on her.

The Next Dot

The Next Dot

(“You alone are Yahweh. You created the heavens, the highest heavens with all their host, the earth and all that is on it, the seas and all that is in them. You give life to all of them, and the heavenly host worships You.” Nehemiah 9:6)

If I only look beyond the eggshell and stain,
the paper displays hung with home-made adhesive;
If I stare straight through the 10 foot regulations,
the attic that holds stale air and old Christmas decorations,

Sometimes if I peer, the blood lust from yesterday disappears,
the green skies of Aurora Borealis appears, and though it
may not cheer my mood completely,

Sometimes if I peer,

I can hear the Word that made the universe and never meant
for me to be cast

As the Lead.

Sometimes when I connect the tiniest particle which God
held in His hand to the next dot which banned my comment
on the fury unleashed by man, I see the tracer passed
right through me and around the universe from the first
“it is good” to the last “tears are past”

And spanned my tiny lifeline.

Today I will unlock the door and take a photo
of the next person I see and say, “I think we might
be friends.”

Reconciled!

Reconciled!

“But now you have been united with Christ Jesus. Once you were far away from God, but now you have been brought near to him through the blood of Christ.” Ephesians 2:13

There is perhaps only one thing sweeter than a long-term friendship that has weathered time and its varied stills and storms; that is the restoration of a friendship broken so deeply there seemed little hope of enjoying it again. Long-term friendships are comfortable and a refuge from life’s uncertainties. But to have the pain, doubt and even anger healed by the reuniting of friends is a joy that is hard to express.

Table for Two, Please

(“Listen! I am standing at the door and knocking! If anyone hears my voice and opens the door I will come into his home and share a meal with him, and he with me.” Revelation 3:20)

A long-standing discussion starter is the question, “What person, living or dead, would you like to have dinner with?” Sometimes the question asks for the “top six” people, or asks you to put together a dinner party from five to 10 of your favorites. When asked as a poll question, Jesus Christ invariably ends up in the top 10, usually in the top five.

My Introduction

My Introduction

(“So he handed over everything he had to Joseph and didn’t pay attention to anything except the food he ate.” Genesis 39:8)

If I could introduce you anew to my self
I believe I would take the chance and offer the true.
Time has passed and, with each year the misunderstandings
multiply until
you and I
are left behind by the scars words marked upon redwood
picnic tables and
summer camps. We held hands.

If I could tell you, without fear of abuse, that I have loved
every person I’ve met. I regret my mouth, sometimes my youth,
in unwitty stupidity,
poked fun at a grimy sore I had not seen. He was such an angry
man
and I loved him for the pain he still carried from his first love.
I never looked for social motivations; psychological motives
are a guessing game for me. I am no scientist
and never looked for clients, only friends. Nothing else mattered,
their pain, their pursuits, diluted aspirations or cast-iron stains.

To a few I gave my heart; not lovers, but a simpatico few
I assumed
would treat it gently, having seen the maze of scars.
Because some wore their spike as they walked across my soul,
because a few wore a mask I did not recognize and tore at my spirit
like a cat with tissue paper,
fewer know me now, and my tree has two, maybe three good limbs
with leaves that may sprout in the spring.

I once loved a study groups and discussion panels,
walks in the Oakland hills or wandering book shop aisles
filled with old ink and early editions. Mostly tattered in
bins on Telegraph in Berkeley; sometimes Los Gatos;
they are the friends who, giving them my spirit, have never
wiped their feet upon it pretending to clean up my mess.

Some leave me lonely, some with horror and pain,

but, having begun the story, I am always certain my own soul
will not suffer at the hands of fiction inscribed by genius. Perhaps
turning each page,

I will walk, once more out of that space between odd and even
and let a trusted one peek within my heart again.

If I were an author, I would say my private time is all about
creating the next world that, exposing everyone, exposes none.