Like a Morning Glory

Like a Morning Glory

(for Theo)

You took me on adventures when you were 10.
I carried the backpack; you carried our bed. We plotted our
path to hidden countries in the basement. We got McDonald’s
ice cream and pizza because you did so well on your science exam.

Now you are 18, an adult, a fully formed fascination with life.
You carry the world like an explorer investigating the causes
of sky-birds who flew just above your head.

The earth is yours and all its fullness. The questions wait for
your examination. You carry them like postcards in your pocket.
You have rarely feared their answers; you waited for a solo voice.

I’ve seen you dance so certain that the floorboards captured your feet.
I’ve watched you sketch a friend or a new plant.
I’ve listened to you sing and tuned it like saltwater taffy.

Let the tailwinds send you higher, let the warm sun playfully
extract your laughter. May your curiosity carry you abundantly
into dog-eared chapters you will remember and remember again.

I can’t name them all, but you will, I’m sure. What do you
call that tree with heart-shaped leaves? How many colors are there
for daffodils or tulips? Can I transplant these peonies?

Let the wonder guide you; let it outsize the questions you pose,
the oceans you cross, and the friends who break bread with you.
I know the music will always lie just under the place where

Your heart beats for the friends you’ve made and the new ones
to come. You can change the world; you can spark it with hope.
You can share the taste of the river of life for every parched soul.

Your song continues, the new chorus is being written.
Sing it surely, sing it long. Leaving home you’ll find
the home will always return to you. Take your time.

May God’s hand guide you, may the rains fall warmly on your path.
May the blessings of constant sunlight capture your eyes.
And may this day, so full of promise, open like a morning glory budding.

A Family Recipe

A Family Recipe

(“Yes, you are our glory and joy!” 1 Thessalonians 2:20)

I am a recipe for family chili
on a yellowed index card in the back of
the roll-top desk drawer. It is almost memorized.

I am a telephone number I remember
from high school. No one lives there
anymore.

There are stars blinking in unknown constellations
tonight. But I cannot see them through the clouds
that overtake most nocturnes here on the river. They
try to send me a message in code, but I miss even
Venus that once brightly welcomed me home. The
stars bloom late here so near the ocean.

I want a body like when I was 20.
I want a mind that won’t scatter the wind
in disremembered rhymes. I want you to see me
nearer to life than this; age and pain
sap my hopes while lately I find
less hope than I should. I have more than
I deserve.

I am an old love letter written in shaky cursive
stuffed inside an envelope with a date far older
than seafarer’s charts. I knew how to write
without edits. I knew how to edit without restraint.

I am faint, I am brittle. I cannot wait for
the next time around a table
with eyes flashing next to and across the
conversation. I want to remember it like it
still touches my cheek with its palm.

My dreams broke up with me overnight.
I think it was my birthday.
But then they insisted we reunite
over coffee and crying. I recognized the
voices but the faces escape me.

I am a family recipe waiting for
the constellations to come out at night.

The Spelling is Correct

The Spelling is Correct

(“For from him, through him and to him are all things. Glory to him forever! Amen.” Romans 11:36)

What to say to someone who has
never known green,
or to describe the invisible spectrum that
makes the grape leaves grow?

I’ve seen less than I know,
I know less than it seems,
I walk slower when dreams
slip through the curtain between
perception and the beginnings of things.

Waiting for the day to speak out loud so
I can send a message. Words have left me
at such a loss
and my dreams disturb and
entice me. They play around the edges.
They resurrect the error of judgement.
They offer make-believe lovers.
The leave the day smelling of vinegar.
They are my only connection

To

A few of you.

If I would not spend the day inside my head
I might get around to sending a letter.
But then I think of all the things I’ve said that
--in their context--
should have been invisible. Instead

I place my fingers on the black keys,
count the alphabet out loud and make sure
the spelling is correct.

At least that is something I can rearrange if
it is pointed out to me.

What to say when
your heart feels larger than the world.
What to say when it feels constricted
at the end of the day.

These thin membranes that separate
thought from thought
still feel connected in wireless wonder
to something I am not.

Remember when we sat on the hills,
looked at the sun
and wondered why we were here?
Remember when every conversation was
epic until

Your brother or my sister,
or camp counselor or a dad
cracked a joke that...

Remember how
we forgot what we were
talking about?

starting with i

starting with i

(“For from him, and through him, and for him, are all things. To him be glory forever. Amen.” Romans 11:36)

Starting with i
unsettles it all.
Lists of colors embrace the photons
that shoot from grass, from neighbor houses,
from sky, from pets that brownly
run like foxes.

Starting with now
surrounds us all.
Some are a million galaxies distant
and closer than the itch on our skin.
It’s like a waltz, like a jig,
like a song that no one knows and
everyone sings.

Staring with eyes
sunrises it all.
Rivers are silver, sky is a painter,
footprints are warm sod,
wind is vocal. Breezes like
to whistle.

Sparing our voice
makes the rocks sing out.
Clear winter trees with arms spirit-moved
wait with feet in dirt from
meteors and asteroids,
earthworms and lightning strikes.

Starting with whole
surprises us all.

Uninvented

Uninvented

(“For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all people.” Titus 2:11)

The skin is good, the seeds are fine, the pulp delicious,
the juice refreshing, the crunch awakening. The first bite
is elegant, luxury for less than a dime. The last bite a solid
goodbye,
an expectation of the next fresh taste of the sweetest flavor
uninvented by the hands of man.

So why do you take the most exquisite of creation,
the imago dei, the crown and the glory, the decadence of God
wrapped corruptible human skin; why do you divide,
red and blue, dull and wise, your personal preference
for round and open eyes? Why would you insult at all

The greatest antecedent artwork which exists at all,
skin and bone, by the breath of God alone;

And whose every ideation is a gift, thought and wonder,
from the God of grace, the Lord of thunder.

Why would you divide such sacred fruit and art?

Sun Hogs

“Arise! Shine! For your light arrives! The splendor of the Lord shines on you!” Isaiah 60:1

Penny is a sun hog. Actually, she is a nine year-old German Shepherd, Chow, and Husky dog who we think also has a bit of coyote in her. We rescued her seven years ago and is one of the most beautiful dogs we have ever had. Light brown with the Chow tail that curls up over her back, she has the Husky “smile” constantly on her face. She has learned nearly every command with very little work. She loves to go to the river with us. When you splash water toward her, she bites at it, swallowing far more than her tummy can hold over an afternoon. She is quite miserable the same evening, having to go outside to relieve herself far more often than normal.

Percentages

Percentages

(“May the glorious presence of the Eternal linger among us forever. And may He rejoice in the greatness of His own works.” Psalm 140:31)

Within the warp and woof of creation are colors undiscovered,
shapes unobserved, motion rounder, speed louder, and stillness
crowding out the constant hum of men rubbing two sticks together
and sending fireballs beyond the stretches of the cosmos.

We are children playing in the sand.

Where appearances meet the titles we’ve tagged; we have
defined
the eternal with four or five words, left it at that,
and expected the universe to bow at our ingenious
vocabulary.

We are blacksmiths rewriting a thesaurus.

Where mass is great we cannot see it,
where velocity is so fast we cannot perceive it,
where colors run from midnight blue to blinding sun,
we have hung our titles on the split-seconds we occupy.

Yet, for all our names and titles, autographs and aliases,
we are just as distant from yesterday’s bee sting
and the beginning before events had definitions.

The glorious Presence, the power at each grand intersection,
the silence between the galaxies, the songs beneath the seas,
all exist, unnamed, untamed;

And we experience the first note like the lingering aroma of
the morning’s first cup of coffee while lunch is prepared.

We are children, we are blacksmiths, we are namers, we are rhymers,
we know more, and know nothing; percentages are slight slivers.

But forever the Name, the Creation’s Love, the Life Poet
lets us play within His masterpiece. And, putting down our
pen for one moment longer, we cannot name it,
but today the breeze is not merely weather, flowers not
simply horticulture, and we, are,

Unnamable.

No Masks

 “When Moses came down from Mount Sinai carrying the two Tablets of The Testimony, he didn’t know that the skin of his face glowed because he had been speaking with God.” Exodus 34:29

It is often said that couples begin to look like each other the longer they are married. It is even suggested that people also start to resemble their pets. I have a dog, a cat and a wife, and I’m not entirely sure how all that works out for me. My wife and I have known each other for over 40 years now, my dog six years and our cat four; so I suspect my wife has had the most influence.

Certain for the Chaos

Certain for the Chaos

(“For the Lord is our Judge, the Lord is our lawgiver, the Lord is our King. He will save us." Isaiah 33:22)

God does not lean upon your faith tiny one,
nor does your doubt violate the decorations
in space and time
that He has imagined for your early questions
or your late day why’s.

He is rain for the forest, for deer and fox,
coyote and rabbit; He is rain for the forest
and needs no consent for the showers
He drenches upon warm and open,
cold and crowded. Unasked,
the fair mist and drizzles dress
the limbs that wait for their next greening.

He is certain for the chaos, for the flood undammed,
the thieves of innocent understanding. He is certain for the chaos
and calls it circle and gravity, names it wave and particle,
writes it love and honesty; and the galaxies obey
Him
better than the reasoning animal who observes
their turning.

He is Light where stars are shadow,
He is Music where molecules are absent,
He is Best though we settle for better,
He is Beauty who began the extra-spectral pigments
from introspective rings of joy. He is in
and over, out and under, before and behind,
after and leading all from the first noise
no one heard to the last
chorus of happy justice! The universe
applauds
whether we believe it or not.

In my most withered moments when
pen is dry and hope is drought,
He still wakes the sun,
speaks the warm,
loves the oblique
just the same.

The Honor of Suffering

“He allowed you to believe in Christ. But that is not all. He has also given you the honor of suffering for Christ. Both of these bring glory to Christ.” Philippians 1:29

No one enjoys suffering. I just came from a visit with a friend who spent the last eight weeks in hospitals and convalescent care. In his 80s, he broke his leg over two months ago and had a nasty infection invade where the break occurred. He has been home three weeks and finds it extremely painful to walk. Even though he had the attention of doctors, nurses and therapists while away, he willingly gave all that up to be at home alone. Any of us would feel the same way.

Jaw Bone Hill

Jaw Bone Hill

(“When he had finished speaking, he threw the jawbone from his hand; and he named that place Ramath-lehi.” [I.e. the high place of the jawbone] Judges 60:19)

When we toss aside the tools like
Dixie cups that children drink
we litter the waysides with our excess ego.
Then we name it like a monument, neither
to God’s glory or later progeny

But to a jackass’s jawbone.

We erect the highway signs,
“historical marker ahead”
and people stop their cross country
caravans
to view a craggy wasteland where
a simple man who could not keep a vow
for more than a day
cast aside the homemade weapon like
a Frisbee.

A thunder man with elephant ego,
a passion man with voracious thirst,
a hot sand man with unconscious feet,
a swirled head man with indifferent creed

Yet led and finished each deed,
and after, still a miscreant of disregard,
grace settled where, in the final place,
there were no more jawbones to be found.

I'll Be The Poet

I’ll Be The Poet
(“Then I will ever sing praises to Thy name, so I may daily pay my vows.”
Psalm 6:8)

I'll be the poet who sings your glory; no vanilla words.
I will not fear that my poems will not be
published next to works written by jewels and
read by budding scholars.

I’ll pen upon napkins old words turned around
familiarly to bounce near and up, piling them
finely, one syllable upon the other. I would try
to keep them short and friendly so the reader
(one does not write for oneself alone)
might see a face as if they’ve known it sometime before.

I’ll scratch with the pencil stub I found
in the parking lot…then quickly lest the
words be forgotten. I’ll weave them broadcloth,
linen and cotton; earthy sounds to carry
our solitary love to Love’s ear.

I’ll write of devotion, the passion forgotten,
that speaks simple, from puddles to bubble,
the lowly voice, single; lasting for the theme
enwraps eternal the universe’s song.

I’ll not pretend to command every diction
considered, I just throw the love like
kitestring knotted to flight breezes playing
over the meadow alone. Within sight
it dances where eyes face the smiles;
children captured after a sack-lunch picnic
on the lawn.

I’ll script the playbook, the single player
within the one-act composed over a single
day alone. A Cast of One, a song meant
to return the kiss of heaven; simple
words with a harp or plastic recorder
to play the interlude that leaves my soul
wanting more than just another set of
words.

Vanilla is fine; words may not rhyme,
but alone I find honesty, the cohesion of
joy and sorrow existing only in the
heart kissed once and wondering how long
until the Love of Heaven returns the song.

Let the Glory Show

“Smoke from God’s glory and power poured out of the Temple. No one was permitted to enter the Temple until the seven disasters of the Seven Angels were finished.” Revelation 15:8 (The Message)

I am the first to admit that the book of Revelation can be like walking through a bog with a heavy mist falling. Beasts and dragons, flying horses and bowls full of judgment whirl through its pages like an Arthurian legend. One thing is sure, though; this book is about Jesus.

A Temple Honoring

A Temple Honoring

(“My father David very much wanted to build a temple honoring the Name of God, the God of Israel.” 2 Chronicles 6:7 [The Message])

How deep are the foundations, past bedrock, clay and sand;
how high are the girders stretching beyond beams of the morning;
how thick the walls to hold it all, how pure the air to conserve it all

To hold in a single room

One sunset, a single glance, light upon eye the spectrum spread
horizontal past the whitecaps and on to cradle in the westerly haze.

How much larger the room for a nightful,
pinpoints larger than the nine planet orbit,
brighter than the daysweat summer,
added dimensions beyond 2 or 3 and can we fit it all
in wood and lather, plaster and i-beam, so it seems
as glorious as a walk in midnight after aurora borealis?

What made can hold the created?
What manufactured can house universal art?
What hammer can pound the nails for thunder?
What bandsaw can whine lightning’s length?

And with less than a handsaw You have placed
the glory greater than all Your design;

Will the Designer Dwell in manmade houses;

Yet You lodge, You linger, not sojourn but
Eternal humanly housed. Space is laced with
cold and dark, vacuum and vagrancy,

But lively, dense and sunrise embrace,
You chose Your abode, the forgiven human heart.

They Shall Know

They Shall Know

“They shall know that I am the Lord their God in that I have caused them to go into exile among the nations and have now gathered them into their own land. I will never leave any of them alone again, nor any longer hide My face from them.” Ezekiel 39:27, 28a


This passage is speaking specially to Israel about her future return from exile. God tells them that they will know that He is Lord based on two things: He caused them to go into exile, and He gathered them back to their own land.


This speaks to us about the character of God, and how we truly know Him. God had sent Israel into exile after hundreds of years of her idolatry. He had been patient, sending prophet after prophet calling the nation back to Him. Though there were occasional renewals of devotion, over the long run Israel fell into deeper and deeper idolatry.


Finally, after proving she would not respond to God’s invitations and warnings, He allowed Israel to be overrun, the temple destroyed and her people dispersed among the nations. In doing so, He was trying to open their eyes to the truth that He alone is God.


But He would not leave them there. God’s purposes in our discipline are for His glory, not our pain. In other words, He allows only the right amount of pain that will “bring us to our senses.” That is how He worked with Israel.


As Israel began to repent, God allowed her to return home. The final return of Israel to her homeland awaits a time still in the future. Again, though, that return is for God’s glory. As they return, experiencing God’s grace and mercy, they will know even better that He is “the Lord their God.”


I believe this passage is actually about the “return” God offers everyone through Christ. The final part of this verse says that God will “never leave any of them alone again.” Though we wish it were different, we know that not all of Israel is actually in her homeland. Not even every person who is truly devoted to God.


But, everyone who has returned to God through Christ is indeed never left alone again. In fact, that was God’s plan all along. The exile and return of Israel were pictures of the way God would finally offer a “return policy” to the entire world. Faith in Christ puts us right in the middle of God’s promise to never leave us alone again.


As we realize that God was involved, even when we were away from Him, and that He is definitely involved in our return, it is He who receives the glory. Following Christ is not about our personal comfort; it is about making known that “the Lord is God”. The promises He gives are not temporal, they are spiritual.


I am truly comforted with the knowledge that my “exile” was as much a part of God’s plan as my return. I am encouraged that I never need to doubt if I will be “outside” His circle of love again, because of His promise to never leave us alone again.


And, even better, verse 28 begins with “I will never hide My face from them.” We may try to get God’s attention through all sorts of spiritual contortions. It doesn’t matter if it is quiet meditation or sanctimonious stickling about morality, those do not bring us close to God. Only through the cross where Jesus atoned for every one of my sins do I find access to Him.


But, that access, exclusive as it is, is also absolutely free! It is by faith and faith alone. I believe what He says, “I will never hide My face from them.” I may need to quiet my mind to remind myself of that. Or, I may obey moral laws because my faith has changed my behavior, but His presence is a foregone conclusion when we trust Christ.


Father, I am grateful that You have been involved in all of my life. Even when I was so far away I gave no thought to You, You were still working Your plan in my life. You were waiting for me to say Yes to Christ. And now, having returned, I know I need never despair of Your presence. Your promise to never hide Your face buoys my spirits and leaves me speechless in praise.