Answers Writ in Childish Script

 

Answers Writ in Childish Script

(“So I tell you to believe that you have received the things you ask for in prayer, and God will give them to you.” Mark 11:24)

I was too weak to have any faith left,
I was too weak to see things in ones and zeros.
It takes a resolute mind to binary the wonder out
of the wonderful,
It takes a granite heart to up and down the spiral
eternal.

But I had slept in past noon all week,
and had slept past my best life the whole decade before.
I asked and asked for pain to work its way through my being
to show the strength the Almighty promised.
I prayed long before that for simple wellness or
general anesthesia to let me finish my journey.

(Though, truth be told, I may not have made it to the end
anyway,
with my broken toes, stumbling feet, and distracted heart
that kept me from playing first-string most of the time.
The ownership is mine.)

But still I cried. And my requests were denied. Longer
days with the pounding in my head outpacing the
beating of my heart. I would vow to begin, to start
an hour earlier from my bed. I would promise to wait,
to shed the last vestigial organ of doubt, knees keenly
placed on the floor. I would capture the playing blocks
of faith
until they spelled out my name.

I believed well enough decades ago and the rain stopped
before the downtown gospel show could begin. I believed
just as well
a decade later and the rain was unrelenting on our baptism
and burgers by the river.

I measured myself (didn’t my crew measure too?) I
measured
myself
by answers writ in childish script
in the drying sidewalk pavement. I wanted
it as concrete
as the stories the fellas told in retreats renamed
“advances” (who could take a chance with such a
faithless title?)
Do not think I am angry, do not think I am snide,
I just know what I heard, but also what I saw inside

And finally understood the mind is more supple than
we imagine. Oh, miracles happen.

But my brain still hurts like the dickens, like hell,
after a decade full of prayer (and do not tell me
I have not believed). Unrelieved I cried myself to sleep
last night;
unrelieved I began another day

And wished I would not have to begin another.

And still
I
love
The Name
more than I can say. Though silence is my answer
(Jesus, where O where are the hands and words of love)
though silence is my answer
I will not apologize
for these raging questions and this dead end
I despise.

Dots and dashes may serve an old code well,
but I need elbows and eyes and fingers. Where O
where
Jesus
are the incarnate ones to bring you close to me?

Telling the Good News

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me. He has anointed me to tell the good news to poor people. He has sent me to announce freedom for prisoners. He has sent me so that the blind will see again. He wants me to free those who are beaten down.” Luke 4:18

Jesus returned to His hometown of Nazareth and attended synagogue as was His custom. He had been teaching at synagogues throughout the area. This time things were different. I do not know if He had quoted Scripture or spoken there before, but this Sabbath He made quite an impression. Quoting from Isaiah 61 about ultimate freedom God would bring to Israel, particularly through His Messiah, He put the scroll away and sat down.

Got Some Good News

"Got Some Good News"

(“And He said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation.’” Mark 16:15)

I never collected them, but I knew people who did,
butterflies all classified by shapes and size and color.
I followed a friend who captured them, a borrowed net
and plastic jar with holes for my specimen to breathe.
I caught a few, counted the hues, iridescent absorption of
light and reflected blush of foliage, they fluttered a bit
and, unable to escape, usually drooped to the bottom of the jar,
still breathing I think.

It didn’t occur to me then, a child who would rather see any bug
up close, but I think they are more beautiful in their flights together.
(I think they call the swarms or rabbles, and neither fit the glory
of those that transform from caterpillar armies). But I enjoyed
microscopes
and looked up close to see feather legs and scaled wings.

But I think they are beautiful, butterflies in whirlwind bunches,
a Pollock mobile freeformed against the sky.

So, I set free my little detainee and went with the friend I followed
home
for peanut butter sandwiches. He showed me his pins and labels
and I finished my sandwich, walked home quickly to find the bush
where the butterflies filled every gap. Standing upon the blossoms’ center,
they were countless ribbons who waved the breezes with their wings
so I thought someone was surely on their way home.

I have not seen a butterfly collection in decades, dead, dry,
pinned against the faded cardboard. But I did enjoy, and would love
to see it again,
a wedding where, alive and waiting their cue,
dozens, gossamer and streaked, leapt upon the sky from the midst
of a decorated box at just the moment the attendants wiped the
last tear of joy from their eyes.

Of Pearls and Pigs

“Don't give to dogs what belongs to God. They will only turn and attack you. Don't throw pearls down in front of pigs. They will trample all over them.” Matthew 7:6

We love to be right. And, we love be right about what we thing is righteous even more. If we are convinced we are part of a good and just cause, we tend to argue that point stronger yet. And why not? Any fool should be able to see the worth of our belief as well as we do.