That Calls You Beloved

That Calls You Beloved

(“Look, my God will help me. My Lord will support me.” Psalm 54:4)

I’ve seen what the external voices have done to you
building a brick red barrier around your heart. I’ve seen
the locked door that sealed up the most human of your hopes.
I’ve seen how the music has changed, how it challenges your
perception of time. If only the days would end sooner;
if only the quiet would be sweeter;
if only the love captured deep inside you would win the day.

I’ve heard the same voices; you know I have. They still
show up in my dreams, don’t they? And yet you live with them
like words to your face to channel away any joy you had
accumulated over months of collecting the smallest moments
like semi-precious stones discovered along the riverbank.
You hid them away and hoped they would not be found.
You wrote about them, journaling the discoveries that
helped your chest relax, that steadied your breathing,
that allowed the tears to flow without embarrassment.
You hid your writing too; fearful it would be discovered
and cycles start all over again.

I know how you want to be alone to heal,
I know how loneliness can pierce your head like thunder
invading the middle of the night.
I know how you deserve love, I know how you wish
to be held, and pampered, and treated with everything that
love means.

Your trust is like a frayed rope. You feel ashamed that you
feel only half human, when you would rather live a heart
wide open to the ones who see you truly.

Instead, you are not allowed to speak your mind or it
will disintegrate into screaming. You wish you could
stand outside and let out all that has been stored within so long.

I see you. I love you. I want to hold you. I want to tell you
the truth that lies deep within you. I want to whisper you are worthy,
I want to sing that you are more precious than anything I could find.
I want to kiss away the tears when they come and let them drop from
your eyes to my fingertips.

I want to be your new voice that you hear until you hear your
own voice again. I want to tell you, even as I write this, that you
are a diamond for me, as rare a jewel I could ever find.

I want you to know that, besides me, God is especially
fond of you. Fond like a mother’s cuddle, fond like a father’s
laughing eyes. Fond like a light that guides you to the
end of the trail, hand in hand.

Write to me and send it like a letter to the sky.
Write everything you cannot say and find every word
that sticks in your throat. I’ll read every line of you,
I’d drink a case of you, I’d memorize it and repeat
it back to you.

So, I share this very quietly, my words mere sighs
beneath the noise of apprehension. I will never compromise
what I say to you, your worth, your esteem, your value
in my world.
In this wide world.
Hear the voice that calls you beloved in each breath
you take.

Less Important Than the Melody

Less Important Than the Melody

(“Help each other in your troubles. In that way you obey Christ's law.” Galatians 6:2)

There is no reason to wait. Take the
sunrise to someone who
is still aching halfway through their day.
There is no reason to hesitate. Bring the
table with you and set it with
in the yard, gingham tablecloths and
fried chicken to tempt the neighbors
and their dogs. Enter the lonely space that
extends from the first tear of morning to the
half-shut eyes of midnight.
Why do you pray for miracles when
the old man up the road would be so happy
to hear a voice from the past, an anchor to reality
more heavenly
than a hundred verses of hymns.
And don’t forget the children who smile
so easily
at one twinkle of attention. Learn the choreography
that sets the burdened ones free.
Teach yourself the lessons you learned the last time
you returned from enforced silence to
hear native songs sung back to you again.
The words are less important than the melody
that lifts the eyes, lightens the shoulders, and brightens
the hills once shrouded in gloom.
Walk the dusty hills with the Teacher who
has no place to lay her head. Attend the weddings
of lovers
whose siblings stayed away. Dance with the groom,
twirl the bride, celebrate with cake on your face
and
invite the parson too. Be the presence in the
echoes, be the praises in the silence,
be the persona who frequent both
meadows and wilderness to discover the magic
and carry it to hovels waiting for time to begin.

I Believe in Your Eyes

I Believe in Your Eyes

(“But it was very good of you to help me in my troubles.” Philippians 4:14)

I don’t believe in pedestals,
I don’t believe in princess crowns.
But I believe in beauty,
I believe in the way your name sounds
every time my heart hears it.
I believe in your smile that melts glaciers.
I believe in your eyes unafraid to see all of me,
I look for your lips to form the words you hold
close as a treasure.

Hearing the embrace transfixes
wandering moods.
Warming fingers touch another’s arm and,
we dare once more to trust,
to breathe,
to hear the heartbeat the same as another.

What if faces meet, cheek to cheek,
lingering a moment longer than expected?
Touch heals the
untouched
places where only scars once were found.

Would someone touch my face this once?
Would someone hold it in their hands?
And then, as the moon rises upon our shadows,
may there be the whispered hint of
midnight breeze, someone’s hands upon my own.

There are words I fear to say.
And I fear, there are words still locked within.
But if I do not speak them, they grow tired and adolescent.

Let my words, the mature words of friendship and love,
swirl between us, never-ending, in the universe we
inhabit, in the spaces between us, in the moments
heart knows heart.

Some I trust with my words, fewer with my hurts;
I’ve been too careless with my secrets, too vocal about my pain.
Be my safe place, hear my confessions, and,
like the air that carries words between us
I will carry yours in trust, in confidence,
in love that honors stories without villains
or heroes.
We both can name
the pain and let it sit in the atmosphere
between us.

"Get Over It"

 

“Get Over It”

(“He made no distinction between us and them, for he cleansed their hearts through faith. Acts 15:9)

I remember when a friend told me to get over it,
a friend who never knew what it could be. “Get over”
the wounds of my doing or
the bullets from the guns of comrades in arms.
Get-over the masks that pretended to be pretty
until they saw
the ugly in me.

And in telling me to
get over it
they only
added to the shit
that piled high as the steeples of a
country village church.

(Although I lied when I said there were
reporters outside the door.) The only ones who knew
or wanted the truth
were those who had dropped their stones to throw
a long time ago. Their pockets now empty,
they moved through life with an ease that accompanies
the lightness of those who have eschewed judgment and
chosen love’s pervasive brightness.

Oh, believe me, I’ve gotten over many things. But some I still
burrow through. Some I need a boost; bend now and let me
stand upon your knees. While some are still a necklace of mud
drying in the heat.

Where has salvation taken you?
I remember softball when your daughters told their sisters
to drop the ball when the boy with a limp rounded the bases.
My soul is as pained as his ankles.

Though my limp worsens, I would hasten to your side,
even if you had lied about what hurt you. Be silent or
speak, without judgement I would seek the way the
Spirit talks in comfortable rhythms; She knows the path
to every lineage of pain woven between heart and mind. She
forces no rhymes, but, in freedom, in grace, in truth, gives space.
I would compose no rebuttals,
but hope to be the vessel to contain your pain
until we both are visited by the peace, the dove,
the carefree goose who saves us from enslavement
to rigid stories that require a fairy-tale ending.

My story is messy, grimy and tear-stained.
My story is painful, timely, and unstrained
by requirements of strict interpretation. “Get
over it” sometimes frightens me from the oil
that can only be poured on open wounds.
I am still hoping to round the bases with the help
of a few errors from my friends.

Leaking Grief

Leaking Grief

“Help me, O Lord my God! Save me because of your unfailing love.” Psalm 109:26

I have been leaking grief, not all over the place,
not puddles at the bottom of my feet;
but focus on the drips from the driveway to the
front door,
the seals have grown brittle and I can’t find
my bearings.

If I keep my thoughts at bay, I think of nothing.
If I allow my thoughts to stray, all the disrepair
straddles each side of my brain.
If I keep them away, they invade my dreams in
failure (no one shows up for my choir practice);
anger (no one defends the obvious loser);
losing (climbing cliffs with my fingernails);
bankrupt (running out of time and too many die.)

I have been leaking grief for years. You can mark the trail.
Gaze, for more than a moment, my eyes are redline,
oily, the tread is worn to the nub. I will no longer listen
to a single word that suggests

Anyone can overreact to unexpected death.

Take your high words and tell them to the hills;
I need the silence that heals, the fawns and does
that do not roar in the woods. I need the waves
that steal the sand and carry it to islands where survivors
know grief is sometimes a way of life.

Oh, Man of Sorrows! Become acquainted with my grief.

Take your complaints to the county courthouse,
I’m tired of being an eternal caregiver.
Come wrap me in a shawl, light candles for me,
sing the songs from Ireland or Lakota, beat the drums
that let the tears and tongues trickle, the faucet is
broken.

Someone wrote that you cannot support abortion and
be a Christian.
I wonder how you can lock the eyes of mourners,
(“don’t cry” is a lie) when your Leader wept between
the mystery of death and rising.

I am not lying; I have been leaking grief and sighing
for decades. Tomorrow I shall seek the comfort

Of unbelievers who know how to hold my tears in their tissues.

Oh Man of Sorrows, acquainted with my grief.
Oh! grief.

Learning Life's Rhythm

Learning Life’s Rhythm

“After forty years had passed, an angel appeared to Moses in the flames of a burning bush in the desert near Mount Sinai.” Acts 7:30

I revisited some high school memories with a classmate recently. Since I graduated in 1973, our memories were at least 46 years old. Charles would tell a story, then it would prompt a memory buried deep in my subconscious. Then I mentioned a fellow drama geek and he asked how she was doing. He and I haven’t even seen each other since we graduated but have reconnected over the last 10 years through social media. I now live in Texas and he lives in Israel. He studied law but has taken to technical writing as a career. My path took me into ministry with a few right and left turns along the way.

We both agreed that the four years of high school are probably the longest four years in a person’s life. So much happens in that short period. Friendships are made, interests are ignited, trajectories are planned. We can even develop a sort of nostalgia that wants to go back to those days. We explored the world, even if our field trips took us no further than a couple hundred miles from home. We explored relationships, literature, and theater, all while living in the comfort of our family homes. I think what most of us miss about that time is the ability to learn things about ourselves and the world without the stress of earning a living.

But then we eventually have to choose. Some of us feel a calling. I felt called to ministry. Another classmate, a genius in science, loved bowling. His parents promised to support him all the way through college, so he majored in Chemical Engineering, completing his degree at the top of his class. After graduation, he immediately took a full-time job as manager of a bowling alley. That was his love. I don’t know if he bowled when he should have been studying for his degree, but those years of college may have felt like a roadblock to doing what his heart desired.

I’m at a “pause” period in my life currently. Having taken early retirement due to medical reasons, I no longer am a pastor. Finances made it necessary for us to move in with family. We hope to have a home paid off within another year or so, and then can move back “home” and closer to our daughter.

How do you move through those times when your soul feels dormant? How do you handle the periods of life when the deepest desires, the things that brought you greatest joy, seem to no longer be available?

Moses, raised as a prince in Egypt with every privilege that offers, has been in hiding for 40 years. He had previously seen a fellow Hebrew being mistreated by an Egyptian. Coming to his help he took revenge on the Egyptian by killing him. He thought this would make his people understand that God was going to use him to set them free. He thought wrong.

In fact, the next day he saw two Hebrews fighting and he tried to make peace between them. The instigator of the fight pushed Moses aside and said, “Do you want to kill me, just as you killed that Egyptian yesterday?” (Yeah, God’s calling on his life was not working out exactly as he imagined.) So, Moses runs away to Midian where he marries and tends flocks for forty years.

The first forty years of his life were full of responsibility, privilege and meaningful accomplishments. You don’t get adopted as the king’s son without developing a keen sense of importance. And perhaps that was part of Moses’ problem. He felt entitled to make people behave. First, by killing the abusive Egyptian, then second by assuming the role of arbitrator in a scuffle between two fellow Hebrews.

So, the forty years of herding sheep, walking back and forth in the wilderness, day after day, must have felt quite empty to him at first. We have all had those empty times. It might have been a job that felt meaningless; minimum wage, low expectations, with no hope of a career. Or you may have been in a long-term relationship that no longer exists. Where there was once routine, now there are only ghosts. It may be a chronic illness that makes it no longer possible to do things that once filled your life with creativity and joy.

But there is something about emptiness that can open our soul if we let it. The routine of moving in a new way, new patterns, can help to whittle away parts of our life that we once thought were necessary. Moses is described as being “the most humble of men.” I wonder if his wilderness experience had a lot to do with that. Going from finely dressed prince to stinky shepherd can help create a bit of meekness I suppose.

But these “empty” times only work in us if we are attentive. Continuing in his regular routine, staying true to the life he now led in the desert, Moses is amazed at the appearance of a burning bush. The bush is on fire but not burned up, so he goes closer for a better look. That is when he hears God’s voice speaking directly to him.

Remember, this happens after 40 years of a daily pattern of watering, feeding and caring for sheep. He is probably as full of the rhythm of life as the sun rising and setting. He may have gone through frustration, anger at his dilemma, regret over his actions, shame, depression and so many other emotions we experience when life does not fit our plan. But, if we allow, though the circumstances do not change, our soul can begin to feel the rhythm of the life we now lead. We are living in the moment. And sometimes that is when we are surprised.

Moses trembles with fear as he hears God’s voice and looks away from the burning bush. The Lord then tells him to take off his sandals, “for the place where you are standing is holy ground.” God tells him that He has seen His people suffering and will send Moses to set them free.

Think about being barefoot in the presence of God. “Take off your shoes, Moses. This is holy ground. There is nothing here to hurt you.” That is my interpolation of the text. Moses has worn sandals in the desert for forty years, protecting his feet from razor rocks and searing sand. Now, in the presence of the awesome God, he needs no protection.

Every now and then, if we allow ourselves to live in the rhythm of life, we come across a burning bush or two. Perhaps it is a stunning walk in the country at just the right time. Perhaps it is a phone call out of the blue. Maybe it is a reconciliation that you have prayed about for a very long time. Maybe it’s as simple as a day with your grandchild, lunch with your spouse, or a line drawing of your family from your child. Yes, God can still come in the spectacular ways, as He did to Moses. But my experience in life is that He more often shows up in the moments when we are simply “being”.

In this case, God gave Moses a new job. I’m sure he put back on his sandals and did what he could to prepare himself for this new task. But sometimes, our burning bush moments are simply God’s loving reminder that He is with us and He knows exactly where we are, even if it is on the back side of the desert with smelly sheep.

The Things that Make Peace

The Things that Make Peace

“But we must do the things that make peace and that help each other to do better.” Romans 14:19

If there is one thing I have learned from my extensive experience as a parent, pastor and manager in business, it is that criticism rarely motivates anyone to do better. What we often refer to as “constructive criticism” is usually our own complaint about someone and not something that helps them aim higher, and feel more enthusiastic or positive about life.

Think about the last bit of “constructive criticism” you received. Even if it was from someone you love and respect, what were your inner emotions? Did you feel nervous? Embarrassed? A desire to defend yourself, or deny that the criticism was valid? Don’t misunderstand; there are times for “constructive criticism”. But we often dive right in without considering how well our helpful hints might be received.

That is one reason that “peace” is mentioned so often in Scripture, for none of us live in isolation. We have families, neighbors, friends and co-workers. And, if we are following Christ, we have chosen to be closely tied with a group of fellow followers. Likened to a “body”, the church is made of up people who are connected to each other because they are committed to Jesus.

Our physical body is a complex organism of specialized cells. Some make up our muscles, some our blood, others include skin, hair and internal organs. But the communication network is our nervous system. Instructions flow by chemical and electrical impulse to and from the brain along thousands of nerves. They monitor our hunger, pain and sense of physical comfort. They send signals from our eyes to interpret the visible world. Our experience of life would be both limited and dangerous without the constant flow of information between body and brain.

Sometimes the chemicals that facilitate the transfer of information can be out of balance. This can be the cause for various mental challenges such as depression, anxiety, OCD, and others. Since I am neither a medical doctor or a biologist, please disregard any particulars I may have misstated.

But, here is the takeaway. Our physical body is one unit made of many connections. To function at its best, those connections need to be open and receptive. The same is true in personal relationships. We must “do the things that make peace” because they keep relationships open. They allow us to remain close, authentic and supportive.

Remember, when speaking of “peace”, the Biblical writers did not mean “no waves”. We often mistake avoiding conflict as “peaceful”. Think about it this way. Someone has said or done something that caused you a great deal of pain. But, you believe in being peaceful, so you keep it in, never bring it up, but also avoid the person as much as possible. Now, look inside; do you feel peaceful? Of course not! And, there is zero peace between you and the person either.

The idea of “peace” is Scripture has more to do with “wholeness” than it does with keeping the apple cart from tipping. We can even think of it as “balance”. So, the opposite of peace includes actions that minimize another person, that take away their “wholeness”. This is why Paul says to “do” the things that make for peace. If peace was just about “no conflict”, we wouldn’t have to do anything. We could stay home, sip our tea and grouse about that old hurt from ten years ago; all without disturbing the one who caused the hurt. But also, never becoming whole ourselves.

That’s why Paul adds, “help each other do better.” He didn’t say, “Lecture” about doing better, or “cajole”, “plead”, “manipulate”, or (fill in your favorite method of getting people to do what you want them to do.) No, he said “Help them.”

Do you hear that today? In every relationship, and especially in the Church, ask how you can help someone become the very best version of themselves possible. It will take practice, it will take commitment to each other, and it will take reliance, total reliance, upon Jesus who blesses “peacemakers”.

One last thought: It is really hard to practice this relational style of following Jesus if you aren’t with His followers on a regular basis. If you love Him, find a way to love His followers, getting together with them often. 

Contrails

Contrails

(“But when the people of Israel cried out to the Lord for help, the Lord again raised up a rescuer to save them.” Judges 3:15)

I’ve got the graph of my life trailing me like
the contrails left by private jets writing nonsense on the sky.
Look closer, for the graph is longer than the quick glance
at a winged point upon the bright azure background.
Seen from the ground and looking over head, the graph is
a long snake; some segment a lazy “s”, and others multiple
“z”s
tracking the quick turns when change came unexpectedly.

Seen from the ground, my life was not up and down,
but a series of oases separated by journeys; a path or
a highway; a pattern or madness; mapped coordinates
or advised itinerary; few turns were solely my own and
most were leased opinions with fewer options the
longer I flew.

Seen from the ground, my life was not fall and rise,
but a curious adventure where the present is a line,
focused and fine;
and the past is fading the further behind; a broad brush
of recollections and uncertain directions with fewer
alive who knew the truth of my first years of flight.

On a rainy day you may catch me squinting toward the sky,
one hand covering my forehead, one hand reaching out “why”,
and you would hear, from this fellow wanderer, the same prayer
he prayed, “s” or “z”,
“I’m not sure how I got here, but won’t you please rescue me.” 

When My Heart is Weak

(“When my heart is weak, I cry out to you from the very ends of the earth. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.” Psalm 61:2)

A ship far out at sea, beyond sight of land and beyond all lines of communication encounters a storm of immense power with little provision or capacity to face the threat of sinking beneath the waves. This seems to be the way David describes the state of his heart. His heart is “weak”, or more literally, “overwhelmed”. He cries from the very ends of the earth. He is in the remote wilderness, far removed from help or supplies. His only hope is a rock “higher than I”; an island, a port in the storm, a lighthouse to guide him through the threatening wind and waves.

It is easy to become overwhelmed with life. One doesn’t have to face critical health or loss of employment to feel overwhelmed. A young teen encounters emotions and relationships on a new level and can feel overwhelmed with the rush of feelings washing over their mind. A young couple, thinking marriage is as romantic as a fairy tale soon is overwhelmed in learning how to live with another person full-time. Though committed, they may believe they are the only couple to ever endure the storms of human relationships. With perfectly pure expectations, they may quickly become disillusioned by the work it takes to keep love strong and alive.

College presents its own maze of disorienting classes, prerequisites, fees, books, tuition and roommates from hell. Jumping from a safe family into the uncertain waters of dorms, professors and career counseling, the student can certainly be overwhelmed. Careers may stop and start like the first used car we ever owned, sputtering into the world with all the excitement of a two month old puppy. But, if statistics hold true, that career may change numerous times over a lifetime. We become overwhelmed by the business of simply making a living.

Never mind the friendships that we hope will last forever that take a turn for the worse, sometimes never repaired. Never mind the children we raise who come with no direction manual, no off button and such a range of attitudes and affectations that we are surprised that both parents and child get out of the first eighteen years alive. Never mind our beautiful grandchildren who live so far away that they grow twice as fast as our own children. We measure our own age by the granddaughter who, graduating from high school, was just a toddler last Christmas. Soon we are overwhelmed by the thought that this will all be over one day.

Leave aside the cross words at a co-worker, the discouragement over missed opportunities, the rules for life that worked so well in our youth seem to have changed altogether. Leave aside the questions we ask from early childhood that still have so few answers. Why do mean people get all the attention? If God is real, wouldn’t he make it really, really clear? Why did so many people die in that hurricane? If turning the cheek is really the best way, why am I bruised so badly? And, please tell me why are the things I hate the most about myself are the things that never change?

Our hearts are weak. We do well to admit it. There is so much about life to embrace with joy and enthusiasm, but we mustn’t hide when the world stops making sense, the fun downhill run becomes a plodding uphill battle to place one foot in front of the other. We thank God for the wind in our face on the way down, and cry out to Him when the upward hike seems to rob every breath.

It is those times, feeling like we are at the ends of the earth, removed from all help, that we cry out to God. We do not ask for explanations for all of our confusion, we ask for strength to continue the journey He has prepared for us. We know the universe holds mystery after mystery, the intricacies of human relationships keep us alert with every conversation we have. We do not want to walk away from discovery, we don’t want to give up on relationships, we want to cry out, when we are overwhelmed and feel like castaways in our storm of uncertainty: “Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I am!”

“Take me to the high place with You that is safe above the hubbub and the cyclones of my anguished heart, and let me rest and renew myself in the crevices where the storm cannot reach.”

Last Time I Spoke

Last Time I Spoke

(“The LORD lives! Praise be to my Rock! Exalted be God, the Rock, my Savior!” 2 Samuel 22:47)

Like I was saying the last time I spoke, I’ve changed a lot in 40 years,
do you remember when, and then again, I’m not sure my memories are true.
I sometimes wonder if my recollections are just an image salad
dressed up to suit my mood.

I swear I still care whether people read my poetry. But when I empty myself
on the paper, hurt by words of narcissists, as a rule, I do not mean you,
and would prefer you do not think so. Irony is, please, that the pleasantries
I’ve written for those who heal me well, seldom read my words at all.

So, do you remember me? Can you recall? My hair is shorter and
my head aches pillow to pillow. I’m weary, silent too often, and wish
one or two
would apologize for their misreadings.

Nonetheless, I yet am blessed, I will say it above the sad cloud globing my heart,
for having known you, a few, and many years later, gladder still.

Would you recognize my voice, my name, my theater, my limp, my lame;
would you see what I paint, my morning, my grief, my hope, my belief;
would you credit my faith that weeps more than laughs, that wishes,
grinding teeth privately, joy dance more often, and less before
catastrophe.

I should have ended that strophe with a ? but chose to leave the
.
intact?

Living, though You do not breathe my air,
will You take my tears, reinforce them with phone messages
from the few I do not fear? My search continues, river views or
backward glances, for the happy few I knew unenhanced by
this poly-marathon.

Rock unmoved, I moved too often, at Your bidding I believed,
except the times when rhymes failed mortally, and the dessert
swallowed me mid-family.

Savior, was I born again the way they say? Nearly 40 years ago
You knocked aloud and, apart from the crowd, I nodded assent,
and now below the clouds I need the happy hours I first knew,
a friend, a band, songs and branches, to accompany me
until headaches and heartaches cease this unwelcome dis-ease.