Spilling Over the Hills

Spilling Over the Hills

(“They will not hunger or thirst, the scorching heat or sun will not strike them; for their compassionate One will guide them, and lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

Waving from the back of the parade
the children filled in the line at the end of the queue
following the music like spinning tops on a slow and
green Spring day.

Light never deceives; darkness beckons hopeless
moments canceling the stream of thoughts that walked
through the forest in the middle of the day.
Wait until the light shines again, look for the invitation
to traverse the amber swaying of afternoon sky.

We were told over and often that provision would
follow no matter the turns we took. But we were frightened
enough to staple our feet to the floor and waste our energy
trying to catch the rain in our hands.

But once we tasted the effervescent spring waters
on our tongue how could we sit still again, how could we
plaster ourselves to the inertia that kept us motionless? We
were hungry as children begging for another orange slice
as they were heading to bed. It seems we waited forever
to savor the moments that made us feel alive.

So, this time we joined the parade from the beginning,
singing songs of resistance, walking steps of resurrection,
and inviting every lonely observer to join us on the lookout
for new ways to celebrate the carnival days of joy when
we followed the promises like faith spilling over the hills.

Between the Hills

Between the Hills

(“But as for me, my prayer is to You, Lord, at an acceptable time; God, in the greatness of Your mercy, Answer me with Your saving truth.”  Psalm 69:13)

I’ve given up just a moment before I
grasped the boiling point of water. So high on
Everest
the water bubbled nearly on its own.
Sometimes I wonder if timing counts at all,
sometimes I beg beyond belief for an answer we
all can appreciate.
I wrote down every request and believed it until
I was too old for it ever to happen. My vision
might be blurry looking so far ahead. I thought it
was faith, but it was probably just a
figment of my imagination.

I wrote it in the flyleaf of my Bible,
I wrote it full of belief. I wrote it when
I had nothing to show for
myself but a few notes on the piano.

God did not answer, and I felt unworthy.
His servants ignored me or took me to lunch
and lauded me with their uncomfortable questions.
No, I did not finish my meal.

So here I am, a thousand miles and a half
divorced from the soil that germinated me.
My soul is sore with sorrow. My memories have
not changed
even though the landscape points to a hidden place
between the hills on the river shore. Now I
don’t want to be remembered; I want to
walk the boards on the stage, write the blocking
in the margins of a newly minted play, and wonder
if the troupe will be at rehearsals on time. I want a
festival artfully filled with folk tunes under an Autumn moon.

God is not my debtor; God owes me nothing at all.
The rain this morning turned to sunshine by the afternoon.

The Timbre of My Own Guitar

 The Timbre of My Own Guitar

(“The important thing is faith—the kind of faith that works through love.” Galatians 5:6b)

As if I did not know the timbre of
my own guitar
I laid it on its side facing the window
and hoped the sun would revive it again.
And the saxophone squeaked through the speakers.
I snuck up on the day with
clouded clarity,
the wood fairies danced outside my
field of vision.
But closer in I could see the air,
the floaters and astronauts never obscuring
my view.
My heart beat against my lungs,
and pain wrapped its hot hands around my head,
but I still heard, through the auxiliary sounds,
the afternoon approaching
like those days in May when we
went driving through the hills with the
Moody Blues
on the radio.
With calloused fingers, swollen knuckles,
and a voice crackling like a paper bag,
I threatened to sing the solitary away.
Someone once pasted
get well cards
all over my bedroom wall. Someone
once washed my feet who I never had
met before.
Someone once sat on the edge of my couch
with tears to match my own.
Someone drove across the state to loan me
an extra breath or two.
Though I spend nearly every day alone
I carry the kindnesses in my body like
memories of poppy fields and warm Spring days.
Today I may play my guitar again.

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

 

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

(“The Lord said he would live in a dark cloud.But I have built you a high temple, a home for you to live in permanently.” 2 Chronicles 6:1-2)

The hills were a faster green this year as if
angels attended every blade of grass.
But with each footstep across the fields
my brain was full of steel marbles
rattling in my head.

I did not miss the wedding, would not miss it
for anything. But I missed the next morning when
the jumble of family nested in the living room. The
vise tightened around my brain that night.

The rains are a slower steel this year is if
riders lassoed them, bucking between the hills
that pushed the river to the sea. Showers were
predicted, holding off their payload the entire afternoon.
And when the wedding party were seated, chatting and playing,
the rain, mist by drop, arrived like guests
who had lost their way. We lowered our heads,
balanced our plates, and carried our chairs to the
rented tent for such an occurrence. The cheesecake
was well-protected.

She was waiting for something, the expectation in her 3-year-old heart
was ready to burst; she was waiting, shifting from one foot to the other,
ready for the moment to arrive. She was crazy for love,
crazy for love,
busy for fun. The dry tent was not her temple
so she escaped into the rain on the greening lawn.
Such tiny legs, such whirling with pink taffeta
trying to catch up. She extended her arms and became
a whirligig ready to explore the skies.
Her flaxen hair whipped round her face and shot
water droplets into the night.

I did not miss the tiny dancer,

I danced with my daughter
for the first time ever. It was magic, not make-believe,
it was perfectly impossible, it was the way humans celebrate
love, longing, friendship and family. It is the music that

Opens everything.

Flutes Upon the Hills

Flutes Upon the Hills

(“Circumcision and uncircumcision don’t mean anything. What really counts is that the new creation has come.” Galatians 6:15)

I don’t need to light another candle,
though I like the way they help me pray.
I don’t need a new amendment,
all things gleam in the eternal day.

I don’t need to study your words harder,
though they run through my mind anyway.
I don’t need a new translation,
all they do is get in my way.

I don’t need to smell all of the roses,
though I plan to plant some when I return.
I don’t need a new song to sing,
I have melodies yet to learn.

I’ll ride in a bus, I’ll ride on your bike,
I’ll pull you in a wagon, I’ll paint your tricycle red.
I’ll love my neighbor, I’ll love my enemy,
I’ll watch the wildflowers grow; breathlessly.

I’ll look toward the east, I’ll pray toward the west,
I walk northward for a while; in the south I’ll take my rest.
I’ll give you my time, and offer you a chair,
We’ll talk and talk with no notes to compare.

I’ll love you forever because that’s how you’ve loved me,
I’ll stumble in my promise, though I tried carefully
to be new when I am old, to be pure when I am soiled.
And all the time what mattered was that
all the time I belonged
in this new country; foggy or shine,
flutes upon the hills, fiddles on the plains,
all that has ever mattered (I’m finally resigned)
is the breath, the spirit, the mercy, the grace,
of Your life
in mine.

The Leather Hills

The Leather Hills

(“So then, we must each give an account of ourselves to God.” Romans 14:12)

Do you remember when we used to roam
the leather hills?
Green lace trees grew crooked from charcoal trunks
and we would sit in the shade occasionally.
Do  you remember when music floated above us
just close enough to grab the tune? Do you remember,
before we stopped listening?
Do you remember carefree summers, frozen root beer mugs
and using 7-up and crackers for communion?

Do you remember how certain I was, how studied and
discerning? Do you remember when we called Madeleine L’Engle
a heretic and waited in line for the
evangelist from India to push us over with a prayer or weariness
from standing?

Do you know it has been 20 years since we talked,
two decades since the plug was pulled? But,
the sentence came down from above, and without my consent,
an ally became neither friend nor enemy. Do you remember me
being nothing to you?

Do you know I never walked as well as I spoke;
that I tired easily on the hills? Do you know I wept when
I woke in the claustrophobic middle of the night,
that I prayed in the cold darkness to have the demons
leave once and for all? Do you know how I despaired,
and returned abed worse than I began?

Do you know my failures are public, well known among some,
hinted at among others? Do you remember the white blush
when the blood left my face as I confessed it all and begged?
Do you remember the three hour lunch, the tears you shed,
while you told me the story of your beloved, your wife (35)
who died as cancer removed her, and your brave faith.
And I remember how they stood on her grave and expected her
to meet you from under the sod.

Do you remember boxes, assumptions, bosses who made presumptions
that I was much worse than he knew? Do you remember poverty with
children who smelled like war? Do you remember the pocket-knife that
slashed the back pew in the hands of one of them? Do you remember
the never again pronounced so mightily?

Can you imagine, my account will be incomplete? I’ll delete the most
unworthy offenses. Can you imagine, so will you? Or, knowing nothing
more than we know here,
will we dismantle the fences and go walking again

On the leather hills where the spring of healing spills
the last thing we’ll ever remember?