We Had Been Disarmed

We Had Been Disarmed

(“The Lord's kindness never fails! If he had not been merciful, we would have been destroyed.” Lamentations 3:22)

Maybe the day would bring something better,
maybe the dawn would shine again. Maybe we were
hiding from the love we thought we never deserved.
Is it all too marvelous,
Is it so hard to believe?
And yet our darkness lingers, there is no argument
against that. The cries of the exiles crowd out the
silence, the whisper, the slightest breath of consolation.
We have heard the words before and assumed
they
were for the well-healed and polished words of
prayers that took elegant sweeps around the room.
We could not talk, the pain was so exhausting;
we could not listen, the syllables were still defrosting.

We had no weapons to lay down; we had been disarmed
at the beginning of the conflagration. We had no rhetoric,
our stumbling tongues met our teeth midsentence. We could
connect the deathly groans that echoed from throats strained
from crying. We were grieving more minutes than we were
given in a day.
And yet we still cried out in hopes we were heard.
We threw up the dust and wrapped ourselves in canvas,
hoping the coming day would wash the pain away.
The rains were slow, and we passed the days squeezing
out the splinter of faith that was remained. We were afraid to lose
even that much,
never wanting to hit the bottom where the embers of devotion
would die far away from their source.

Yet there is where we heard again, like the untarnished
coins of another realm. We felt the low vibrations
in the depth of our grief and hope began to open its
failing wings. From the depths we heard the hymn,
though our position had not changed. And we might be called
foolish for trusting a mere toccata while the atmosphere
demanded a dirge.

And so, we listened and considered these things. We counted
the days and the shades, the shadows and the rings that were
made by the same sun that had risen during our better days.
And we knew, though the pain was deep, that somehow, we
were heard and we would not be destroyed. We heard the
refrain of mercy, a kindness that, in short,
never fails.

It is Kindness that Waters

It is Kindness That Waters

(“I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will be kind to you!” Philemon 1:25)

The spoons lie in the silverware drawer,
the same niche they have occupied since the
first day in the kitchen. Some days there are 4,
some there are 12. Some days the dishwasher is full.

I wake on the same side of the bed,
the same bed I have occupied since the
first day I moved in. Some days my pain is 5,
others it is 9. Some days I do

 not get up at all.

I need more spoons, but the summer has beat me down
with unrelenting scorch. And even though I know the
hills above the Columbia
summon me
I cannot pull my pain, my overdrafted checking account,
out of my head to spend an hour there.

I want to show this ache to you, to paint it for you,
to cry it to you and for you to pick up the tears
with your tongue, tasting every one,
and look at me (surprised love), and wash
away every fiery arrow and the embers left behind.

And, with a simple sigh, I want to clear the air for you,
the questions I share with you, the doubts unfair that
poke us both like Poseiden’s trident. When we feel
half dead already, our silverware drawer nearly bare,
an extra demand or reprimand sends us deathly reeling
and empty.

So, here is my balance sheet, I am deeply in arrears.
I have less that I started with.
And now, this drought of sadness and pain
has left me to look for the autumn rains again;
while I wish for you the sun in full regalia,
the love that showers with each ray plus time.
Afternoon, morning, night or starshine,
it is kindness that waters our pain and
brightens our sad eyes. 

Sanity, it seems,
is losing everything; a cistern in the sun.
It is losing everything; crepe paper in the rain.
And we, you and I, though no one else can see,
are more whole because grace has crammed the
empty aches that filled us vacantly.

The Previous Phone Call

The Previous Phone Call

(“I pray that the Lord Jesus will be kind to you.” 1 Corinthians 16:23)

Now  the last phone call I received was well-intentioned,
but I have a view from another side of the mountain,
If I speak as I see, acknowledging the focus of the other’s scene,
everything can be disremembered and spread like stale smoke and perfume
until my observation is dissolved as completely as the last bubble
in old champagne.

If you looked at my heart carefully, microscopically, methodically,
a quarter century ago; you know before the first peek; you hear
it speak in healthy rhythm, and you would doubt any deficit of
love or
surrender,
sprint or
marathon,
though the breath may be heavy, and the mistakes plenty,
you would find only the few healed scars from crashing
friends and cars in laughter afterward.

Examine again the sautéed pathway, this
slow-cooked journey never running from self.
My fear has always been what men and friends would
do to me
if they could see
the banquet I serve myself. I smile when they
serve me all their best,
but my chief interests run counter to the daily special.

Grace is not a mask, it is the dialogue I would have with God
once every human eye had turned the other way.
It is the phone call I would have with you,
begging you to withdraw the names you gave me
and my best,
and join the dialogue we could have with God
once every human eye had learned the other way.

Unusually Kind

Unusually Kind

(“The people of the island were unusually kind. It was raining and cold. So they built a fire and welcomed all of us.” Acts 28:2)

Why did it take an outsider, a resigner, a former resolution-signer
to mention the faults that second and third story men had committed?

Why were the liars allowed to speak, allowed to right in pen and ink

words recorded, classified and filed forever? One such deceiver, on
good word from his perfection’s daughter, said a certain pastor was
caught drinking (oh my) champagne at last weekend’s wedding! No
one mentioned the pastor had not attended, oh, and his daughter had
meant another man instead.

Why were men whose prayers could put you to sleep with their length,
but spoke only staccato in with fresh breath or defense, why were they
listened to, having found, behind the house, vacated a year before,
weather-beaten and full of snow, the old men’s magazine no one reads.
Why did the father of us all bring it up two years later
with conversation volume
in the midst of a restaurant meal with customers ahead, behind and
left and right? His only comment: “You never eat much when we talk.”
Not knowing what the hell he was talking about, I could only gulp. The
man who found it, accused me, attached it like to my forehead like
nails to a tree, could not find room for even a private apology.

I have been treated kinder by men who never meander the maze
of pews in our houses of the holy; sometimes prayers are offered there,
thanking God the quarterback of the Seahawks completed the final reception.

I am sick of love at first and rejection at the last. I am tired of perfection
that is as suspect as I was made to be. I am sick of love, lovesick, and
unsure it is found, heaven or ground, apart from the love of a wife who

Knowing all, has healed me from death to breathing, slow, yes, but:

Yes.

Oh Mercy

Oh Mercy

(“Praise the Lord, O my soul. And forget none of His acts of kindness.” Psalm 103:2)

He has spoken, He has loved us,
not a token or scribbled note on a napkin;
He has loved us, He has chosen,
not a segment or favored few; us and only.

The world spins darkly, the mirrors reflect dimly,
we breathe short, live less, digressing from the
designer’s pattern; oh Mercy, oh Kindness,
Righteousness and Justice. We crave
the banquet, and do not starve. We thirst
the waters, and wet our tongues.

Didn’t we dance once? Didn’t the world
green the day and crystal the night? Don’t you
recall the innocence, the child’s choice to
watch the stream flow endlessly until the last
diamond of sunlight between the leaves quietly
slipped behind the hill?

He has given, He has embraced
a world cringing the touch of the sanest love,
the same love we swam in before we began to
choose teams, pick sides, and divide the us and only.

He forgave, them, us; and inverted lonely,
emptied the satisfied crowns of hand-me-down
conquest; Conquered death. Oh Mercy, Oh Kindness,
address us all and only, sons and daughters of
renewed creation. Address us all, children of
Your kingdom where sighs are contentment
allied with love.

Be the Words

"Be the Words"

(“Timothy, my child, Christ Jesus is kind, and you must let him make you strong.” 2 Timothy 2:1)

Where did the fight originate?
The one that started on the street and landed at the feet
of open mouthed bystanders who lived within inches
of the scraped knees that skid across uncrossed words
meant for lower targets.

Flames grab the minds with fist rarely squeezed until
a day, walking past a yesterday friend, she heard the words
that have no more spark than bare feet scuffling across
a dry day shag carpet and shaking hands with the first door
knob
inside.

But the words itched the tiny hairs within her hearing,
the diminutive bones inside her ears and without a snap
or spark to jump the gap from hurt to reason
the battle was drawn, the sides joined, the fight begun,
the coins of the realm minted to buy the truth
to prove who would lose and who had won.

So the strong thought. And so the weak responded.
So the bullies sneered. And so the prey still shivered.
The playgrounds and board rooms,
the courtrooms and ground rules,
the sanctuaries and park benches
are never out of bounds of humanities
skewed frames of reference.

Be strong, be kind; be the strong who is kind,
be the kind who kills with kindness,
be the strength who loves the abuser
without moving, words the firm with a whisper.

Be young and strong, the kind that defies newday dna,
be the kind who loves the victim
without prior approval, words the tender with eyes
unblinking.

Kindness Like a Necklace

“Don’t ever forget kindness and truth. Wear them like a necklace. Write them on your heart as if on a tablet.” Proverbs 3:3

“Slave Free Earth” is a non-profit organization that exists to bring freedom to those caught up in the sex trafficking world. The vision of Will Henderson, its international headquarters are in Patong Beach City on the Island of Puket, Thailand. Phuket is “Grand Central Station” of sex tourism.

Pay Attention to Me!

“Answer me, Lord! You are kind and good. Pay attention to me! You are truly merciful.” Psalm 69:16

The only reason I feel comfortable to pray so directly as “Answer me,” is because I know God is kind and good. This is not the “Answer me” of a parent to a child who is withholding information. It is not the demand of a judge to a seated witness, nor is it the repetition of an unheeded request. This is the boldness of acceptance.

Priceless

“How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings.” Psalm 36:7

There is a popular credit card commercial that flashes items across the screen with the price tag alongside. “New leather luggage: $200” And another. “Two Tickets to Tahiti: $1200” But the final scene would be something like “Time away from the kids: Priceless”. Then the commercial, admitting some things are indeed priceless, suggests we use their credit card for everything else.