Of Coats and Loaves

Of Coats and Loaves

(“The person who has two tunics must share with the person who has none, and the person who has food must do likewise.” Luke 3:11)

I like thrift shop finds—the forty dollar suit, black and
wavy white threads, was perfect for a wedding the next day.
It left me two hundred dollars to spend on a tie.
But Sacramento was too hot to shop
in used bins for my next chapter in a North Dakota winter.
Long-johns and parkas bulged my budgetary allowances.

I always think of you, friend, when I shovel the snow here now.
I can sweat at even 30 below.
You gave me your only military thermal outerwear. Quilted
and camo green
I pulled the pants on over my jeans
and the jacket kept the cold away long enough to
clear the driveway for the next round of blown snow
or blizzard slush. For 30 years I
wore them and I wonder where you had been stationed
that you had this pair to spare.

I love coffee shop bakes—the chocolate croissant you can find
nowhere else. The lobby is coffee perfume the moment you
pass through the door. But stand for a second, and like a wine
taster
breathing through his teeth,
inhale slowly. The bread is calling just behind the hiss of
the espresso machines. Like a farmhouse Sunday afternoon
the baking bread fills every corner with friendship and
anticipation.

I always think of you, friend, when I remember the homemade
loaf you brought to me the day I pined for familiar eyes.
You could not stay, but the glance and package of grace was
enough.
I thanked you and watched you drive away.
I cut a slice and toasted it. It warmed as the
toaster glowed, the aroma slowly filled the kitchen like
new-bake, and I put some coffee on. I opened the butter and
waited for the toast to golden. As the knife spread
I heard the alto crunch and could see the lines of your smile.
I slide the bread between my teeth, the butter plays on my tongue.
I think about the dough you rolled, the sound like taffy being pulled.
I see the flour on your apron, a little on your nose. And as I chew I
know
the coffee will be silky.

And the clothes keep me warm,
and the loaf revived more than
my hunger for homemade days.
And the way you gave
always brought your face to my mind.

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

 

Fiery Are the Folded Hands

(“So Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks and gave them to the people sitting down, and then did the same with the fish, as much as they wanted.” John 6:11)

I don’t know why they ever lied to me,
somewhere tonight they wish they had told me the truth.
I don’t know why they ever kept me from their table,
somewhere tonight they are scraping the extra into the garbage.

Some lives are so shrunken they actually live on
less. Food is sparce, space is frugal, friends are the
ants you try to keep from your dropped crumbs on the floor.

Unless you find someone to hold your diminished life
and not be afraid of its hollow touch, you may end up
just like the rest of us.

I don’t know why I every lied to them,
somewhere tonight they wish I had told them the truth.
I don’t know why I ever kept them from the table,
somewhere tonight I have ordered extra guacamole.

Light is the touch, fiery are the folded hands that hold
my bread
in thanks for the seed, the grain, the miller and the baker,
and for the One who invented seeds and told them to teach
us of abundance when our love is too small,
and our vision too narrow,
and our prayers are checkmarks on a list or
a social network status.

Most days I would take a hug with skin
than the promise of prayer from one I think
would pray anyway.

Having been held in thankful hands by the Master,
you could be loaves and fish to me if only
you would wrap your arms around my neck,
hold my hand for more than a second,
look in my eyes with tears held back
and feed my emptiness the way a mother
brushes back her firstborn’s hair.

No One Leaves Hungry

No One Leaves Hungry

(“He took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to the sky, he blessed them, broke them, and gave them to the disciples to set before the multitude.” Luke 9:16)

I do not know who you are
reading these words,
seeing this page online,
but I want to share my bread with you,
my skin with you,
the tent I live within.

The dirt that I am made from,
the mud that molds my frame
is the same as every other earther,
we are 6 billion and the same.

And Jesus loved the bread of the land,
he love the fruit of the vine,
he shared it like a baker,
he blessed it like a priest,
he divided it like a maître d,
he held it like a grandfather on
Christmas eve.

No one leaves hungry when we share our bread,
no one leaves angry when we keep our skin on,
no one deserves our judgment, no one knows the story
from first to last, from vast lifetimes birthed without
our consent.

So we set the table; no we dine on the couch or
the picnic blanket closer to the soil. We are broken,
we are one,
we are open,
we are children aching for the sun
with our unanswered prayers and losses,
our good fortune and the gossips that talked
out of time.

We invite the one who spoke behind our back,
(our own words were swords not long ago).
We make room for the loneliest widow,
for the offkey and off the mark beliefs
we are certain are mistaken.

But this is becoming too unwieldy,
I only want you to know my story
and listen like it is bread that has been baking
and filling your head like yeast, and filling your
heart to
love the least and just join the band of humanity
that multiplies in the hands of dusty people
who still hunger for a shared loaf of bread.

From mud to grain, there is no better explanation
than a preoccupation with love.