The Recitations of Love

The Recitations of Love

(“Fools make fun of guilt, but the godly acknowledge it and seek reconciliation.” Proverbs 14:9)

He wanted to jot his emotions down before
the ink dried on the page. They were fleeting but heavy,
they were deep and they were noisy.
He had learned to be impatient about the past
indiscretions. He once thought he had a gift
for painting the unknowable but discovered the
colors ran faster than his brushstrokes could keep up.
He leaned on what he had learned to love, the daily way
his inclinations moved his heart. He knew, and would
try to remember, that prayer was nothing more than
unspoken breaths caught on the dawn of a pink and
orange morning.

He captured his pain, the reminders of how little he gained
from underneath the burdens of tripping and falling where
he wished he had stood strong. The past was a long arc
that followed him down the halls and around the alleys
like corner store bullies waiting after school.
He walked around the block searching for a new place
to bury the thoughts that haunted his steps from day
to the midnight at the end of the week.

But if he stopped for just a moment, if he stood still
and let the light bleed into his eyes, he could hear the
words that started with a look and drew him closer than
he thought he deserved. They were indelible and could
not be erased.
He learned to listen again to the recitations of love,
the mystery that turned upon the timing of the ancient of days.
He could not deny the past, but he no longer needed to
die every day. He replayed the liturgy that played like
a butterfly near his shame and dread. He smiled again and
began again to pace himself in and out of his heirloom of
life.

Love that Bid Us to Stay

Love that Bid Us to Stay

(“Hear my voice according to Your faithfulness; revive me, Lord, according to Your judgments.” Psalm 119:149)

Daily the cracks in the sky open to help us feel
how the love of God can burst into flames and warm
our quiet and cold early morning pensées. The night
before
we had felt the zero that loneliness brings, sitting by a
fire
that no one else sees. We stayed outside till midnight,
just two of us exchanging stories we had told each other
a hundred times before.

Waking the next morning in our separate houses,
I don’t know if we dreamed the scenes we had painted
the night before. I wondered if the embers had turned to
ashes
overnight.

I pondered how many beliefs we left behind to find
their remains in the firepit we had constructed? Did
our stories match? Did our songs matter? Did our
recitations of memorized liturgies make a difference
today?

It was love that invited us, and it was love that
bid us to stay.

We wish we had kept our sense of humor
intact.

I Think I Understand

 

I Think I Understand

([Jesus said] “Do you love me?” Peter said, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” John 21:17b)

I can’t help but wonder what you might
ask of me.
I’ve finally figured it out, though, that you
do not want to shame me. You meet me here in this moment,
ask me a question about where I live now. Not how I lost it
back then. Not how guilt forced me to forge my way to the one
thing I found comforting before you ever tapped me on the shoulder.

I barely understand you most of the time.
And when I do understand something inside starts off
dreamily
but ends up, quite frankly, wishing I had not heard.
What do you call a casual friend who knows every move
you’re about to make before you have even given a moment’s
thought?

One: I wasn’t ready for the question.

Two: I acted like I had no clue.

Three: I needed to warm my hands by the fire. I swore with
            the maiden who insisted she knew.

And then you had to walk by and look at me. I did not have
time to hide. You were already beaten to an inch of your life
but, that look, that gaze that was a blade to my heart, was a wavelength
that caught me unawares.

You have no reason to think I love you. But you knew my answer
buried deep under the rubble of my shame. You deftly pulled the words
from my tongue like
1,2,3,.
And I felt ready to cry again upon my confessions of love for you.

I turned away when you needed amity; I damned myself the moment
you saw my reddening face. But you never insisted,
never elicited an apology from me. I think you could see it
in how I shrunk back quietly to the previous comforts I practiced
before I knew you.

You told me to feed your sheep, and I felt I had nothing to give.
But I will care for them as if they are mine. Do you trust me so,
given all my stumbles in the dark?

You won’t let me wallow in the past,
you never held it against me at all. I think I
understand
this part.
Why heap shame on a man whose entire face
shows such deep wrinkles of self-administered guilt?
I think I understand.

Love Surrounds

Love Surrounds

([“Love is not] rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful. 1 Corinthians 13:5)

Take the time like it matters,
preserve it like messages from the mountains that
love lies waiting for the forgotten and the unseen.
They had flinched when the words cascaded toward them,
sharp accusations and suppositions and nothing an inch worth
of truth. The implications were clear though the cause was not.
They only felt good once they lowered him a peg or two.

But love lies waiting like a rescue hammock, it meets the
expectation of summer sunny afternoons. Though others gave it
stingily, one gave kindness first place and made room for others
whose hearts had been silenced by those who forgot they
did not know enough.

But love surrounds the wounds left behind by
judgment without cause. Love asks how the hurt began and
listens to the stories even over and over again
until all facets have been exposed to its light.

We thought we had caused their irritation, that we had
manufactured words in a smelter and fashioned them into
swords. But that was not our plan. We formed
platters to serve everyone. We kept hoping to
manufacture a moment in time where the blinders fell
off and we were comfortable to see each other as we are,
even if we had never seen that way before.

Some did and found the scars still healing. Some bound
them anew with bandages and care. We filled a bowl with
water and washed their hands while we waited for
the rest to arrive.

I Think You Already Know

I Think You Already Know

I think you already know by now how
our hearts are entwined. I think it is easy so see
the secrets we have not hidden, the scars we have not
covered in shame. But I want you to know, if you did not
know by now
that my heart is healed because of your love.
My anxious thoughts do not invade like they once have,
my depression occasionally paints it dark, but then I
remember
the way you have taken me by the hand and walked me
back into the light.

You have let me cry when crying seemed unreasonable,
you have made me laugh on days I would rather pout,
you have touched my face with your hands and I cannot
draw back.
I would never draw back.
There is so much love in that touch, in the warmth of
your fingers on my face, that I breathe more slowly and
find the place of grace you have created for me.

I don’t know how all this works, I do not understand eternity.
But one thing I think I know, our hearts were born this way,
our souls were dancing together, interlaced and finding
infinite positions to touch each other with such joy,
such passion, such joy, and such love. We usually know it without
saying a word.

I would do anything for you. You have done everything for me.
I would end the nights of frightening thoughts, I would kiss your
lips with loving warmth, I would hold you close when the
words from outside your mind demean you in acrid proclamations.
I would heal every bruise, every heartache, every undeserved
lashing upon your heart that you never deserved.

Oh, my soul, I cannot describe how you have brought me to this
healing. I only hope you know, my dearest of dear, that I will never
stop loving you, never stop holding you, never stop hoping for your
hand in mind as our hearts wrap around each other even though miles apart.

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

(“The Son of Man will come again just as lightning flashes from east to west.” Matthew 24:27)

It was unlikely the way it all happened at once.
We were walking next to the fields where the cattle grazed,
the river in the distance, the clouds slightly amazed at the
unseen winds that whipped the trees like buttery churns.
We had wondered what the day would bring, what would
occur between the horizons from east to west. There were
challenges that kept us up late the night before and crept
towards us so plainly we recognized it right away.
We had heard a dozen rumors over the years, hints that
this cacophony would reorganize itself once we recognized
the signs.

It was never meant to be secret or merely hinted at.
It was always going to be announced like a procession across the skies.

Do you remember the fireflies on warm summer nights?

Lately I’ve been thinking how much it costs to keep defending
hazardous beliefs that harm the hearts of those who hear them.
Oh that we could feel the warm the same way the cold has
infiltrated our bones. Are there missiles bearing down on us?
And what is their payload? Could they be carriers of hope
and a panoply of star-drenched prophecies fulfilled?

It's taken us a long time to get here, this hike around the world.
We imagined things might be tied up by now,
the signs and signals capturing all our fears. But
instead
we find ourselves dousing the toxic fumes from
the fires from self-described holy men. They have
mapped it all and know every turn and every date.
Believe them, they will show it to you for a monthly
contributions.

We remain vigilant and poised for peace. We remain
outspoken as we scan the skies for a renaissance of
heavenly love.

Follow the Messengers

Follow the Messengers

(“The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.” Proverbs 18:10)

Beyond the borders there is a square of
safety for me. I had studied the rural forms
for nearly 20 years and found the remains of
remote islands on the run. The tables were turned,
the tallest cedars burned and returned decades later.
All I could see from miles around atop the largest hill
on the grounds of a dozen acres of refuge, were angels
winging their way to me.

I discovered my identity in the motion of their wings and
the song of their mouths that echoed like childlike giggles
up and down the face of the canyons and the depths of the
muddy river running candidly.

I started listening to the way the wind blew through the
narrow windows of the tower and I could swear the birds
had stopped their chirping so I could hear the way the sun
made the grass grow. So I could hear the leaves inching out
toward the sky.

There had been trouble outside the fences,
there had been blockades keeping the stockpiles empty while
the children starved. They insisted it was legal the way
they turned away international aid. They imagined they
owned the soil where the tears of the mothers watered the dust
where innocence fell.

The angels moved past me. I was not their project and now I know.
They were moving me to move with them;
they were sent to melt the hearts of so-called kings who devastated
tens of thousands for an incomplete retribution. They have
nowhere to run, so let us run to them and leave our watchtowers
behind. Let us follow the messengers whose words are peace
and whose ways are love.

The Same Sun

The Same Sun

(“Therefore love your enemies, do good, and lend, looking for nothing in return; and your reward will be great, and you will be the children of the Highest. For he is kind to the unkind and to the evil.” Luke 6:35)

Stand a little closer so you can see
the eyes that open like a morning rose.
Every sunrise blossoms,
every petal has its day,
every flower offers its nectar
for the visitors who come to stay.

The neighbor boy is outside dribbling his
basketball in the street shooting hoops like
he’s the last one on the court. The neighbor
girl rides by on her bike with the family’s
Labrador mix leading the way.

Listen a little deeper and you might hear
the paintbrush on the canvas
writing a rhapsody from margin to margin.
You might hear the colors, you might smell the warm,
you might realize the hues and shades
are laid down in layers. You might hear
the same song from down the street as you
did on your first day home from war.

Do not panic, but the same sun that seeks the horizon
shines for your antagonist;
the same rain falls for your adversary;
the same rose smells of dew and love the as
it does for you.

I can tell that doesn’t sit well with you.
I struggle with it too. I swear, though, the eyes
of my enemy
are the same color as at least a dozen friends.
And the children haven’t learned yet to
withhold love based on merit.

I think I’d like to learn to live again and find
every thread the has stitched my heart to yours,
every ray of light that brightens our eyes.

Love Your Neighbor

Love Your Neighbor

(“For the one who eats and drinks without careful regard for the body eats and drinks judgment against himself.” 1 Corinthians 11:29)

With the grease of roast lamb running down your beard
and the newest wine filling your gut
you decided you wanted to tell me about Christ.
You pushed ahead so that nothing was left save
a few crusts of bread and the vinegar squeezed from some grapes.
You carried your gun tucked into the back of your belt;
I gave me sword away years ago.
You took the seat no one else took; you sat at the head
of every table you found.
You left the floor for the waiting poor, you left the door
open
so they could leave quickly. The cold night air stung
those sitting so close to the door ajar.

I heard there was a day (haven’t seen it yet)
I’ve heard there is a dream (haven’t held it yet)
I’ve heard of family (haven’t felt it yet)
I heard there was a meal (the richest served first).
I dared not raise my voice,
I shrunk even further behind the children you pushed
to the back of the line. I had been waiting to
enjoy a meal with humans just like me.
I had no double-breasted suit to wear,
I had few coins to cash in on my attendance,
I had few words to demonstrate I was part of the family,
I had left my voice behind the last time a church like yours
told me I was welcome

And then ignored my hopes,
teased my dreams,
and left me behind while you schmoozed with
the pastor and his wife.

I know my car has seen better days,
I know my jeans are torn,
I know my kids don’t always behave,
I know that Jesus told me to love my neighbor

And I’m trying. I only wish you would
love your neighbor
too.

Love Songs for Everyone

Love Songs for Everyone

(“But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” Matthew 6:33)

Demonizing immigrants is not doing anything
for the kingdom of God.
Vilifying gays does not accomplish God’s dream
for the world.
Letting the poor in,
but insisting they sit where they cannot be seen,
is from a kingdom of this world, a kingdom headed by
a Satan who only wants to discredit God’s grace.
Letting the mentally challenged have a place,
but insisting they better never become ushers,
misses everything that God has ever dreamed.

Seek the dream, the one where every tribe, nation,
language, and ethnic group, every sexuality, every
bisected economy of the poor, rich or medial are one;
seek the kingdom, where God is happy that
uncommon odors cannot deny a teenager a place
in the celebration of grace. Open wide the gates,
and do not lock them again. Throw open the windows
and let the unbridled joy seep into the neighborhood.
Let it waft into kitchen windows of those who
wondered why they were never invited. Let it whisk
around the room like Thanksgiving pie baked hours
before its partaking. Let the words learn holy silence.
Let the words learn that tongues do not need to wag.
Let the words learn the happy sound when someone finds
their way to our group who knows nothing of our niceties.

Open your arms wide, learn their faces, repeat their names,
invite them for lunch, sit with their children, play their games,
roll the tonka trucks for the littles to roll back. Tell the adults
there is no qualification for our little group. Some of us
are not sure what we think about God these days. Some of us
are undeterred and couldn’t be moved from faith by the worst
calamity possible. Some are CEOs, some are dishwashers,
some are behind on their rent, some own their homes outright.
But together we are a dream come true, a dream formulated
in eternity past, in the heart of God. A dream that sees the kingdom
full of every possible extraction and opinion.

I’ve been poor, I’ve been broke, I’ve been okay, I’ve been saved.
I’ve been well-off, not really rich. I’ve been waiting to be a part
of something like this.
There are no greater riches than the grace we find hidden
in the lives we once had bidden adieu to. Isn’t it time to
hear their stories, affirm their humanity, celebrate the divine
that dwells in them as certainly as we think it does in us?
Isn’t it time that our worship is simply full of
love songs for everyone.

You Hear Love Deeper

You Hear Love Deeper

(“One of Satan's angels was sent to make me suffer terribly, so that I would not feel too proud.” 2 Corinthians 12:7b)

I know you’ve tumbled over the stones that line the
swirling stream; I know the rain fell harder than hailstones.
I know how fast the scar tissue grows
to cover the pain, to make everything numb again.

I know your eyes see more than you say.
I know you hear love deeper than most.
I know your legs ache from standing so
no one will know
how weary it all has become.
I know your arms that tremble at a touch that
should feel like love.

I know the things you do not show.
I have bruises too. I feel the tears you hold
back, but they must go somewhere dear.
Drop them on the ground on your walk and
let the birds be silent in holy hush as they
perch in the trees beside you. Let the breeze whisper
the name of the flowers. It is not that you have forgotten them,
it's the wounds that have erased them.

I would name every day after you,
I would write it out plain. I would listen to
your small talk until
you knew it was safe to unload all the talk
you never share with anyone.

I see more than you think I see. I do not mean
I understand anything. It is just that your story
lies just below the surface where I’ve buried my
story too. But yours is one of innocence, mine one
of foolishness.

Your gentleness hits me hard. Your hesitations
only give me more time to fill the spaces between
you, me, the world, and the divine. I would blow
soap bubbles in the air between us
with our names written inside each one.

We Might Be Halfway There

We Might Be Halfway There

(“Love isn’t rude. It doesn’t think about itself. It isn’t irritable. It doesn’t keep track of wrongs.” 1 Corinthians 13:5)

From the time it has taken so far
we might be halfway there. The territory
is unfamiliar;
the road signs, riddled with birdshot,
are unreadable.

We could turn back.
But we will not.
We know where we’ve been
better than where we are going.

We left friends behind, it is true,
but only the future holds daylight in its hands.

I saw you on my video screen 20 years after
the last time we drank coffee in the rain.
I only tuned in to see what the man was preaching,
and your eyes, weary but smiling, were the same eyes
that teased me late summers at the powwow grounds.

I tried to call you, but it did not go through. I wish I
could share the etchings I’ve drawn like
friends share a glass of wine.

Time is a bird that returns to its roost,
that builds permanent nests next to current events.
So we take our time
and spend it too much along.
So we remember the moments
and populate our days with neural images,
undreamed states of being.

I will try to call you again before
the end of the day.

If I Had Not Fallen

If I Had Not Fallen

(“In love a throne will be established; in faithfulness a man will sit on it—one from the house of David—one who in judging seeks justice and speeds the cause of righteousness.” Isaiah 16:5)

If I had not fallen, you may never have found me.
But here we are both lying on the ground.
I don’t have long to stay; I may leave tomorrow.
My hold on life’s meaning keeps slipping somewhere
out of mind.

But still, here on the ground, I can hide
beneath your shade if only, if only, you will
stay around.

These last days the numbers on the calendar blend
former loves and
never-to-be dreams I gave up on long ago.

Take a chance on me, but, with my track record
you will likely lose.

You could be my roaring fire on the days
when everything has
gone up in smoke.

We haven’t spoken about it, but I can see
the end of days from here. The horizon
is only steps away; I need to know you will stay far longer
than the first or second verse.

I do not fear the uncertain veil, only, the way
my kinship has thinned,
I wonder if I may take that final step alone.

If I had not fallen, you would not have found me here.
I could have flown above it all, solved it all like a
Rubik’s cube.

But if I had winged my way in an upward arc, soaring high
above it all,
all my failures would have looked like jewels in the
distant refractions of sun and light.

If I had not fallen, (and I sense you know how far was my
descent), I would not be content to behold the eyes of
another groundling like me.

I can see the last horizon from here, though the journey
may be longer than I expect. It took me days to get here,
with days standing in for years.
It took me years to stop looking for angels
and look instead in your eyes, earthling,
and find every reason to sing.

If I had not fallen, I could not have shared with you this song.

Lectures Never Worked

Lectures Never Worked

(“In your love, listen to me; in your justice, God, keep me alive.” Psalm 119:149 [The Message])

Until then I’ll walk like the
sun shines for you, and I’ll work on a
mystery while I think my time away.
Alone today.

It’s a long way home from here.
It’s a silent walk from here.
It’s a frozen planet of tears,
it’s a burning redrock canyon,
a lonely monologue while people play
war games and blame it all on the
bible.

I never planned to be lonely. And my
phone only rings
when someone wants my money.
I don’t know if that’s true. I haven’t checked my
messages since 2022. Anyway,
I’ve been too hard on myself. I repeat myself,
with lectures that never worked from then till now.

And then a deep pivot that tore up the turf,
the phone rang, and I imagined the circles of the sun
growing lawns and treetops where the
mourning doves cooed the way that only
lovers do.

Somewhere in the middle of me
the smile of a baby
reminded me that kingdoms can be as
small as they are tall.

One thing you should know about me now;
I can watch the wind lift the leaves, one
by
one,
in the autumn haze,
and not feel like I’ve wasted my day.

Love is Not Bottled

Love is Not Bottled

(“The greatest one among you must be like the youngest, and the leader must be like the servant.” Luke 22:26)

I opened the invitation as soon as it arrived in the mail;
unexpecting any change but only more delays,
I read your proclamations. They were the aroma of rubber
burning up the bridges between neighbors. They were the fire
you called down upon the masses, the enemies you cooked up in your
ghost kitchen
where you kept top secret spices, restricted recipes.
You hoped to tickle our ears with
days of fickle feasts no one attended.

You loved your calculations. You posted every poll that raved
your newest followers. You whistled for the gremlins and acted surprised
when they broke in, broke windows, crashed glass, hunted servants and
cheered between the gallows and a cross. Your flags said Jesus.
Your words said fuck.

I walked two houses down from my quiet bungalow. The
daisies smelled like bath salts; the dogs licked my hands.
I waved at a toddler riding a tiny 4-wheeler with a tiny pink helmet
as her crown. I waved again. She looked. I waved once more. She smiled.

The neighbor boy became a teenager today. He loves my feisty chihuahua.
My second grandchild was born yesterday. He already knows my name.
(Or so it should be, world without end, amen.) The mom is my daughter,
the dad her husband who can’t believe he has a new best friend the
size of a cantaloupe. Love does not decrease the more we give. Love is
not finite. Yet we store it in pickling jars and put it in vegetable basements
along with the wine we made from last year’s dandelions.
But love is not bottled. Love is not demanded. Love is never drought or
famine or threadbare or loyal to geography or sports teams. It is

Yes. It. Is.

It is the story every human has told, and every other human desires. Love is
laying down my pistol, my rifle, my cannon, my tablets with rules written in stone.
And love is a child, a 24 hour one, a 6 pound one, a hungry one, who reminds us

Why we keep begging anger and handguns to stay outside before coming to voice
their opinion at
the next board meeting.

She Crossed the Street Slowly

She Crossed the Street Slowly

(“Do not fail to show love to strangers, for by doing this some have welcomed angels without realizing it.” Hebrews 13:2)

I thought I recognized her face as she crossed the
street against the stoplight. Her gaze was elsewhere,
maybe her
shoes,
maybe her lost hunger,
maybe her words that once
were summer bouquets set upon
the tables of the unknowing.

I think she was a singer. A songwriter.
A minstrel. Maybe she used to be the
darling of the worship scene where every word
is scrutinized, every miscue recorded in
reporter’s notebooks for posterity. Maybe she
was tired of the same four chords. Maybe she was
weary of factories of uplifted faces. I think she
was still a poet. But her audience wrote her a
resignation letter before
she ever got started.

I think she liked women. I think she wanted to fly.
I think she crossed the street slowly because every
eye had always been upon her. I think she was ready
to cry as soon as she reached the other side.

She had drunk the vintage of diluted wine.
She had held it all in. She had lied for too long.
And to honor her truth

She was ushered to the alley. She wore a “no vacancy” sign.
She was put on probation. She was given two years, or more,
time to outgrow her fanciful follies and stand
in the back of the line.

As she approached the curb I wondered, where would she
turn
from here? Her eyes were steely and blazing. Her hair
was limp. Her lips moved in ways only she could hear.
Her arms were tattoos of every promise she had kept.

She stepped up and waited, though the light had turned green.
She sat on the corner, picked up a cardboard sign. She pulled a
sandwich from her backpack, tore it in half and shared it with
the man whose words were scribbled like prayer.
And she gave him half. And she sang the words that
had bubbled from her pain. And she explained nothing.
She made motions with her hands. She hummed the
lilting melody that only the rejected can sing.

And she stayed the day with the man who did not ask her
for a thing.

Love Is Easier

Love Is Easier

(“No one pours new wine into old wineskins.” Luke 5:37a)

Love is so much easier than
reading from the scripts winding in your head
like chains and locks, like handcuffs and square knots.

There are more than the old, scribbled writings,
life is richer than the ransom notes we send
human after human,
year after year,
sermon after sermon,
election after election.

Joy flows if you will find it,
the grapes burst with sun and earth.
The wine brings color to the cheeks and
brightness to the eyes. Why protest
the radiance that
sets the bluebirds flying?

Love, rain on me here.
Joy, shine early and near.

On a planet, bio-diverse, sing the choruses
that list each divergent tongue as the number one,
the melodies that launch embraces instead of
vacuous mumbles repeated for effect.
There are far more faces than fit within your
narrow theology.

Love is easy. Love is wind and rain
and wine and mud. Love is never asking for
a decision or,
holding unknown soundwaves in derision,
shouting louder than the spectrum you think you
invented.

Love, fill us like daysprings.
Joy, etch our faces like newborns.
Love is easier if
we take the time to share new wine
trampled by feet we never knew.

Love Returning Love

Love Returning Love

(“For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.” Colossians 3:3)

All I see when I gaze your way is
love returning love.
Your eyes seeing mine are the same as mine seeing you.

I’ve left the mirrored lake behind that caused Narcissus
such blindness. The reflection was flat and deceptive until
I saw the image of every human infatuated the first second
the rippling vision hit their eyes. We are static at the reflection
pool
to fool our inconsistencies. Echo helps by answering back
every elegant name we beget staring into water that
has no devices of its own. You are not you in the mirror,
you are not the royal we or the enthroned epitome. You
may need to walk a while, down the trail, toward the cavern dark
where bats and dimness breed forgetfulness, where damp silence
leaves you outside camera lenses and microphone intentions.

But in that motionless moment,
if you will let the watery image die,
you may find yourself seeing in the dark,
fascinated by mossy green and iron reds on the
cavern walls. You must go there alone, though, once
alone,
you will never need to venture into the darkness again.
If only you find the companions that wait outside,
that guard the entrance from intruders,
and watch it for friendships that have been stripped
of illusion
and, though mildly confused, the man is a child again,
the woman a toddler hopping in wonder.

All you will see when you gaze divine is
love returning love.
Those eyes seeing yours are the same as yours seeing them.

Sit With Him Who Has No Breath

Sit With Him Who Has No Breath

(“He also described to us the love that you have in the Spirit.” Colossians 1:8)

Sit with him who has no breath,
set the table for her who cannot taste;
when the air is heavier than sotted fog
let silence carry you,
let ritual be the rails you ride until
breathing comes naturally again.

There is no moment without effect,
there are no movements without the tree leaf twitching.
When time has subtracted more than you wished,
let memory guide you,
let summer laughter reside a moment longer until
the lyrics return.

I prayed the Our Father with you, three times,
maybe four.
I am ashamed to say I forgot some words of that
Ancient Prayer
I prayed
every Sunday till my teens. On the last time I
whispered it
I think I remembered every phrase, though
out of order and halting. I sang Hallelujah to
you, and Amazing Grace.
But mostly the ICU room where you lay was
filled with machinery whirring, rewording our silence
into every breath you took.
I tried to match my own with yours,
to be present on perhaps our last moments together.

Angels attend you sweet friend, and may you know
how much love clung to your boots and pain,
how our crocks of clay eventually decay,
and how our spirits awake, here or elsewhere,
to human touch as well as divine.

The Ocean of Love

The Ocean of Love

(“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” Matthew 25:40)

Don’t be afraid to fall,
fall into the deep,
the fathomless ocean,
the ocean of love.

I once was afraid of the water,
afraid I would drown.
Once I jumped from the high dive
at the pool in the middle of town.
That was the last time I entered the water
from that elevation.
But then I met some people,
Lord, I’m glad they were found,
who loved the ocean, swim or float,
and with butterfly strokes, stayed until the
sun went down.
And now I am happy, though somewhat afeared,
to sink to the bottom of the ocean to
leave these roses for you there.

Doing it for one, we do it for all,
the ocean is full of waves created from
the beginning of time. When you dance among the coral,
you dance with God, and when you dance with God, you dance
with all creation.

You cannot divide the ocean, it will spill over every time,
you cannot divide the Father and the Son, the Spirit
circles it all in oceans of love.

I swam with dolphins once. I baptized an orphan.
I ate with Jesus at Taco Bell, an alcoholic friend of mine.
I fished through ice for Walleye and fried them up that night.
The coyotes and the cracking of the ice were the soundtrack.
From Arizona to Spanish Harlem, from South Africa to the Ukraine,
you cannot divide humanity, we all share the same hopes and
the same pain.

Don’t be afraid to dive,
dive into the deep.
We are all creatures of the sea,
the fathomless ocean,
the ocean of love.