Caught in a Maze

Caught in a Maze

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping.’ But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

They say labyrinths are spiritual,
but I’ve been caught in a maze without sky or earth
to guide to the center or to the exit.
They say cathedrals are inspiring,
but I’ve heard enough chatter to shake my bottled pain.
They say nature is a sanctuary,
but recently I can only take it a moment at a time.

This ledge cuts my feet, the stones are sharper than politicians,
the moss coats me like unwelcome twine, and the ravens circle
wasting my time.

What was the point of befriending so many
when they will not come find me in the maze?
What was the purpose of days spent together
when they now have so little to say?

Today that includes yUo, gOd. And I know
I’ve made and idol of You, a perfect answer to the questions
I’ve hurled over the cliff for decades without answer.

And I always blamed myself.

What if it is yUo to blame? What if it is true yUo never answered,
because yUo never existed?

They say music is healing,
but I’ve lost my audience and I’m my worst critic.
They say pets are soothing,
but they die.
They say relationships are god-sent,
and I believe that,
but I am never filled.

Because I am on the ledge, do not assume I’m jumping,
Because I am caught in the maze, do not assume I am lost.
Because I cry every day, do not assume anything about me.
Because I ache, I ache, please, oh please, do not stay away.

And the questions tossed over the cliff? Do I think myself divine
that I should know the answer to everything?

So hidden, I cannot know You. So close, I cannot see you.
So transparent, I cannot miss You. So strong, I can only love You.

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.