Never Be a Day

Never Be a Day

(“You changed my mourning into dancing. You took off my funeral clothes and dressed me up in joy.” Psalm 30:11)

I have seen the pockets where you hide away your pain;
I know you’ve prayed for darkness to cry the day like pain.
You have wanted to dance again and feel guilty when you abstain.
You’ve wished you could drink an elixir to make you love again.

Every time you peek out from your hidden cave you’ve made,
every time you let the sunlight catch your eyes,
you hope and imagine it will be different, things will change this time.
But within days the gloom sets in again and you knew you shouldn’t
be surprised. You cannot even count on sleep to be your friend.

With me you can hide if you want. Or I will turn down the lights so
you can let your tears drop unseen. Or I will reach inside your
pockets and remove a stone or two. I would heal it all if I
could.
I would change the wounds backwards in time before the
first evil befell you. I would mend the seams where the
violence
caused your voice to cease its beautiful song.

If I could I would hold you forever; if you let me,
I would blow away every sore and scarred place you
hide so well. The days would shine again; your eyes
would take the lifeline and sparkle again.

So, when I ask if you are ok, you can share one of those
pocketed stones with me. There will never be a day
when
I will turn away from anything you show me.

We Are Here Now

We Are Here Now

(“But whatever things were assets to me, these I now consider a loss for the sake of the Messiah.” Philippians 3:7)

I never imagined that all my work might
go up in flames.
I never dreamed that it might be the beginning
of a renewed carelessness. I had not planned on
such an early exit. I had not pictured a retirement
so soon.
I never planned on setting aside the fire which
I thought had been my all.

I think more carefully now about what comes my way.
I consider anxious thoughts and wonder why they still
can find their way to my fingers, to my gut, to my freezing
stop-motion when I am in a crowd.

Nonetheless, I am setting aside the false I that I’ve know
so long.
I haunted me and I drug me across the dirty fields.
I left me shortly satisfied only to thirst again.
I festered like self-righteousness while we rode home
in the back of the deacon’s Cadillac.

We are we now. Christ is not out of my grasp,
He is not at the tipping point of the last day of my fast.
He is within, revealing my true self in beauty I
never anticipated. Don’t mistake me; I still want I
more often than we would like. We are each other now,
fully like ocean tides and sand. Like salt dissolve in
water, we are more we than I ever thought.

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.

Oh, Never Mind

 Oh, Never Mind

(“If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?” Psalm 130:3)

Until the final word has been sung,
until the final syllable rolls of your tongue,
there will be little to write until the listening is done.

I etched every mistake like a stylus into clay;
I memorized them; I kept them in a diary high
on the shelf hoping no one would find them, no one
would redefine them, and, at the end of the day
someone would right them to banish my pretense.

Although I wrote them, they were meant only for me,
but somehow, they were released into the ether where
daylight caught them on the fly. They had been only intended
to come out at night when fewer eyes kept watch.

They were a record of my illnesses, the symptoms well defined.
They were a mirror of my inconveniences, a probe into…

Trying to describe it here after all these years may sound
like a metal spoon pounding a kettle to coax get the tea to come out.
But what I think I hoped was that someone would read it all,
and, without excusing at at all, would absolve me of everything
written or forgotten,
and treat me like the whole thing had been a farce,
like the words had never existed,
like the story was far more nuanced than the
ledger I kept them in.

the eternal eyes removed all doubt and looked away
without a single glance at my exact notions. The
party started hours ago, and I thought I was disinvited.
Until someone whispered that the party was for me.

Torrents of Rain

Torrents of Rain

(“O Lord, restore our well-being, just as the streams in the arid south are replenished.” Psalm 126:3)

Don’t let the fantasy of uneasy paragraphs
persuade you that the everything is glued,
everything is static,
everything is anti-motion. The stars are
moving away from us a trillion miles away.

Don’t let the certainty of ambiguity convince you
the rains are gone. Don’t let the clouds on the horizon
obscure the coming day. Lighter than the mountains,
denser that the sun,
invited by petition,
stretched like the ocean’s horizon,
hold the hope that yesterday’s promises bring.

The fog burned off quicker than I guessed,
the light, though slanted late summer,
reached my porch before the evening fell.
We examined every exposed corner where
the light bent to reveal life hidden behind the
outcroppings of doubt.

The wadis were waiting, the dried riverbed
asleep and dry. The pilgrims plod the
unkempt desert floor; the preachers are not
certain, though they have set a new date for
the end of the world. Do they every stop their
silly prophecies once the storms do not gather
like the have pontificated? Do they admit the harm
their proclamations have done?

There is a rainy season; there is a time when
water will fill the desert again. It does not come
from ego-saturation, it does not arrive because
someone painted sign with the exact date and time.
You can no more command the rain than you can
tie the wind with a half-hitch, tethering it to the mountains.

There is a season for ease; there is a gracious month
when the Spirit will fill the waiting again. She comes
when least expected; she fills the imagination; she washes
the religious dust away. You can no more command the
Spirit than you can turn the earth with your hands.

As a matter of fact, there is far more water to quench
your soul
than all the suns in the universe. Watch the desert
late evening silhouette. Let the peace that pursues the
thirsty make an oasis of your tear-dried tongues. No need
to ration anything. It is time to share the overflow
that comes from the joyous music of torrents of rain
we thought would never arrive.

I Never Wanted to Be Singled Out

I Never Wanted to Be Singled Out

(“And having been made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him,” Hebrews 5:9)

I never wanted to be singled out,
put on a pedestal,
busily talked about. I never wanted
a plaque to hang on the wall.
I get by with paintings by my friends:
surrealistic dolphins, purple frozen lake scenes,
and a floral still life that rings with the artist’s voice.

I’ve never sought perfection,
though I’ve asked permission more often than I’d want.
I’ve just wanted to pass inspection,
though I stubbed my toe on the un-expectations that were
never explained to me.

I love you no matter what your spoken language,
I’ll meet with you if you’ll eat with me the simple fare
at the concession stand. I don’t like pretention,
I’d rather meet you in a t-shirt and jeans.
Can I buy you a drink? Tell me your favorite brew?
Can I impress you with answers now that you have finally
asked the one question I understand? Honesty demands
that I be able
to ask you questions too.

But I fear you’ll only approach me with your
contingent of well-tailored men. They won’t give me the
chance
to ask my question. They look for ways to
cut our session short. You know I feared your
questions, not out of dishonesty, but because of the
implications that plastic leather seats squeaked like
geese imitating truth.

Here it is, my address. Do not share it with anyone else.
Meet me at the back yard, in the sun, on the deck. And
let us talk of sweet tea while the grandkids play in the water.
Children’s laughter will warm the afternoon.

Never Any Debts

Never Any Debts

(“You shall not take vengeance, nor hold any grudge against the sons of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself; I am the Lord.” Leviticus 19:18)

You don’t remember the time when
pain was the only word I could define,
do you?
I could say I don’t mind, but that would be
untrue. I tossed my stones into a lake
years ago. And yet, today I can see the
reflection of scowls I carried because
I married your apologies to my mood.
I was a fool.

And because I can still see your face
doesn’t mean I haven’t tried to erase the
words that no one disguised. Coffee would
be nice. Or a two-hour lunch where either of us
cried. Losses pile up.

I don’t mean to say you owe me anything. I’m
still paying my own debts this late, too far past Spring.
I don’t mean to say anyone should have loved me more. I’ve
lengthened the timeline and still wonder that any of us
are loved at all.

So, if I call you next week, or send you a note in the mail,
I’ve settled accounts, and all the debts are on my side of the
ledger. I took too much interest in
looking for your check in the mail. I was

Whole

Before it all began. And we both were
uncertain by the time the bills came due.

All I can tell you, all I know for now,
is to love you is to love myself. To walk
in light is to see you unhindered by my own
timeline of pain. You are, to say it again,
free, my friend. There were never any debts to
begin with. 

What If We Had Never Met?

What If We Had Never Met?

What if we had never met? That’s not impossible,
is it? I used to think I could dig deep enough to arrive
for lunch in China. I’d still be digging today or
melted and scorned by the molten core of my home planet.

But, what if? Would I still be afraid to dance? Would
I like to meander more or less? Would I let strangers take
my snapshot
or be shyer than all the rest?

When if we had always supped? Sharing bread and
bottles of wine,
would we have lasted longer as friends or
wandered like wobbling planets? Would I cross
states
to find you? Or remain solid as ice, permanent as pavement
and never leave my assigned place?

Lately beloved names escape me. Fascination with new ones
unmakes me. What if we had not feared so much? What if
we let the river take us, peaceful and strong,
along the banks of the mountains to the
open sea
and straightway realized how friendships are far too
geographical.
For me, it is no laughing matter. I can ache for a face
I have not seen in nearly 20 years. I can long for a voice;
no, the tone, not the words. I can long for a voice that meant,
“Do you need some company?” at the first hello.

Today space separates me from my if-onlys; yesterday, death.
Time has made our shared secrets thinner. I have no illusions
about eternal bonds, not with everyone, I guess. And
I hate to say I’m

lonely.

I hate to say it at all.

What if I had stayed just one hour longer when
all you needed was another human to see you
better
than you saw yourself?

What if I have divorced myself?

Today one day whole
would be the beginning of me.

It Never Felt Like Leaving

 

It Never Felt Like Leaving

(“And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or farms on account of My name, will receive many times as much, and will inherit eternal life.” Matthew 19:29)

It never felt I had left a thing. Perhaps it was how
lovers leave to follow pink cloud dreams that cushion the
harshest gravel path.

Oh, I gave up a few things: movies, wine, bread for the poor,
children’s birthday parties and overnight escapes with my wife.
Staying put felt like the biggest part of leaving to me.

I walked away from double Christmases with my mother
and kindly worded letters to my dad. I turned my back on
any false thing,
any thing but the true religion.

But on a day that took two decades to rise to noonday brilliance,
I walked away to the desert (with plenty of overnight time with
my wife who turned directions with me in a dizzying display of grace).

Winter can numb the senses like no other season,
but shines in its shortened days upon a soul so tired
it begs to find new stories outside the wooden cathedrals.
Bundled in parkas and embracing the Grand Canyon, we knew
something
about snow, about strata, about time and about Abba’s house;
his footstool and his throne.

This time I owned it, the departing without knowing. This time we
roamed and a little knowledge turned us around toward home.
I will not lie to you, not now, about how I scratched the floorboards,
tore the bedsheets, roared at the heavens, and cursed the silence when
I wanted poetry and letters, prophecy and better words than
“You’ll do just fine.” I was not fine.

I know some see my journey and wring their hands. Others, without
due consideration, dismissed my plans (although, dismissing nothing
leaves us where we began.) I never departed the Lover that first
romanced me. But his words and his houses, his princes and lords
were mute and puzzled with the discord roaring from a fearful, damaged and
defenseless heart.

That two-score day was my exodus. As I left, I met the dearest of
the Ages
in the daily labyrinth of cement suburbs where children laugh,
or the wilderness where butterflies kissed bluebonnets to take my
tears away.

Like Job, I questioned everything, and some friends suspected me of
(well, heresy). And now I write, not hearing everything. But the
turtle doves are the jazz in the background and my song has
abandoned warfare and sings
the Prince of Peace for which I would abandon everything.

Come Closer

Come Closer

(Many of the people told him sharply to keep quiet, but he shouted all the more, “Son of David, have pity on me!” Mark 10:48)

Blindness only happens when the light can’t get in,
and walls are erected to keep the holy from the ailing.
Dust explodes under the feet of the hopeless who hear better
than the seeing
and know better the feeling that the bottom is closer than
the surface walkers know.

Keep the rabble away from the quiet meditations,
keep the introverted crying while pentecostals shout,
liturgy can divide as surely as it unites,
and lifted hands with ingrown words lock hearts
tighter than we think.

“Keep quiet!” “Sing louder!” Stand up, sit down,
hymnal, dance around the pews at least one more time
and we’re sure to see the magician on the stage turn
our ailments to wine. We heard it happened in another
place, saw it posted, and overheard the miracles that
only occur to the initiated who are quiet enough.
Or loud enough. Or love liturgy. Or sing off key.
Or talk in tongues. Or never talk at all.

Fit my expectations and live!

But a daring few. Sorry; desperate. A desperate few disregard
the traditions and smudge the carpet with mud.
A blind loner finds the back bench and does not leave until
someone heard him shouting above the enforced sanctuary
with no talking aloud, where children are proudly herded upstairs,
and spares and strikes are reserved for Sunday evening conversation.

But an aching few whose pain keeps them from shouting; still,
silent and loudly, move past the requirements of the moment.
They sit in the middle, never making it to the altar (for the uninitiated,
that is the place at the front of the church, where people get saved for
certain.) They sit in the middle while masses swarm the altar
and yell in so many languages even the angels need interpretation.

This poor soul, so quiet and blind, is berated by one returning to his seat.
“How could you ruin the blessing, destroy the anointing, by sitting here
sullenly in this place?”

But shout or whisper, the desperate listener cries for mercy and hears the quiet
rebuke that says, “Come closer.” And, liturgy or adlib, the desperate wipe away
the habits of the faithful and

Usually find healing purer for both their ignorance and candor.