A Serenade to Soothe

A Serenade to Soothe

(“When you pray, do not say the same thing over and over again making long prayers like the people who do not know God. They think they are heard because their prayers are long.” Matthew 6:7)

Do you think your fancy words,
all dressed up and shining, make God hear you better,
make God’s ears perk up?
Did you think your elevated language,
complete with words of foreign tongues,
made God take notice,
make God get up and redecorate the dawn?
Etch your words deeply, not long.
Keep your focus narrow, not wrong.
When morning rises, greet Creator with a
silent song with hope of relief before long.
Let the shallow stream that never ceases to flow
teach you communion different that you have known.

I’ve been on the earning end of teary conversations,
I’ve dug my fingers into the carpet to be heard.
But you saw me before my first sight,
You acted before I even finished and came to my rescue
before I exhaled the Amen.

I only heard the invitation, I only saw the embers warm,
the table was set before I showed up, the meal was provided
before I began. The words were silent name tags
reserving my place from the beginning until now.

I’ve stopped my public praying; I’ve quieted my soul like
a child newly weaned. I’ve left out the titles I once used
and waited to meet you where you have always waited for me.

I mention my friends to you, even some who are gone;
I carry them in my heart and hope crosses their path today.
And if not, I continue to pray, knowing they do the same.
Our refrains are the same:
In your earth as it is in God’s heaven, and,
enough to eat for today if you please,
and a serenade to soothe the blues of
these difficult days.

If I Sit There Silently

If I Sit There Silently

(“We do not know how to pray or what we should pray for, but the Holy Spirit prays to God for us with sounds that cannot be put into words.” Romans 8:26b)

What’s it to you if I sit there silently
while someone wails at the back of the room?
What difference does it make if my songs are wordless,
and I play in a minor key?
I used to think it was spiritual,
now I think it’s just mischief,
to stay one minute longer in prayer
than the ones who sweat for an hour.
What’s it to you if I’d rather hear
the air sing like wind than
repeat another verse of a brand new hymn
that begs for attention, that grovels like sand?

Once the noise dictated my definitions,
once the clock measured my piety.
Now the silence I always welcomed
welcomes me. I’ll sit with you in this
loneliness; I’ll picture that face that crafted
yours and
count every reflection a prayer,
every tear holy,
every laugh a prophecy,
and every raindrop the beginning
of a sacred dance.

What’s it to you if my notes are
indecipherable?
What’s it to me if I don’t remember
pronouncements well?
What difference does it make if I
still limp after a thousand voices have
declared me healed? What difference does it
make if
I’d rather be invited to a meal?

Once the miracles distracted me,
once I had to see ice burn and flame.
Now the morning fog welcomes me to
capture the name that has
been perfect in me day one until
the final benediction.

A Year in the Desert

 

A Year in the Desert

(“Then He went away by Himself to pray in a desert.” Luke 5:16)

The songs no longer come easy, the
rests and notes run together randomly.
When the blue jays whistle
the empty sky swallows their songs like
peeling paint from clapboard siding.

The songs once rose like nursery rhymes
unaided by years of leaded study. That is
why this is so hard to write.

The songs were for other folk.

And approaching endgame, the final moves, checkmate
looms. Alone with a head

Full of thunder again.

Some saw bravery; the options simply ran out. Stepping
aside across the unaided expanse, no one showed up to
say goodbye.

The words died upon the journey, the melancholic joy
sank deeper beneath another crawlspace with uneasy answers.
No one showed up to say, “how the hell are you?”

A year in the desert is spent crying for water, wishing for
another chance
where the rains wash away every question ever asked. Thirsting
for the rain that paints it all with green and yellow and pink
when the heart pumps only sludge through the man standing
under a frightening sun, onstage before no one.

But upon the advent of the second year the lonely sky
mentions that butterflies love sunflowers and
mockingbirds never sing the same song twice.
Upon the advice of professionals, the blood thins,
the skin is scanned, and the desert is no longer solitary
confinement. Sometimes the guitar strings are rusty
from months of humid atrophy. But strings can be
replaced.

Like a sitar being tuned, the desert became birth pangs;
music played only by a virtuoso. Maestro, play on.
And if no one knocks on the door to hear because
the music sounds foreign to the neighbors’ ears,
mentor us well; the few who had to venture

Far into the desert to hear the wind and sands
sing of the origin and cause of every song
that every wanderer longed for.

Even Though They Follow

 

Even Though They Follow

(“I pray that You will forgive the sin of this people by the greatness of Your loving-kindness.” Numbers 14:19a)

Even though they follow you to find your hiding places,
even though they memorize every shadow,
even though they look away when you pass,
even though never call--

What they love is far less than you possess.

Even when they throw their eolian axes,
even when they are dead-set against your phantoms,
even when they insist demons inhabit your groaning,
even when they do not share their air with you—

What they breathe would toxify your alpine breath.

Even now your heart is aching, hanging on,
like the last leaf on the tree near the end of November.
Even now your mind is racing, spinning wheels,
like cobbled spokes on a wooden buggy;
Even now your tears are hidden, budding out,
like the first rose of the season, life is in your eyes.
Even now your words are measured, immobile,
like a frog caught in your throat longing for the pond.

Even though the days labor slower than midafternoon,
even though the ice steals your hopes and freezes them dry,
even though the mask you wear was placed there by others,
even though they know not what they do—

What you fear is displacement.
But you,
you, are the beautiful, though pained;
the treasured, though stolen;
the rare, though overlooked by all except

The rest of us who have learned that to ache
with another
is the highest affection of all.

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.

To Those Who Only Pray

To Those Who Only Pray

(“I’ll put my Law within them and will write it on their hearts. I’ll be their God and they will be my people.” Jeremiah 31:33b)

Why follow around the latest train of thought
when deep in your own heart, within your finest mind,
the love that transcends every judgement is dwelling,
just waiting for you to use it.

We sing refrains, pray down the rain,
lay hands on the sick and practice singing
(except if we sit next to the last one to give us offense.)

Why keep praying for the one whose pain
has not abated in over a decade? If your prayer for healing
has not been answered,
could it be there is a different dance you are being asked to learn?

Please pray, but when the pain does not subside,
why continue to hide in your prayer closet while the
sufferer resides with his pain? One remarks, “I thought
God answered prayer.” And he replies, “I thought so too.”

What does the heart of God say when the disability threatens
to destroy the livelihood of one you’ve prayed for this long?
Have you visited him to hear his story?
Do you wither when you hear he is angry?
Who needed more faith? And so, with no promise,
he waves goodbye while the prayers keep humming.

Did you know you have within you
the love that can destroy mountains?
Did you know, planted in the heart of you,
there are treasures to give to the one who has gone

From anger, to depression, to
fully numb. Where has the love gone, and where
does it come from? Would you open your gifts
and sing to him on his blazing days? Would you open
your gifts and break bread with him on his darkening days?
Would you fend off judgement and fear, and simply listen to hear
the silence of the days when he is stunned into wordlessness?
Would you buy him a one way ticket home?

Hear the hurt without your doctor’s degree. Receive the story
without the gavel in your hand. Love his sorrow without the jokes
or aphorisms, the words that meant so little when your heart was
broken too. See his silence as the evidence that
he feels no one has listened to a word he said. Take his head
at face value.

Naturally, we want miracles. Miraculously, God gives us nature and
love that steps into the deepest pain; the pain our prayers have not broken,
and stays, simply stays

The way Jesus stayed on the cross of suffering,
and stays with us still when pain is unexplained by any
verse of scripture, any sharpened sermon, or platitudes the
faithful have memorized forever.

You, dearest friend, have the very presence of God written in your heart.
Go, see, cry, awake and be
the answer to the prayers that for a decade
you have sought.

Fig Trees, Foam Rubber and Forgiveness

Fig Trees, Foam Rubber and Forgiveness

“When you pray, if you remember anyone who has wronged you, forgive him so that God above can also forgive you. Mark 11:25

Imagine your life is a garden. You’ve planted rows of corn, green beans, tomatoes and other vegetables. You prepared the earth, broke up the clods, added the right fertilizer and placed the seeds in the proper lines. You look forward to a harvest to put on your table in the Fall.

But suppose that is all you did. In my world, that is exactly how gardening should be done. Plant the seeds, come back in a few weeks, put the produce in a basket and enjoy the benefits of your labor. Isn’t that how God does it? I have yet to see Him out and about in the forests making sure the evergreens are sprouting just right.

You see, I think that is part of why Jesus is so upset about a fig tree earlier in this story. Jesus and his disciples were on their way to Jerusalem and spotted a fig tree in full leaf, indicating it should also have fruit. Jesus was hungry, but there was no fruit on the tree. In fact Mark tells us that “fig season had not yet come.” Jesus pronounces a curse on the tree saying, “No one will eat fruit from your branches again.”

I know, that sounds harsh! So, hang with me here. Outwardly the tree showed every evidence that it was producing fruit. Yet, there was not a single sweet fig on the entire tree! Imagine the disappointment.

I can. Years ago I was a youth pastor in southern Oklahoma. The church had a reception to welcome us our first Sunday. So, we all gathered in the basement with everyone congregated around a table with silverware, plates, napkins and a beautifully decorated sheet cake. One of the board members gave me the ceremonial knife and asked me to cut the cake.

Starting in the middle, I ran the serrated edges down through the frosting and into the cake. Unfortunately, the dense cake resisted my efforts. As I sawed unsuccessfully the cake merely compressed under the blade. I wondered if it was angel food cake…the most difficult to cut in the world.

I continued trying to divide the cake with the knife, all the while pretending that nothing was wrong. I mean, someone had taken the time to bake it, there was no way I was going to insult them with a squirming look on my face trying to get through the first cut. So, as unobtrusively as I could, I continued to stab the resistant cake.

I started to notice the looks on the people’s faces. Were they laughing at me? What? Here I am, trying to be diplomatic about somebody’s shoddy cake baking and all I get is derision? What have I gotten myself into with this crowd? (Ok, you just caught two seconds of my inner monologue.)

That’s when the looks broke out into full-on giggles and hoots. The board member took the knife from me, scraped away a square of icing from the cake and showed me the problem. It wasn’t a faulty baker. The cake was a sheet of foam rubber! I laughed with everyone else. Who doesn’t like a prank at their own expense?

At that point I was ready for the “real” cake. Only problem, there wasn’t one. That was it, cake-cutting was over. I mean, this is the South, people. This is hospitality country…and there wasn’t a “real” cake?

I think I understand what Jesus must have been thinking when there wasn’t any “real” fruit on that fig tree.

The disciples notice later that the fig tree has withered to the roots and are amazed. Jesus tells them to trust God, and if they do, they can tell any mountain to throw itself into the sea, and, splash, that mountain takes a dive. “Whatever you pray for or ask from God, believe that you’ll receive it and you will,” he says. 

 Jesus then offers the most important "mountain" many of us need to pray away. He tells us to forgive others immediately when we pray. Withered trees. Swan diving mountains. Foam rubber cakes. Forgiving people who have wronged us. I think I see the connection.

Remember our garden? In the real world it needs to be tended, doesn’t it? A good gardener checks the plot regularly. Weeds must be removed, pests eliminated. Trees need to be pruned. An untended garden, no matter how well planted, will quickly be overrun with undesirable vegetation and will produce little to no fruit.

And so, we must tend our inner garden. We must remove the grudges that grow like weeds and prevent the fruit of God’s grace from coming to full maturity. We must actively forgive the  wrongs done against us as a way to remove the pesky pests of jealousy, bitterness and a host of other fruit-killers.

When you pray, the first order of business is forgiveness. Not your own, by the way. No, Jesus tells us forgiving others comes before asking for our own forgiveness. Isn’t that how it should be? I need the grace of God. I crave it. I cannot live without it. I am a parched man needing the cold springs of grace to quench my thirst.

How, then, knowing how needy I am, can I refuse the same refreshment that God in Christ has offered me? Let’s tend our gardens. Today, as you pray, imagine your heart as a garden, and ask the Holy Spirit to help you do a bit of weeding. Forgive. Today. Your own spiritual wellness depends on it.

help you do a bit of weeding. Forgive. Today. Your own spiritual wellness depends on it.

The Slow Descent of Years

The Slow Descent of Years

(“During those days He went out to the mountain to pray and spent all night in prayer to God.” Luke 6:12)

I have cried, I know You have seen it;
as autumn brings the slow descent of years.
Please (it is my ego’s petition) let me reach the end
with more than a sparsely sown field. My muscles
no longer ache,
I am in too much pain to use them.
But my soul has never hurt so deep while I wait
for just one more year of abundance. Battered
sometimes by words and reversed rhymes that
I never did see coming,
my hideaway is barely 12x12
and my prayers a shorter measure.

I have never loved You more, and yet,
in this final turn, though cheered on by many,
the blows I’ve taken over the years have left a deadly
scar I protect by letting the phone keep on ringing,
moving my mouth while others do the singing,
and resigning myself to my final fate; I wanted to
end better than this.

So, will You go to the mountain for me?
And, if I perhaps found the strength to hike halfway,
would You still meet me there? Would you show me
how to finish well, fill my swelling soul with so much more
than the mourning over memories?

So will You stay by the fountain with me;
though, like the Samaritan woman, I do not find my way there
till well into the afternoon?
And yet, I need you sooner. Certain of fewer doctrines,
and certain of no other options than the grace You
wooed me with, and the grace that will

Lead me home.

You Speak to Me

You Speak to Me

(“Then he (Jesus) went up on a mountain where he could be alone and pray. Later that evening, he was still there.” Matthew 14:23)

I don’t think I could stay there all night,
in fact, I tried once, and ended up eating donuts before dawn.
There is so much power,
so much I could tell if only I could keep my feet
on the final swell from midnight till daylight.
I don’t know why I could not stay longer
with the one who,
I don’t know why,
loved me. But my mind is a prison

Of carousels and mosquitos that demand my attention.
I could excuse my thinnest moments on Your invisibility,
yet I can imagine the length and breadth of love or passion,
debates and conversations that never end. Arguments I’ll
never resolve
play merry-go-round, beginning, end, middle and then
starting someplace or other again. And the insects gnaw at
my best intentions; buzzing like radar, stinging like zeroes
and biting the truth in two.

Yet the moments when, at last, the mechanics of my mind
brake uphill and stop turning, when the gates have closed and
all conversation ceases, the quiet is dense as chocolate cream.
Frightening silence when half a newspaper, swirled by the breeze,
interrupts my reverie. The moments when the firing neurons
take their nap and leave my tiny spirit alone, the whisper of truth
which had hovered there all along, takes me hostage untethered
to a hiding place of lucidness, a cavern lit from within;

Those are when, a minute, an hour now hardly matter. For
I have heard the words I quivered to know,
thought myself unworthy to know,
and bow down, or leap up, or walk about or seek the star;
all are the delight of the solitary moments when
You speak to me.