We Kept the Soup Warm

We Kept the Soup Warm

(“As the Lord had promised through Elijah, the bowl did not run out of flour nor did the jar run out of oil.” 1 Kings 17:16)

It took us so much longer than we planned.
We were ready to feed anyone who showed up
but our shoes were slow in the dusky ground.
Our resources were few,
our words even less,
we counted the heads, and we counted the eagles
that flew above the trees. They could see everything.
They said there could be snow in the morning,
they said it might turn to rain. They did not
push their narrative,
they only mentioned it as a percentage of
weather we saw yesterday.

It was no accident, and we kept the soup warm,
it was no frivolous expense of funds.
We trusted the bread into the hands
of children, we placed bowls and
slices in front of the elders who sang
old songs like echoes in a canyon.

We walked some of them home
along the river where the sun sets like
a bird diving in the water. The rainbows
slept for the night and our noses were cold
by the time we came back inside.

We washed the dishes, emptied the coffee,
wiped the tables, and mopped the floors.
We tried to sing the song we had heard,
the words were scattered across the room.

The Last to Leave

 

The Last to Leave

(“He had promised to give a lamp to David and his sons forever.” 2 Kings 8:19b)

Do you remember when you were the last to leave?
I wanted to show my heart, but not all of it.
Music wafted in from the next room
while small talk about big ideas
melted the distance between us.
I wanted you to see me clear, but not the corners.

Do you remember when you asked me where I bought my clothes?
I wanted to tell you thrift stores, but the best ones.
The places I shopped for t-shirts and 3-piece suits
smelled of dampness and sweat. You might not
have minded I guess.
I zipped my hoodie tighter, but not all the way.

Do you remember when you asked the last time I cried?
I wanted to be perfect, and so I lied. It was just before
we started our conversation.
I could write a thousand things and still not plumb the depths,
the reserve hidden at the bottom.
I wanted to cry when you asked, but got up for a coffee.

Do you remember when I returned with your espresso?
I wanted to impress you, show that I know you. Unlike
my silent self which I hid beneath poetry and song.
The dissidents in my brain claimed my last bit of resolve
and so I evolved into a domesticated animal.
I wanted the dark and light to be equal, but served the froth instead.

Do you remember when you were the last to leave
and I sat in the corner watching you lean into a new friend?
I wanted to die. I had denied myself and moved into
the shadows alone.
The very thing that frightened me, the thing that kept me caged,
was the thing you drank deeply as I watched your conversation.

And I had aged far too quickly. I lit my lamp partly.
I used up my energy deadlocking a room that consumed my thinking.
And I watched him, the same age as me, unleash his hiddenness
like a summer cloudburst. You were drenched while
I covered myself from the rain.

This is How

This is How

(“This is how the birth of Jesus the Messiah came about: His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit.” Matthew 1:18)

I don’t know how the angel felt, or if angels can feel at all;
to announce it, to unroll the scroll of the new and holy meeting
God would have with the waiting world. Though nearly every mother
dreamed
her baby boy, her firstborn, would be the one, the foretold Son

The Lord promised would bruise the serpent’s heel.

Though *YHWH promised, the prophets had announced in clearness
and shade, the coming and anointed One, the expectations ebbed and swayed
as days delivered less vital force and more simple hand-to-mouth tedium,
when God is acknowledge but seldom sought or begged.

Though *YHWH spoke, and the Word so rhythmic and poetic, was
passed down in every sacrifice sent to desolation, and every feast meant
for celebration. Perhaps the rythmns of life had rocked the holy longings
to sleep. Perhaps the beloved napped away the moment when *YHWH
sent the explosive message to two who loved, and pledged, and softly waited
their joyous wedding day and consummation.

Oh *YHWH, how uncommon are your plans. We stumble in circles at the
turns you manufacture and the dead ends where angels wrestle us,
rupture our hips and call it a blessing.

But we do not plan the journey, the journey plans us. And you sent,
perhaps a cold April,
your brightest announcement through an angel’s whisper
to a teenage miss who only knew to say “yes” when angels come
calling.

  

*Not to be enunciated when read aloud. Leave a pause.

One Mite of Grace

One Mite of Grace

(“It has been granted to you on behalf of Christ, not only to believe in him, but also to suffer on his behalf.” Philippians 1:29)

Time has frozen some of the machinery down,
other pieces are worn, gears ground, belts dry as parchment,
and oxidation fills the spaces between nuts and bolts and spacers.

Every joint which first swung freely creaks with effort, to begin
even half a younger man’s backswing. And the follow-through,
we once taught to others at the plate, stops before the shoulder
clicks
with every overhand throw.

I knew my calves would ache about now, my feet sore from standing,
I expected no supple angles, no ground touched with unbent knees.
But I still thought I would swing the racket, chase the high fly balls,
and hunt my slice buried near the adjoining fairway. The serves
would be slower; the drives
would be shorter, and I might make a muffled sound when
bending over to snatch the tee.

But, at 60, I never dreamed I would sit out my favorite play-times
altogether.

So, now I have pain. It never matters where the clock hands point;
the pain remains, and advances. The pain squeezes and takes more chances
with my thinking than I ever did
hoping to make the team. No one can see it, this intimate enemy,
and I rarely let it show, though its armies bombard my cranium
and set fires within my head.

My Loving Jesus, yet and then; is this my promised suffering?
How will it help, now and friend; to paint You beautiful when I barely
sing for minutes before the volume must cease altogether?

And not only me, Sweetest Sovereign, but soulmates who cannot still
rise from their beds. Pain and its alliances have nailed them prone
and tossed them alone. Careers and income blown away; the
dead leaves of dying trees: Shade and Proud.

If our suffering is a gift indeed; let us breathe the mercy
and refuse to waste one mite of grace today.