Of Bread and Music

Of Bread and Music

(“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats this bread will live forever, and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” John 6:51

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been asking for a rhyme
to bring me closer to another soul like mine. Recent years have left me
frightened of conversation and forays into the depths of contemplation about
God and sunsets and music and the proper tempo to play a hymn.
My abilities have wavered as my fingers bend and tremor. Not
that anyone can tell, but I know my fine motor skills are no longer
fine and have left me with less skill.

But the trio invited me to join them as I walked into the bar
a midday Thursday afternoon. Two women with voices of angels,
one husband, a kind man, buys me a beer. We sit and talk music
and I’m invited to join a group of ukulele students with me on
keyboards. Recent years have left me skittish of forays where my
mistakes can be readily discerned. I’m a music reader and have
never played by ear well. I need to see it and from there it transmits
to my fingers. But they have been left dormant for so long they
miss the keys and come down between them in discordant half tones.

But the urge still moves me, while anxiety pumps the breaks.
To gather around picnic tables and share bread and wine,
steaks and beer, or anything else brought by the few who
(I hear) are as anxious as me.

Could there be angels surrounding us as we pass the
food down the line?
Could there be divine messengers listening in to our
musical etudes and attempts? Could our small talk be
a tactical vest to protect us from blushing at our inadequacies?
Whatever it is, and whatever we hear, whatever we eat, and
whatever we drink,
let’s let make music of heaven sink into our closed-mouth
inhibitions.

Note to the Reader

Note to the Reader

(Those whom the Lord has paid for and set free will return. They will come to Zion with singing. Joy that lasts forever will crown their heads. They will be glad and full of joy. Sorrow and sad voices will be gone. Isaiah 35:10)

A day and a half in bed,
the pain battered my body until it finally gave in
and would not move into the morning beams across the sheets.
Though I tried; brushed my teeth, combed my hair, my body
refused to rise longer than it took to put my toothbrush down.

Over ten years creeping to my office,
calling dear ones, reading with half my understanding
hiding behind my skull.
Writing sermons for a sunny Sunday,
and laying in bed on every Saturday,
I was cornered by the hammers that never relented,
that bulldozed the memories of the epoch

Before the pain.
Calls at 2 a.m. and racing to the hospital.
The homeless friends whose needs never end,
the hope that the next home I visited would laugh
at my mistakes.

But this time, this church, this pastor had no ease, forced humor,
and fewer friends because the moments he battled the pain were split
between the neediest,
and his need for naps. Vacations were spent on couches
with his children,
or in bed in the Caribbean. The beach could wait until the pain
might abate.

He burned more energy, saw fewer people, prayed fewer minutes,
left early and arrived late; all to conserve the quarter tank allotment of
every single day.

He cried more than he laughed. He stumbled more than he led.
He wanted someone to see him, see him as he was;
a brittle body with a head on fire and a soul thinner than onion skin.
He wanted a friend to simply take his hand, stroke his head,
sit in silence, offer him wine, bake him bread, not be offended
when he said

He wasn’t clear where his faith had gone these days. The more he
prayed
the more the pain
pulled the skin tighter over his head.

And so he left the only thing he ever loved. He resigned. He moved.
And spent this last weekend; Saturday and half of Sunday; in bed.

Note to the reader: Perhaps the Scripture and poem do not match. That is the point, I think. For my present experience belies my belief that my purpose has not diminished, though the disabling pain increases. I am not without hope. I am weary, torn, lonesome and no longer tempted to lie so people will not worry about my spiritual state. For this last season of my life, I shall be, attempt to be, attempt always to be, truly real.