Maybe It’s Because

Maybe It’s Because

(“I have given strength to a warrior; I have raised up a young man from my people.” Psalm 89:19b)

Maybe it’s because time is catching up with me;
maybe it’s because I remember my youth only yesterday;
maybe it’s time to admit that memory is sometimes a thief.

Because I’d be there in a moment if you called;
because we were coated with primes and pastels;
because we left the door open to let in the rain.

I can reach further back than my first named love.
I can sing raggedly of my first bottle of wine.
I can see beyond a young man’s strength and spend
the afternoon wondering why it lingered so long.

Maybe the images are murky, falling so far behind me;
maybe it’s only the fragrances I’ve forgotten;
maybe we paced down main street after midnight.

Because I once could run a relay backwards;
because I once could play football in the mud;
because the summers were hot while the A/C whined.

I can rarely see the difference between love and loss.
I can cancel plans without giving it a moment’s thought.
I can playfully suggest we get together for drinks
and act like every day is a portal to something new.

I never worried about getting the last laugh;
I usually found the humor hidden beneath our words.
I would call and invite you over if only you did not live
two time zones away.

I might stick my neck out and suggest that when
we were young
we were holding our
options open. And now we are old and wondering
if our life insurance is paid.

But all that matters, all that shatters our illusions of
grandeur
is a gentle whisp of a wind that reminds us of summers
easily passing into autumn.

Laughed at the Dream

Laughed at the Dream

(“You did it: you changed wild lament into whirling dance; You ripped off my black mourning band and decked me with wildflowers.” Psalm 30:11 [The Message])

I couldn’t stand at the back; they had put me in charge
so I waited until all the singing was done to begin the
morning lecture. But I was muddled, I was muggy, I was
unprepared, I was disarrayed. I wished I had stayed home
to protect my unsteady hands.

It was five minutes before twelve and my time was almost
gone. I had not even begun. I wasted eons wrestling with
technology I had carefully tested twice and more. The microphone
went silent, the images swarmed the screen. The words would
not come. The room had been full, but some stood and
began to leave. Long-term friends were sitting in the
front row and they began to follow the exiting few.
But she, the wife, urged him to stay and I finished my
time merely a minute late. I do not remember what I said and
few of the faces that left me unrecognized.

But old friends I hadn’t seen in decades waited for me
in the lobby just to shake my hand. Most others were out
the door quickly to their appointed reservations for brunch.

I went home winded. I was surprised at my disabilities that day.
But I put on music by Dylan, then listened to some Cohen. I wished
I had more Stevie Ray Vaughn to play. But as the day counted down
to evening the drapes on my heart were hopefully opened.

It was only a dream, I said. It was nothing new. I did a quick
review and realized I was probably right. The smile I had misplaced
found my feet moving like raindrops on the sidewalk.

So, I stepped outside into the fading day and laughed
at the dream
that previously would have made me cry.

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

Do You Remember the Fireflies?

(“The Son of Man will come again just as lightning flashes from east to west.” Matthew 24:27)

It was unlikely the way it all happened at once.
We were walking next to the fields where the cattle grazed,
the river in the distance, the clouds slightly amazed at the
unseen winds that whipped the trees like buttery churns.
We had wondered what the day would bring, what would
occur between the horizons from east to west. There were
challenges that kept us up late the night before and crept
towards us so plainly we recognized it right away.
We had heard a dozen rumors over the years, hints that
this cacophony would reorganize itself once we recognized
the signs.

It was never meant to be secret or merely hinted at.
It was always going to be announced like a procession across the skies.

Do you remember the fireflies on warm summer nights?

Lately I’ve been thinking how much it costs to keep defending
hazardous beliefs that harm the hearts of those who hear them.
Oh that we could feel the warm the same way the cold has
infiltrated our bones. Are there missiles bearing down on us?
And what is their payload? Could they be carriers of hope
and a panoply of star-drenched prophecies fulfilled?

It's taken us a long time to get here, this hike around the world.
We imagined things might be tied up by now,
the signs and signals capturing all our fears. But
instead
we find ourselves dousing the toxic fumes from
the fires from self-described holy men. They have
mapped it all and know every turn and every date.
Believe them, they will show it to you for a monthly
contributions.

We remain vigilant and poised for peace. We remain
outspoken as we scan the skies for a renaissance of
heavenly love.

How the Universe Winks

How the Universe Winks

It was easier when the boxes were new,
special delivery left on the front porch
left no doubt of the sender’s intentions.
Time has
warped the containers and I cannot
find the
reminders of words I wrote to faces I
barely remember.
I never asked for refunds, only something to
exchange
to take the place of silence that has
worn me out.
People who barely know me wave
as I walk by,
but the ones that cradled my heart are at
the bottom of a storage container in the
garage, musty as cardboard, gritty as
8 track recordings.
Remember when we sang like we
knew how the universe winked?
Remember how we hid our shy inhibitions
behind every verse?

It was clearer when the fog rolled it
making the air touchable, making our cheeks
sweat.

Do you remember when we paid little attention to
babies
until we had our own,
until they had their own? Do you miss
finding scented envelopes in the mail?

Wishing for the Doula

Wishing for the Doula

I do not remember the moment, but my mother did.
She is no longer with us, so I cannot ask her again.
Like most births (and I was her first) it was a mess of
blood and tissue, anticipation and pain. I know I
kept her up all night,
arriving sometime around 2 a.m.
I do not remember going home the first time,
or the house where I was nursed and fed.
I know it was Marlin, TX, but I’ve never been there,
and perhaps never will. Scratch that,
of course I was there, helplessly bound to a
newborn’s memory. I depend on my parents’ stories
to remind me of my origin.

I am not sure I remember, either, the moment the Spirit
blew through me like
hot Texas wind. I am not sure the time when I first heard
the breeze circle around me pushing thunder and clouds
around my soul like
storms playing handball between hills and rivers.
I do know, however, the few times I have shuddered,
the handful of fingers that caressed my face, and felt
just like
a mother’s touch answering my tiny cry for cuddles
and swaddling.

I cannot recollect if, after all the labors, womb to
headfirst appearance, I had been born at all. Again,
I would read the inscriptions left for me
almost 7 decades ago, to find a story that meshes
with my mood.

You can call it flame, you can call it rebirth,
you can call it water, you can call it wind,
you can call it natural, you can call it divine,
you can call it anything you want if you have enough time.

I’m
only wishing for the doula to remind me
what it meant to be born once, or twice, or ever,
or at all.

Just Outside Your Gated Community

Just Outside Your Gated Community

(“Child, remember that during your lifetime you received good things, whereas Lazarus received terrible things. Now Lazarus is being comforted and you are in great pain.” Luke 16:25b)

It is the worst kind of danger to hear the beggar at the door and
keep on eating your lamb chops and your double chocolate cake, all washed down
with tankards of champagne.
It is the heinous dis-hearing. It is the disheartened ignorance. It is the
fourth story suite that makes the silence complete. You know he is there,
but now you cannot hear his cries of hunger. You can only see the dogs
licking his open wounds while you suck the repast’s grease from your fingers.
You have saturated your blood vessels so completely that
your fine dining will leave you dying within months. A change in menu
might solve
your issues and his.
But you turn the music up louder, the songs from your teens that once
meant everything to you. A forgotten love. An easy day along the sea.
A comrade in arms when you lived on rations and hunted rabbits to
supplement your meager provisions. It was sport for you. You never knew
true hunger.

But he does, just outside your gated community. Didn’t someone tell you
about him?
Did you dismiss him as just another vagrant trying to make a buck without
putting in a single day’s work?

I saw him yesterday, just a block from your home. His eyes were bright,
his gait was labored, his breath was shallow and he winced with every step.
He was relentless. Life and death could happen within the same moment
for him.
I gave him what I had and hoped you would give him more from you
monstrous stores.

The next day I rang at your gate. I hoped to placate the antimony
that had taken the place of your heart. They told me you were gone,
your residence was empty, your soul was somewhere below.

I wished no harm to you. But damn it! He did not need to die:
And you could have seen to that.
But damn it! You did not need to die, and he could have helped
with that.

Live awhile in the flames of your choices. He is comforted as never before.
One day the kingdom may redraw the designs we think prove that we
have it all.

Stand outside your gate before it is too late. Learn his name. The one he
has now. Not the one before he had a face.
Listen to his story. You may both find your thirst quenched
this side of death.

I Remember Boarding a Train

 I Remember Boarding a Train

“Daniel went to…his friends…so that they might request compassion from the God of heaven concerning this secret.” Daniel 2:18)

I remember boarding a train to nowhere but
it still headed straight north.
The steel spun and clattered on the rails like
Ezekiel’s angels with faces and chariot wheels.
I had embarked on a journey
hoping to change the world.
The scenery was foreign to me,
the night descended like a dragon’s cave
and we wondered where the mood would take us
that had begun with such enthusiasm.

Riding it for three years (or so it seems)
I lost a traveling companion for each one.

A friend who knew laughter and told the
same stories over and over again. And still
I listened.

My sister, frail but stony, it had been ages since
we rode the country together. And days before
Christmas
she finally sighed. I left the train behind and flew
to her family, my family, three nephews, one niece,
and a great-great nephew with a smile like hers.

My classmate, my beloved Hermia. A friend who
made the sunrise giggle and could make an entire room quiet
as she spun her tales. 50 years ago we were teenage
super friends
and 50 years later the same. She suffered and
she suffered well. To the last her eyes inhaled every
friendship she ever had.

I remember boarding a train to San Francisco but
stayed on it for two round trips. What could we find
on the streets and hills but steep houses and leftover
frills in Haight Ashbury? Our stories filled the silver car
until we finally disembarked to watch

Street-performing mimes and grab some pizza.

We were not sure we knew the answer, we are not sure
now
if we changed the world.
But none of us are the same, riding and going
nowhere
together.

Like Rustic Bread

Like Rustic Bread

(“But he said to them, ‘You give them to eat.‘” Luke 9:13a)

Remember when we used to meet for lunch;
Denny’s, Round Table or the shop on Monument Boulevard
with 50 kinds of hamburgers? Meals were
our sacrament.

Remember the pizzas we ate hurriedly halfway through
dress rehearsals? We never thought
two dollars
could go so far.

Remember picnics in the shade and
the dogs misbehaving while we protected the
potato salad
from ants on the ground and the sun in the sky?

Remember the bottle of Almaden when we
could afford it? Otherwise, it was Boone’s Farm.
With the stream singing in the ravine
the birds harmonized in the tree above our
makeshift eucharist.

These days I am shy about
dinner invitations. I am less sure.
Conversation is pizzicato in my trembling fingers.
Blood rushes to my face
belying the uncertainty of gravity.

Do you remember sitting in grand circles
waiting for all the relatives to arrive at the
memorial? It was January and the roads were
frictionless. The friends of the departed
did not mind the extra time.
The food never stopped, and our laps were
precariously full in
the great hall
where coffee was poured all night.

I would give anything to be
brave enough again
to break off part of my heart
like rustic bread
and entrust it into your hands.

On Keeping Score

 

On Keeping Score

(“Then Samson called to the Lord, ‘Almighty, please remember me! God, give me strength just one more time! Let me get even with the Philistines for at least one of my two eyes.’” Judges 16:28)

Tell me what I do not know,
show me what wells up like mud
from a storm drain. And we shall
call it
god.

More or less,
strength is not in hair or prayer,
thick arms or armaments,
ornaments or hurricanes,
certainty or artillery.
A thousand battlegrounds filled to the brim
cannot replace an eye or help you begin again.

 Because we have heard it said an eye for an eye,
we have seen it played so loud an ear for an ear,
we have forced the issue until everyone is dead.

Instead we are invited to offer the cheek,
to trudge an extra mile,
to take off our shirt
and give it to the thief who stole our coat
right off our backs.
Not exactly a winning strategy.

We should let our hair grow long again,
rehearse the vengeance prayer again
until god finally answers and the pillars
fall again
while the waters mourn with blood.

Or we can lose our taste for keeping score,
stop wasting our moments in violence and storms,
roll out the carpet for villains and ruffians,
set the table for democrats and republicans.

“Almighty Lord, please remember me,”
until I remember the newer words that replace
hotheaded folklore and
contested cold wars
with postwar restoration and
renewed adoration of the King
of kings
who opened the temple doors
to saints and sinners,
losers and winners,
Americans
and
Philistines.

The First Shot

The First Shot

(“Then Peter remembered that Jesus had said, `Before the cock calls, you will say three times that you do not know me.' Then Peter went out and cried very much.” Matthew 26:75)

I understand what you did.
I understand why you did it.
Your leader was threatened.
You had a permit for open carry.
They came looking for him like a common criminal.
They came to arrest him warrantless and illegal.
It was dark and he was vulnerable.
He was unarmed, and you could protect him.
It was dark and you took the first shot.
Barely missed the head-shot and took out an ear.

But then he finally spoke: “Stop! If you keep pulling your gun,
you’ll die by a bullet one day.”

You slunk back into the blue night and watched them
take him away.

I understand what you did.
I understand why you did it.
Your kingdom was falling.
You had the coin of the realm in hand.
They turned to bottle caps you thought you were winning.
They turned to worthless stock and your mind went whirling.
It was cold and you were shivering.
You were undone, weak, and unprotected.
It was cold and she took the first shot.
Spot on, “You were with him”. The earshot landed.

But then the rooster crowd thrice: “I know you will say
you do not know me at all.” And you were not sure you knew
him
at all anymore.

You slunk back into the red night and wept with
nothing left to stand for.

Disaffected Days

Disaffected Days

(“I, even I, am the One Who takes away your sins because of Who I am. And I will not remember your sins.” Isaiah 43:25)

The water sounded sweet as black earth,
the sand was sun-warmed and loose between our toes
when we ran to meet the waves head-on;
the hair on our arms and legs standing on end
when the Pacific grabbed our breath the first day
of each summer.

A blond-haired beach-boy played the flute solo
from “California Dreamin’”, where the sand and
asphalt met.
He sat on a driftwood hunk of an old tree trunk,
maybe from the islands, probably from Newport,
and every pretty girl watched him while I wished
I had a tan like his.

Some days it didn’t matter at all, like when Paco, his
brothers and my young white legs took one of the next
Saturdays that summer; probably Huntington Beach.
His dad drove the old pickup, faded green with tires
in the bed. Five boys in trunks and towels had the
best view of the freeway all the way to our day in the sun.
We held our burritos between our feet. The stayed warm,
wrapped in wax paper, aluminum foil and hidden in
brown paper bags. Paco’s mom was a magician;
last night’s supper of potatoes and pork were our
midmorning breakfast in the back of the rattling
Ford.

My best friend was my worst enemy; I do not lie.
One moment we were ranking girls in our junior-high classroom,
the next he pinned me in a telephone booth, blackened me eye,
all because he was bigger than me.

Perhaps our final touchdown after half a dozen orbits,
or, if we’re truly ambitious, a trip to the moon,
perhaps our final splashdown has more to do
with pick-up trucks, tanned flautists, and friends
(or enemies) we never forget. Like the taste of

Those roast potatoes, stringy pork, tangy sauce,
all wrapped up by Paco’s mom in the sweetest
flour taco a young man ever tasted.

If I could find her today, nearly a half-century later,
I ask if she had just one more burrito, the kind with
pork and potatoes.

Don't Forget

“So Midian was under the rule of Israel; they did not cause trouble anymore. And the land had peace for forty years, as long as Gideon was alive.” Judges 8:28

Mr. Gideon was a farmer who God picked out to defend his territory and hometown Ophrah from the Midianites. The primary portion that has crept into everyday language from this narrative is the idea of “casting fleeces” before God. You can read it in the preceding couple of chapters in the book of Judges.