For Your Aching Wounds

For Your Aching Wounds

(“Surely there is some medicine in Gilead. Surely there is a doctor in Gilead. So why are the wounds of my people not healed?” Jeremiah 8:22)

I awoke to the same pain that plagued me day after day,
a heart pain, a soul pain, longing for awakening.
There it was, after all this time, an offer for healing in
the middle of tears flowing like rain. Oh, how little faith
must I have to
imagine
Jesus asleep in the boat while the storm rages.
Jesus laughing with friends while I feel unhealed.
I have plenty to eat but feel I am starving. (Can the
reader relate?) Are your hands splintered from pulling
too hard at the oars? Are you bruised from the hilts
and hints of swords? Are you weary from the way
the pebbles soar from the sling?

There is a balm for your aching wounds. There is
a salve for the open hurts that linger too long.
There is a day when healing arrives on the wings
of a love too transparent to ignore. Once there was a time
when we ignored the kindness divine that flooded
heaven and earth,
but now we have nearly drowned in the mercy flowing
from hills to dells and taste the offering of hope.

We shift and turn our aching tunes toward the one
who has changed our name to fit the family we nearly
walked away from. All the broken ones stand in
amazement and find the healing promised to
every son of daughter of the white sands of an
endless sea.

A Better Vocabulary

A Better Vocabulary

(“Now no discipline seems to be joyful at the time, but grievous. Yet afterward it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness in those who have been trained by it.” Hebrews 12:11)

I hear from somewhere beyond the hills,
there is revolution in the air. There is movement
that turns the breeze away from nascent factories
to cedars spreading their aroma across the valley.

I found myself hiding behind the window
wondering if anyone
could see me at all.

I hear there is a renovation on the beach,
a multi-level casino, or maybe a resort. It
could bring in millions and employ locals for
a few years.

I don’t know if it is true; I find myself doubting
my purest thoughts. Sandy oceans sometimes pull
me out to sea. I’ll swim parallel to the shore to
find my way home.

I hear there is repeat performance in the park,
a group of friends who learned a few songs together.
They hadn’t spoken to each other in years until one asked
“Do you know this tune?”

I think it is true. They invited me to play, though
I had to learn the music for the first time. I had to
play the lead guitar on my keyboard sounding like a
Hammond B3.

I fear from somewhere in my past,
there is a reunion planned like rain. The last time we
met the words were hot, the words were iron, the words were
hidden beneath un-sunny dispositions. I don’t know why
it needs to be this way.

But I would attend. I can constrain the polyrhythms
for a day. I can coat the syllables with intentional goodness,
I can refrain from rehearsing our old ambitions.
You’ve hit the rocks, I’ve hit bottom. We both know
a better vocabulary by now.

There Was No Sea

There Was No Sea

(People won’t say ‘Look, here it is’, or ‘Look, over there!’ No: God’s kingdom is within your grasp.” Luke 17:21)

It was New Year’s Eve and I
was determined to meet the beginning
with knees bowed all night. I was nineteen.

I asked the pastor, “Can you lock me in the church?”
“Overnight, I mean.” Impressed with my spiritual hubris,
after our watchnight service
he turned the key to make the church safe
and showed me how to exit in the new sun morning.

I was determined to meet the beginning
with stomach rumbling. I started the fast the previous morning.
I read books, book after book, and knew that God
always
showed
up
when people were serious about skipping a meal or so.

The night started like brushes on a snare-drum playing
60s club jazz. I was glad I was going to do what no one
else wanted to do, though I was not proud about it. I
just wanted to put in the effort.

The sea was red only one night I remember when
friends pointed me past the breakers where the algae bloomed.

This night there was no sea, no mountain, no slippery waterfall
to climb and no music to pass the time. So I prayed. Then stood up.
Ten minutes in I said everything I wanted to say and wondered how
God could possibly be impressed by my short-windedness.

The Santa Monica Pier was a place where homes of embedded barnacles
embellish the pilings. Buskers played for money above,
teenage couples practiced kissing below.

This night there was only a linoleum floor, no melodies, no creatures,
no hippies and no lovers. There was only me, a teenager singly trying
to make God show up. And not for experience’s sake, I had a backpack
full
I wanted to unload. There was a library there, a turnstile of paperbacks
mostly about doctrine and victorious living. I picked one I hoped would
allow me to leave, finally, as a conqueror.

I have never possessed a string of pearls, nor discovered one in an oyster.
I knew they were made when the oyster felt itchy, and I was itchy
For an experience with God.

But not that itchy.

Hours passed, I read book after book, interspersed with repeated prayers
(though I was sure God hadn’t forgotten what I said by my third go around.)
Two hours in, two in the morning, and my faith felt as alive as shorn hair
at the feet of a barber’s chair.

I slept on a pew, though I vowed to stay awake. I read, though my eyes
began to ache. I prayed, shorter and shorter (and had visions of steak.)
I knew nothing about listening; don’t know much now. So I called my
girlfriend (quite early on that New Day). She came quickly and whisked me
away
To Winchell’s donuts where I ate chocolate greedily and with shame.

The evening began like a jazz trio and today I know better, so I let God
say whatever he will through the wandering bass, the ravenous piano
or the frugal drums merely marking time.