Barely Touching Beauty

Barely Touching Beauty

(“We are ruled by Christ's love for us.” 2 Corinthians 5:14a)

The neighborhood dogs come out to play
on days this bright in February light. The ones in pens
bark their intention of joining in.
Sweatshirts give way to t-shirts stored since September,
the clouds are thin, the sky is reachable,
the breeze has taken the day off, holding its breath
until the next storm finds its way upriver, the front
moving the water ahead,
the back pushing the sea lions along.

A mom and her daughter stop midday
to make lunch for the elderly man who once
was sharp and clever. His wit and good nature
have withered with his health.
Why do we hang this skin on bones,
why do we age so fatly and fade so thin?
Machines push air through tubes into our nostrils,
the noise they make sounds like lungs hung outside the body.
Where are the people who pledged their money to
keep the church afloat when he was their shepherd.
Where are the pledges, where are the alleged gospel
followers
who cannot wait to see the world converted? Did he
assert mercy too deeply? Did he sink the shaft of
grace divine
into the muck of everyday lives? And EMTs
now tend to the one who tended souls in love.

A friend sits by the bed,
his head full of all the stories they have shared.
Both knew the wonder of barely touching beauty
as they lifted children in their arms,
seeing the blue eyes of one, green and brown of others,
who broke the water from death to life.
Both knew the spears that struck their hearts might
take a lifetime to heal.

While the bald eagles fly, we on the ground are
left to rely on each other.
Even canned chili in the hands of a friend
can end the grieving for a season.

With The Shadows Chased Away

 

With The Shadows Chased Away

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty; the sun’s oppressive heat will not beat down on them, for one who has compassion on them will guide them; he will lead them to springs of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

One day we will lay down the bricks we used to build the walls,
one day we will dance until the tyrants fall,
one day we will plow the fields in sun and rain,
one day we will give away every crop and every grain.

And so, we watch the clouds swallow the hilltops,
loading up for more showers to paint the skeletal trees
with life again. We hear a single drone inspecting the
fields where the cattle graze.
We remember the voice of a friend who
wasn’t sure winter would be over soon enough.
And we wanted to rush the season along.

But as soon as the sun shines again
we will see it all. With the shadows chased away
because the throne is the light in the middle of it all
there will be no hiding in the dark,
no shadows to conceal the harsh asides,
the cruel remarks,
that bruised the sweetest fruit waiting to be vinified.

One day we will picnic again like we did on cloudless days,
one day we will sing until the dead are raised,
one day we will reap the grace sown with our tears,
one day we will give away all the pain and all our fears.

November 2

 

November 2

(“You have encircled me; you have placed your hand on me.” Psalm 139:5)

Pick a day of the week or choose
a season.
Walk the sleeping fields where the cut alfalfa
hugs the loam. Breathe the autumn air, both
gloomy and inviting. Watch the leaves barely
awake,
the last of the year. Gone from green to oxblood
and orange, they hang on until the last breath sends
them
fluttering like messages from the gods. The
fog carpets the hills, a screen behind which
the lady-in-waiting prepares for
the coming spring.