Final, First

 

Final, First

 

(“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the Way and the Truth and the Life. No one comes to the Father, except through me.’” John 14:6)

 

On the face of it some of creation is unrecognizable,
incognito, and hidden. On the face of it we rarely know
without closer inspection what is concealed behind the rind.

 

“One orange and you’ve seen them all,” is all wrong.
One day flips to another like a king to a deuce in a
deck of cards.
“One faith looks like all others.” is likely untrue.
One prayer turns on a wheel and another has lit candles.

 

One word learned is a new boundary to explore,
one lost friend is knocking at the door,
two ragged dogs wet from the cold
and three trees bearing fruit one hundredfold. 

 

Family seeks its own level,
the Father sent his own,
family loves the gentle and rebels,
the Father sent his Son.

 

I see you, Father, in the feet of your Son,
browned by the glare and scraped by the sand.
I see you, Father, in the hands of your Son,
calloused and strong, careful where the lonely people planned
to see a warrior, a king, an emperor, a lord. I see you, Father,
in every tear of your Son, weeping like waterfalls,
grateful like showers on a rose, seeking the dug-in
and the soaring
before morning gives way to dusk.

 

The mountains are refuge, the thunder your love,
the lightning your whisper, the sun the remnant of
primal light that fills you, fills all, fills shadows and
corners,
wedding and mourners awaiting the day
when all is in all; the Son, the Father, the Spirit
in heavenly dance
unite all creation in higher, deeper,
final, first, and eternal
song.

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

They Say Water Seeks its Own Level

(“But whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never thirst again; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.” John 4:14)

They say water seeks its own level.

The sun swung above us hugging the ragged horizon
as we ascended the narrow trail. It warmed our shoulders
like a shirt just ironed on an autumn day.

We were three as we trod the hardpan and wound our way
between stands of lodgepole pine. The sun followed us,
still kind as midmorning turned to noon.

We ate homemade trail mix, dried fruit and rinds,
enjoyed the pace, the breeze, the river below us
and the climb.

Our music was acoustic, our laughs the lyrics,
the birds our musicians, and our lungs worked full time
to sing and to climb.

What are friends? Travelling trios on an isolated footpath,
sharing the moment the sun takes its toll.

Parched, dry as aged wood fences,
our throats stung for refreshment as we tilted our canteens.

Warm, but clear, the water soothed us for a moment,
seconds of the hour; we were young, we were fine.

But once we stumbled; no, discovered. Once we happed upon
a rivulet meandering across our path and the spring above
which was its source, our tepid drink was forgotten

As we, each in turn, tilted our faces below the icy stream
that sprang from the rocks and wrapped our mouths, our
arms, our torsos, our minds completely around the unexpected offering.

We emptied our canteens there, puddling across the path,
and filled them from the slow trickle that broke through the granite.
We waited without time, the sun aligning with the river below
creating silver dancers where water and air barely kiss. We knew
what all hikers know;

The water is free, abundant, and pure. The spring would continue,
though snow filled the trails, and next year, or the year after that

We could return to find the pristine refreshment, the sacrament, the
grace.

They say water seeks its own level. Older now than young once was,
three hikers scattered across the continent and time
may think, in the same late moment of the day
of water that bore the mixture of earth and divine.