My Practice Session

My Practice Session

(“God wants you to silence stupid and ignorant people by doing right.” 1 Peter 2:15)

I must admit my practice session did not go well.
Right notes
in the
wrong locations.
Rests where they did not exist and a
panic I would miss the next measure of
quarter notes on the upbeat. I would try
to catch up with the voices by the next
turn of phrase.

But they brag on me just the same,
and I feel the shame of someone who receives
what they do not deserve. If only I spent more time
on the difficult passages,
taught my fingers to move in ways they were not accustomed to.

I am my own worst critic, but I know they can hear the patches
where I fumble, where the time is broken into shards on
the ambient air. I would rather show up to rehearsal with
every bar perfected like the vineyard’s best wine.

I suppose I can hide my fumbling fingers beneath the
beats of the snare that fills the voids where I forget
where I was headed. Maybe by the end we will be an
ad hoc wedding of the drum kit, bass, and my tentative
tempo. The staccato notes run away from me sometimes and
the drummer only stares. We laugh when it is over and
start again to see if we can keep the time.

I say all this only because I feel the need to let you know
I am much better about making it up in my head than I am
about transferring it to my fingers. My handwriting is
nearly illegible. I hope my beats will be readable.

The Silence Spoke Volumes

The Silence Spoke Volumes

(“(He) gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” 1 Corinthians 11:24)

The moment was intimate, the silence spoke volumes,
yet we felt like strangers, caught beneath the weight of his words.
There was a line that went out from him through all of us,
there were tears unbidden for we knew not why they came.
There were days we were so obtuse we missed the meaning
by miles.
But tonight we felt so helpless, like we should have grasped the meaning,
we should have joined in the metaphor,
we should have pieced the parable together.

We did take the bread, that was the custom. It was his words that
caused our confusion. We remembered the words that
admonished us before for missing the point. What should
we say now?
We were better off silent.

It was subliminal, it was suggested and silent but
when the bread was broken, we could not understand
how the body was his bread, how the bread was his body,
and now, the silent part, we were also broken and given.

Our throats were frozen, our words garbled, our vocabulary
suddenly so limited we could choose no coherent response.
We sat in the moment and could not dream a future without
him breaking bread with us again. Was that what he was hinting?
We could not conjure a memory that would invade our quiet
misunderstandings.

You asked us to remember, a simple act we thought we could do.
We had not planned on you leaving so soon.
But, if you are given for us, break us open like bread to
spread us across the meadows and plains to help others
remember you, here and there, again.

Teach Me Silence

Teach Me Silence

(“Those who want to be rich are falling into temptation and into a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires, which plunge them into ruin and destruction.” 1 Timothy 6:9)

Can I learn more about you, the silence between
the commercial rants and conversational winds?
Do I need to listen to every interview with the next
entrepreneur hawking what I never needed but want
just the same?
Can I conquer this need for occupation,
can I slow down my mind?
What of the hands on the clock that mark my hours
more slowly than the day? What of the tremor I feel
just wanting to get out of my skin? If I could
buy everything (retail or closeout) how much
quieter would I seem? I don’t say much, but my
brain unsteadily steams like the iron wheels of a train.

I’ve never had much money,
don’t know where I’d shop if did. Maybe the
minutes would tell me how to satisfy these desires.
Maybe the hours would empty my treasure chest
buried closely to the line where land and sea meet.
Maybe my heart would beat to the rhythm of the waves,
and maybe I would be still long enough to know
I have everything that I need.

The fingerprints of the world are whorled on
my transparent brain. I never wipe them clean. They
inform me of everything like rafts
carrying pelts from northern excursions. I inspect
every one but leave them for someone else to purchase.

Take me silence, teach me stillness. I’ll lay my
yearning aside for an hour of solitude, though I barely
talk
to anyone all day. Is there a word in the center of me
that can define my cravings? I’ve run out of energy
and no longer pursue them. But they still occupy my
thinking every day.

Meet me, find me in the middle of my sentences that
trail on for hours at a time. Unpack my density,
my destiny seems to be wound up and tangled like
vines in the middle of a rose garden. Meet me
finally where I can hear only silence waiting for
me.

When the Silence Invades

When the Silence Invades

(“’Comfort, comfort my people,’ says your God.” Isaiah 40:1)

When the silence invades your disquieted heart
find a place where words are weightier than
the solid rain that preoccupies your spaces of pain.
There is Spirit that speaks to the troubled fields where
chariots once charged. There is clear sky where the
clouds of thunder once erupted. There are donors of
friendship to open the ears deafened by muzzled
quiet withholding conversation.

You could read aloud, turn the volume higher.
You could strum the strings of so many spare
instruments lining your room. But something,
(a broken brick wall?) something keeps you from
standing to tune them, sitting to practice,
swaying as you play them. And the silence only
infiltrates your uneasy understanding.

There are songs I used to sing for days on end.
I would sing them to you if my voice hadn’t aged.
Some sound like cabernet,
some sound like whiskey,
some sound like babble,
some like unending rhymes.

There are phone numbers that I remember from
high school. No one lives there anymore, no one answers.
Nothing lasts forever, nothing sleeps all day.
Nothing hides unbidden, nothing knows the time.
Everything is within arm’s reach,
everything is sadder when the quiet is unrelentless.

The good news is, the Spirit whispers,
and keeps me company through the afternoon.
I’ll share the words, I’ll pour out my heart,
I’ll take some of the silence that has muted your day,
and turn it into words on a page, and turn it into
rosemary and sage.

Between Silence and Shine

Between Silence and Shine

(“The wolf shall live with the lamb; the leopard shall lie down with the kid; the calf and the lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them.” Isaiah 11:6)

I answered the phone like I always do,
a little catch in my throat, a tiny cough of hello.
I know your voice even before I look at the number
(although I do appreciate caller id.)
There are tones, colors, shades that wrap your voice
like a quilt on a rainy day. When you ask if we can talk
I cannot wait for the next moment we do.
I answered the phone like I always do and
knowing it was you
that led me outside to see the doves and robins
sharing the same tree, gathering everything they needed
for the chicks to eat back at the nest.
Your voice sends my heart to more peaceful days,
hours I have imagined but seldom seem to appear.

My mood has been flat for several weeks. No deep lows,
no bubbling highs, just a midpoint between silence and
shine. It has limited my palette and the wavelengths of my spectrum
stay dead center between green and indigo.
I used to walk through ultra-violet and speak in infrared.
Now a sliver of visible light shuts me down. It’s not wrong,
I haven’t changed a thing, but I’d love to walk with you somewhere
away from the constraints that have walled my heart in too easily.

I am not the only one who longs for a place so safe that we can
feed lions from the palm of our hand. I am not the only one that
dreams of kisses instead of running from wildlife who cannot even
speak my name.

I answered the phone again; it was you. 2000 miles away and still
you have words and pauses that without understanding the causes,
leave me hopeful for a more peaceable day, a more repeatable way
to walk through the world where arrogance and freeze-dried opinions
answer the phone before a word is said.

But come, let us wander together. Let us leave the violence of
speech and trouble and find a spacious bubble filled with
children who have not learned how to be so vain. I’m curious,
can you see that day, if only in the distance? And does your heart
ache as much as mine for a day of peace, a week of solace,
a month of joy, and a year of new songs we once were afraid to sing?

And, today, would you discover it all with me?

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the Silence Between Thoughts

In the silence between thoughts,
the milliseconds of listening; that
is where the peace is found. Unaccompanied music
swings us like leaves in the wind.

I know the endless narration, the novella we never
meant to write. But it is fiction, it is not your story
today.

Find someone to read it to you anew;
I will start at the beginning with a new
chapter every day. I will remind you that
those unmanaged words like rocks, the barbs
of fiery poison,
do not bear your name. They are not the holy space
where you hear secrets so sacred they are
barely breathed to life within you. I will
hold your tears, offer you the palms of my hands,
and if you need,
to let you cry again.

You have been scribbled on too long. Now
breathe your name slowly. Hear your own voice
tell the wounded child
you are not at fault. You are not less, you are not
minus in a world
of aggressive arithmetic.

In the sun, between the silences,
imbued with blue, let the artist paint your portrait.
Stilly. Sit within the loving gaze of all who
treasure the moments they spend with you.

In the purple night, separated from the blistering
rage that demands your perfection,
see the blinking above, the caress of cool grass
under your feet,

And let your name be more precious than even
saints can imagine. Let the namer of all things
call you like a mother rings the dinner bell.
Let all the wonders of you
seep in like a late summer waterfall.

Between the songs, unafraid of love,
let the rewriting begin. Your story.
Your song. Your name.
Your eyes and your lungs
steeped in the sacredness of simply
being. The perfume of heaven,
the shoulder to lay your head upon,
the stream washing your feet in the
silence between waking and dreams.

Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

 Soft Parade of Lightning Bugs

(“When he was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he gave no answer.” Matthew 27:12)

Silence speaks as clearly and surely
as the first rays of dawn through the kitchen window.
Believe me, I’ve tried shouting. Drowned out
by iron doors. Muted by theories. Smothered by theologians.
The yelling takes its toll and privilege prevails over
justice and reason.

Fireworks keep me up at night,
firearms puncture the morning,
but a soft parade of lightning bugs
invites prophetic words in miniscule motion.

The silence of a friend who stays till noon is
more welcome
than the clamor who meet to decide what elixir
I need
this time
to be a better example to the gods.
I drank their potions nearly every decade till now
and spoke in tongues so they would quit offering me
the bitter concoction.

I found silence the best therapy,
presence the best tonic. I no longer
need
someone to defend me (I wasted that energy
a long time ago.)
All I request, if the court will allow,
is one or two who, knowing my wound is incurable,
will befriend me (I needed that energy
from then until now.)

But my heart was in my mouth when I heard them
question you.
My face burned when they accused, pious and politic,
the meekest of men to walk this planet. But perhaps
I am more like
Peter,
because I don’t think I would have taken the chance,
put my life on the line,
to speak up for you. (I know now you did not need
me to.)

I’ve been questioned too, and I was guilty as sin.
(That’s where all guilt begins in the gang I used to run with.)
I wanted to be like you, silent. I had far more to defend;
you had the cards stacked against you, they thought you were
going to bomb the Temple once and for all.

Cut short, you never said a mumbling word. My life,
long enough now to know what the right stuff is now,
I say less than I once did.

Love, to be love, sometimes speaks only

In silence.

Silence is an Answer

Silence is an Answer

He got up from the table, the food had all been served,
but the looks on the faces, the uneasy gazes made him think
he might need to clear his mind before
they cleared the dishes.

He walked out the same door he had used for over
a decade
and walked out before desert.

It was no wrong turn that took him there; in fact, he was invited.
This last meal was much like scores of others,
but in his sleep he dreamt the drinks might be poisoned.
So, his bride beside him, they left the folding chairs in winter
(they were stuck on the floor and
no one stood to help.)

The night fell before the sun stopped shining,
the talk was subdued, and the goodbyes stayed firmly
on the ground.
He wished for longer tables and shorter lines,
for wider conversation and deeper embraces (not
to suggest too many things were unexpressed.)

He got up from the table, the words all untangled
stayed behind in closets of puppet stages and belfries.
He would check the mail often, his bride beside him,
and opened the past like cobwebbed air.
He broke.

He

Broke.

Silence is an answer, he finally understood.
And he never entered the same doors again.

Silence Sits Like a Scornful Goddess

 

Silence Sits Like a Scornful Goddess

(“Don’t work for the food that perishes but for the food that lasts for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” John 6:27a)

Silence sits like a scornful goddess
laughing at the loneliness that invades
uneven thoughts.
When the center is wound tight like
a yoyo string, others watch
as the moods rise and fall
at the whim of the hand that controls
its flight.

Music fills the cavities, smooths
the breaks,
but never makes up for the lack
of conversation.

Silence mocks the inner craving
for more than a day without pain.
Rings on the fingers are reminders,
amulets around the neck,
but they are less than the invisible
waves of familiar voices between
sips of beer and messy tacos.

But the moment one friend captures
the threaded wander of the tears
no one else can see

Is the moment songs are restored,
hands warmed,
and words connect with words
to mean more than their sounds.

The Seeds Live in Silence

 

The Seeds Live in Silence

(“Solomon did not want the noise of hammers and axes to be heard at the place where the temple was being built. So he had the workers shape the blocks of stone at the quarry.” 1 Kings 6:7)

The seeds live in dark silence through the cool days
of early Spring. Dogs and deer and rabbits and humans
walk over the dirt of the tiny graves.
Tombs are always quiet places; filled or empty,
embodied or embalmed.
The first hour of the morning, while dew rests on
new grass
and the breeze has barely awakened,
you can hear the respiration of the world
as the last star fades before the sun.
Daybreak rarely shouts its glory.

As the sun arcs across the sky, we count the days
by dying and reviving; a cycle of seven and the
calendar mentions we are back to the same day again.
The seeds find photons of light and, still quiet,
stretch their shoots up like worship. Before the next
solar circle the buttercream blossoms will smile at the morning.

The hammers fell so loud you could hear the crack of wood and bone
all the way down the hill and to the outskirts of town.
Three more accused, three more collapsed with the grain,
not against it. No one held their tongue; it was a Friday
night fight
to the death with wagers placed by soldiers with
nothing much to do. They offered cigarettes to each other,
gawked at the naked shame and hoped the dying would be
over soon;
dinner was waiting at home.

Tombs are always quiet places, especially the first hour
of the morning.
But one tomb, borrowed; a gift really, held more than
broken bones or punctured hearts. One tomb rebirthed
us all as the angels spoke that

He had risen and paved the way for them to meet him
later in the day.

The women who approached the silent grave left to follow,
to tell what they had seen and heard, and yet,
in their silence,
were unsure exactly what to say.

Times When Silence

 

Times When Silence

(“May your gracious love come to me, your salvation, just as you said.” Psalm 119:41)

There were times when following
looked like abandonment. The voices were
shapeless,
the promises faceless,
and the landscape so concrete you
could not help walking on the cracks.

Though the path predates me
I’m the one who has felt old lately.

Some days I hate the rain, other days the
storm is passion and promise, dotting my windows
and animating trees preparing for the slumber of winter.

Sweet dreams, they say,
and sometimes they are. When doves
pair up in your attic
you should not complain of loneliness.

There are times when silence
feels like applause, one moment when love
has drawn all existence into itself and landscapes
melt like wax. Below the windy earth
and above the laconic sky, mercy awakens,
a single syllable unworded.

Where He Fell

Where He Fell 

(“I said, ‘My foot is slipping. But Lord, your faithful love kept me from falling.” Psalm 94:18)

“It was merely silence (he said)
that caused me to lose my footing.”
Startled by the void,
he wished for just one hand;
flesh, blood, veins, fingernails.

No.

A face.

Because when he tumbled from the grainy path
all he saw, all he visioned, like stone mirages,
were fingers pointed at his place of departure.

He needed a face;
mouth, eyes, wrinkles, words
to show that him where he fell

Was the open door he had longed for.

An Enforced Silence

 

An Enforced Silence

(“…they were prevented by the Holy Spirit from speaking the word in the province of Asia.” Acts 16:6)

Full of sentences, a pen dragging ink across scratchy parchment.
Will anyone read? A paper balloon floating free
until
the candle burns out. Will anyone find it in the
washed-out wadis a mile from the road?

Full of journeys, the dead end surprised the minstrel with
too many miles on the road. Will anyone hear? A few strings of gut
vibrate against the golden gourd until the melody comes full circle.
Will anyone see the choirs in the trees?

Full of months and years, a wanderer
stops. Fully stops. And is quiet when the
words would break out like squalls in the desert.

And the seeds are sown in the enforced silence.

The Mortal Silence

The Mortal Silence

(“As they led Jesus away, Simon, a man from Cyrene, was coming in from the fields. They forced him to carry Jesus’ cross and to walk behind him.” Luke 23:26)

There was nothing peaceful about it,
the clouds were leaden upon a graphite sky.
The body politik and the rest of us, (anger and sickness)
saw events transpire for the best of us and so we cried
to send the one most like us down the avenue of shame.

Fires bled in our eyes, boiling over from the first boot
on our necks
to our last breath (and yet our feet were tattooed as well).

I misunderstood every word, tried to right and wrong the
whole day to death. I shouted with the crowd, I cursed the
powers that occupied us like slaves, I was with and against,
as my heart burst outside the courtroom and within the
reflexes of oppression. Yet I pressed closer to
the blazing procession, a day for the dead.

I saw death where people sang like mardi gras,
I saw life in the pierced head, the welts like a
pollock painting on the back of the fainting one
whose breath came as slow as summer wadis.
I saw strength in the stumbling,
power in the fainting,
and something else, something without a name.

They cast their words at him, dashing them against him
like stones through a glass wall. They were right after all,
and the lynching lasted far into the afternoon.

I did not volunteer, nor did I imagine I would hear the
turpitude wound around my own soul like shackles.
I was conscripted and took the beam, the angry
crossbar with its weight centered across my shoulders.
I knew the drill; it was all too common on this hill
where so many were hanged like cursed fruit from a tree.

But he. He was. My breath escapes and does not return.
But he. He was. His life escapes and so has the sun.
But he. He was. His eyes were fire and life and gold.
But he. He was. I was tired, compelled, and old.

Old as sin is what they say in the country. But he. He was.
Older. 

How does the Ancient of Days walk to the auction block?
How does Eternity Past put his feet on the same path as mine?
I was compelled. But he. He was.

Not repelled by the worst of us. And I, I loved this
weakest of kings, this dying god, and stayed as he
gave his life away.

He was. He is king over my erratic thinking,
and lord-in-love to a world still addicted (some in
His name)
to mining for violence. He was. He is
only found in the compelled quietness,
the mortal silence of tears of offender
and offended.

When Silence Speaks (a meditation on Holy Week and the "March for our Lives")

"When Silence Speaks"

“The Son of Man will be handed over to people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Mark 9:31

Emma Gonzalez stood on the stage before 80,000 people last Saturday on the Washington Mall. A Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School student, she has become one of the most prominent voices in the #NeverAgain movement. The day was electric. But, not for the words, nor the rhetoric, but for a stunning silence of nearly four minutes as she stood grieving behind the microphones.

“Six minutes and about 20 seconds," she said. "In a little over 6 minutes, 17 of our friends were taken from us, 15 were injured and everyone in the Douglas community was forever altered."

"Everyone who was there understands. Everyone who has been touched by the cold grip of gun violence understands. For us, long, tearful, chaotic hours in the scorching afternoon sun were spent not knowing. No one understood the extent of what had happened."

She repeated the names of the 17 students and faculty that had died and the things they would never do again. Then, she stood silent. Tears rolled down her cheeks while the crowd broke out in isolated chants. But, mostly there was silence.

The “moment of silence” we often call for to respect the fallen usually lasts no more than 30 seconds. But there, among a crowd that had come together to march for their lives, the silence hovered like a cloud for over four minutes. The chants faded. The murmuring of casual movement ceased. All that was left was the air between the sea of humans and an 18-year-old girl bravely honoring her friends and crying to be heard; a silence that must be heard.

After 4 minutes and 25 seconds, a timer went off. "Since the time that I came out here," she said, "it has been 6 minutes and 20 seconds. The shooter has ceased shooting and will soon abandon his rifle, blend in with the students as they escape and walk free for an hour before arrest."

On a Friday afternoon outside Jerusalem another crowd had gathered. The man people called the Messiah was being crucified. Strangely, he had stayed mostly silent during the mock trial performed by the state and religious leaders. Jesus knew what was coming and had made it clear to His disciples on more than one occasion.

“The Son of Man will be handed over to the people, and they will kill him. After three days, he will rise from the dead.” Then, silence. His followers had no idea what Jesus meant and were afraid to ask him.

And I wonder if we struggle with what He meant as well. We call this week “Holy”. We attend church on Easter, wear new clothes, enjoy brunches and happily celebrate the Risen King. But we cannot understand the resurrection of Christ apart from the agony of Friday and the silence of the tomb.

Ms. Gonzalez and her student friends have experienced the cycle of death and violence and now want something to be done. What if Jesus’ death was an invitation for us to give up that same cycle of violence and choose real life? What if these students are echoing what Jesus did on the cross as they “March for our Lives”?

Pastor and writer Brian Zahnd has said, "The cross is not where God inflicts violence on Jesus in order to vent his wrath; the cross is where God in Christ endures human inflicted violence and forgives it all." We who follow Jesus do well to remember how He “triumphed”. We cannot celebrate Resurrection without understanding the violence He willingly endured from humanity.

The cross with its seeming humiliation and defeat was actually God’s way of overcoming our nasty addiction to harm and violence. No warrior ever triumphed by being executed; but Jesus did. The tomb with its seeming silence and death was actually God’s statement that a new way was coming, and indeed, had already arrived.

When Jesus rose from the dead He invited us to lay down our arms, to say “no” to harmful words and actions, and to say “yes” to our lives, our new lives connected to Him. God refused to drop the “Mother of all Bombs” on the human race. Instead He sent His Beloved Son into enemy territory to absorb the hatred, violence and sin of us all, and return it fully forgiven.

That is enough to shut my own mouth for four minutes and consider: How shall I follow my Master’s way?

Silence!

Silence!

(“Be silent, all flesh, before the Lord, for he has roused himself from his holy dwelling.” Zechariah 2:13)

Who are we to instruct the Wind-maker when
we cannot see the breeze at all?

 When did we ascend the throne on antediluvian peaks
and survey the globe. Our panorama’s are sadly flattened?

How can we instruct the creation to match our templates,
the stars move from view while we position our deviated rules
written on cardboard before the nearsighted followers?

            No, I taught no one; only the man, only the woman,
            only the image-bearers on our best interpretation.

And where is our learning? What have we assumed? While we
exhume the bodies of our best knowledge, the failure rate only
rises as we stick to our guns.

How do we count the countless? How do we dare?
How do we enact a directive when the conversation was confidential?
How do you still box the air, never sparing your opponent
nor scoring the apparent.

            No, I announced it well; did you not hear my trumpet call?
            I raged at the uppity boys who silently wait the anthem’s end.
            I put them on the spot, closed the door and did my duty to
            God and to my Country.

Silence!

The quiet of the Almighty will break ever unholy assumption.
Do not lift an eyebrow, do not look around. Do not gaze in the stadium seats,
keep your eyes on the ground. Yahweh arises and you will soon see,
everything you though you understood, everything you knew to a “t”
has been trampled by His coming upon the winds of the dawn.
Everything you thought was right, you better prepare to get it wrong.

Do not put a finger to the piano, unplug the guitars,
drop the mic, (humbly this time) and stay right where you are.
He comes to judge your judgments. He comes to inspect the scars,
the wounds and the harm your pronouncements made when you made them
in His name.

It is no different, we are all the same. We walk the straight line if
the straight line means a detour around riches we’ve gained by
ignoring the least of any of these and promoting our feasts: VIP
only.

The Almighty is roused; He sees the waves sent to drown
the bad taste in our mouths.
The Almighty is pained; He feels the sores on the arms
and feet of the chosen.
The Almighty is slow; He knows the time we mistake
for divine approval.
The Almighty is ready; He comes to make His grace
the thunder before rain.
The Almighty heals; And cuts, and lances, and finds the
root of our growling glances from faces He designed to
shine like the sun.

Silence now! And listen unspoken. He will heal, he will refresh,
he will transform, he will fix;
Listen, for He will heal, but only that which is broken. 

On Post Office Walls

On Post Office Walls

(“Yahweh said to Samuel, ‘Listen to the voice of the people in all that they tell you; for they have not rejected you, but they have rejected me as the king over them.’” 1 Samuel 8:7)

We cannot survive on silence,
the space between molecules gives us
nothing better than the missing pieces of a
jigsaw puzzle.

Have you ever seen one of those posters hung
on post office walls, or stapled to a telephone-pole?
The picture is a wide-smiling woman, business-casual,
and glad to have been photographed. “If you want to
enjoy your life
like her” it says, “Call the number below.”
You’ve seen them, I know you have. And along the
bottom of the poster tags are cut like a dozen tiny tickets.
Tear one off and take the phone number with you. Only,
this one, the one that caught your eye, the one that might change
your life,
has been stripped of every tag with its magic number.

God, we cannot hold you. You are worse than water to grasp.
We would pull you down like a string on a kite; we would
tug the tail of your coat until you recognized our smallish face.
But we only grip nearly weightless mass as the air passes
between our fingers.

We cannot populate invisible planets. Even if we could touch
without seeing, each step would be dread, not seeing the green, the yellow
or red. Hopscotch would be impossible; prodigals would never find
their way back to the homestead. Most frightening would be the
demagogue who said only he could see.

We do not want your Second, your Administrative Assistant.
We cannot live on mere representations of the only thing
we really want to know. Nations beg for rulers; democracies are
the worst. We expect the one who says she knows you best
will make it all comprehensible; the one who says he’s closer
than the rest…but both remind us of

One of those posters hung on post office walls.

Full of Silence/and then some

Full of Silence/and then some

(“He is the Rock. His works are perfect. All his ways are right. He is faithful. He doesn’t do anything wrong. He is honest and fair.” Deuteronomy 32:4)

The moment was too full of silence,
abuzz with the smashing of atoms invisibly
making space for every thought unspoken. There was

No more to say.

The tears began with each telling,
the story repeated with different words and nuance,
inflection and outline, but the tears and the

Moment full of silence

Were always the same.

Our feet dragged going home. We have learned our
question well they days, “Are you ok?” I do not always
answer honestly, for it is her pain we mourn now

And not my own.

The world stands still with unexpected prognoses,
and the words blur after reading the emailed diagnosis
for the twelfth (feels like never). Don’t tell us

You’ll be strong,

We have not faced this before. And when it felt we could
breathe once more
the next blow came with threats and wind upon the sweetest
friend, the loveliest form and the most blameless frame ever
said yes to a man so far below her purity. She is light and
glows apropos. She is laughter itself, the out-loud giggle of
joy. Unmistakebly funny, she never defends her childlike
comedy.

So, I have to ask, O Rock upon which we’ve been shaken,
what heavenly economy has driven this silent storm her way?
She is more than mercy; she is grace itself; every sin, every act
of selfish compulsion, she erases with ease. I cannot dismiss the
harm I must have brought to her innocence; but she will not
remember what I am unable to forget.

Transfer her pain to me. Put it on my tab, let me repay
the streams of grace I have never deserved; the companion,
my dream-mate who only grows freer and freer over time.

Remember her graces, and from Your unfenced pastures of joy
bring her the nosegay of the wildest colors only Perfection
can supply.

Everything I Need

Everything I Need

(So, my Christian brothers, when you come together to eat the Lord's supper, wait on your turn.” 1 Corinthians 11:33)

Everything I find, under my feet, over my head,
everything I need, into my heart, words never said,
everything, everything,
I find  in the silences, in the spaces between columns and
walls, in the unseen hollows and the songs yet sung,
everything, everything is sweeter to my ear,
more savory to my tongue because
It comes first from You to me.

I can wait until the Amen’s final sustain,
I can believe beauty inhabits delay,
sense indwells the crazy way a storm
piles up on the horizon moments after the
sunniest day.
I will watch Your eyes until the capture me,
I will look to Your hands until you embrace me,
I will know, though my “whys” increase,
I will hope, though the sighs release so little pain
they build upon each other, sigh, and another,
sigh, and breathe; sigh, believe; sigh, upheaval
from the hot spear that never cools; sigh until the

Breath is so large it fills the room; a sigh that
has grown, the sighing, the groaning, the hands
both covering my brow, in some way hoping to
kill the courier of agony somehow.

But still, storm and pain, crash and insane,
everything I need is worth the wait until
I see as I am seen,
and believe every crooked way has
been made straight.

You Only Look at Me

“I cry out to you, but you do not answer me; I stand up, and you only look at me.” Job 30:20

Recently a good friend of my passed away unexpectedly. He had heart problems, but no one had pronounced an end date. As far as he and his family knew, he had a few, maybe many, good years ahead of him. Alan was the director of a drama ministry and we had invited him to bring a Christmas-themed production to our little church here in Southwest Washington.