The Best Way We Met Each Other

 The Best Way We Met Each Other

(“Lord, your name will be famous forever! Lord, people will remember you forever and ever.” Psalm 135:13)

Was there something so unruly it threatened to get lost in the mud
of high-sounding words that no one understood? We can tangle our
language in ways that they knots are impossible to tie. And then
no one knows the message, no one knows the time. We just throw
out proclamation sky high and miles wide and figure everyone would
understand
everything we have to say.

It’s not for a lack of good material. We have had a miracle or two
come our way. We passed the daunting chemistry test. We got the
promotion at work. We found parking places at Walmart twice in the
same week. If that’s not God watching out for us, I don’t know what else
it would be.

Is there a quieter pain, is there a memory that is more plain; are their
tender moments when we knew God showed up invisibly but perceptively?
Did a mother reconnect with her own family; did she find that words
had been distorted
and they all could speak differently now out of time? Did a lifelong friend
cry over his wife’s dangerous prognosis and find a distant friend who
reached out to fill his heart again. They had been inseparable, but time
and distance worked against it. When hardship that was beyond anyone’s
ability to change, was there a friend who, over the miles, offered a simple
hand and hope for better all in Jesus’ name?

I remember the dark day in my living room, at the bottom of every
uncertain turning of the earth and the quakes it was threating to bring.
Two men entered, and bowed before me, took of my shoes and humbly
took my feet into their hands, washing them of the grime of the day,
They were once Superintendent at the highest point in our religious district.
They had left the band and now played solo. They expressed sorrow over my
demise. I listened and cried.

The blues still subdued me, the rancor and pain still grew within me,
and friends gathered round, a redheaded fellow musician who loved all
the music I adored,(she turned me) a drummer who could hold time and also hold to opposing
thoughts in one head (he was to be commended for that), a single mom who
needed to know she was not failing her kids, and a widow who simply drank
her full supply of friendship around our dining room table every other week.

And we have not forgotten; we know the name. We will always remember;
we will not forsake the name. We will share cocktails, stories, songs and
poems. We will elevate the best way we met each other and the best way
our healings had begun.

How can we, how can we ever forget the way the sun shined on our
tentative gatherings, some of them around food lovingly prepared. We
were a haven for the hurting. We were a space for the unsure.
And we just tried to act like Christ to each other, as impossible as that
sounds.

We cried, we giggled, we dug in deep, we floated freely, we sang
and learned songs as full as a Christmas morning.

We cannot forget, we will always remember. We were grateful
that healing permeated everything we tried and every time we met.

Poet Songs and Jazz Bands

Poet Songs and Jazz Bands

(“You may drink from the brook. And I have commanded ravens to bring you food there.” 1 Kings 17:4)

I used to sit right up front,
I didn’t want to miss a thing. The way the sound passed
through the throat of the poetess I loved. I didn’t want
a single note to drop on the darkwood floor. I used to
write whatever came to mind.

There were rooms like water, the saxophone streamed over
the casement in background sounds of summer meadows.
We liked jazz, we loved Brubeck,
we danced if another would dance first.
There were lazy brooks
that smoothed stones for us to put in our pockets
and display on our shelves at home.

I used to hear the espresso hiss, black as ravens served in
ceramic thimbles. The troubadour never missed the chance
to soar between sad eyes and aspirations. We breathed the
same air, heavy like upholstery, waiting for the piece of bread
we would pass from table to unknowable. We never cared
for
the first cut or the upper crust,
we saw visions in the cups of wine set between us.

But some venues close and become
parking lots or clothing stores or memories lost
in youthful ideals. We thought we might find it again.
Maps are sometime edited, locations pressed flat
and forgotten.

Now I sit near the back,
if I go anywhere at all. Though today I did invite
a bald eagle whose white face and plume
seemed to take in everything. The sun broke the
field where cattle grazed
into perforated patches, an opportunity hatched
between land and sky. Looking past the clouds I
returned, still unsatisfied.

There are streams that never evaporate, if only
in mind.
There are birds that sing the songs you once heard
from poets, jazz bands and campfires in a simple
Kum Ba Yah.

Much Simpler

 

Much Simpler

(“You have been given the chance to understand the secrets of the kingdom of Heaven.” Matthew 13:11)

Don’t say a thing. Just listen.

When some see a serpent and call him a saint,
when some see a servant and say he ain’t,
isn’t it about time we stop digging in graveyards
to find a spitting image
that conforms to our fanciful parades about living?

Secrets are not the same as conspiracies,
the kingdom’s keys are much simpler than that.
Power in weakness, tears in strength
are the earthy recipe for heaven’s width and length.

When we see a vagabond and call her a vagrant,
when we see a singer and call her a siren,
isn’t it about time we stop projecting our movies
on the of paperback
bibles that confirm our king james boxes of doctrines.

Shadeless hands are the kingdom’s first gardeners,
no darkness that complicates the fields.
Earthen and single, seeds and cereal,
the seed revives only after burial.

Don’t feign a thing. Parables.