To Let in The Light

To Let in The Light

(“When God seems foolish, he is more wise than men. When God seems weak, he is stronger than men.” 1 Corinthians 1:25)

It is the simplest thing to let in the light;
even one eye open would do the trick. But
tell me,
if you know,
does the light flow like violin strings,
or does it poke its way through the darkness
like a dog’s nose?

I never think about it until I sit down to
write about it,
until I remember I walk the same two miles every day,
but one house is now empty,
one field has been subdivided,
one dog no longer comes to greet me,
and the same hummingbird has focused my eyes
on things more microscopic than ever before.
Once, looking closely with these old eyes,
I saw a tiny stream of nectar sparkle from the
red-headed beak to the feeder.

Too often, like the birds mistake my windows for air,
I mistake the skies for empty. Pain sinks its
fangs into my head and deep into my mind. And
I, too,
lose sight of the light. It is a burden, a cauldron
of molten lead; and my eyes beg to close again,
and seek a shine within.
Too often, I mistake my tears for
atheism, while others mistake them for
why some days I do not make it out of bed.

It is the most difficult thing to let in the light;
with both eyes open it can break me like
open ice on a frozen lake.

The Simplest Dances

The Simplest Dances

(“Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love—but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13)

I did not do it brilliantly,
not even just short of perfectly,
but initially and everly I yearned for the
greatest to evidently be
the trajectory of my life.

I’ve seen Jesus in the eyes of my drunken friend at Taco Bell,
I’ve heard Jesus’ cry from the man who yelled, “fuck you” when
I had no more to give.
I’ve seen Jesus beg me when the unbathed teen knocked on my door
and asked for a ride home
for the thirteenth time in a month.
And his mom rarely answered the door.
I know the ache of Jesus when a husband and wife take two
weeks to cool down; one stubborn, the other a steel trap, but
both want something to unleash the love that lies beneath
their lifelong scabs.

And the lonely one who everyone thinks is unsocial,
and instead
cannot speak for all the judgments in her head.
And the bellicose who thinks he’ll save the world
and instead
drives people away with the angry hues of red
that swirl around his face. They replace the words
that should adorn the air with grace.

I’ve seen the wounds on Jesus’ face when a wife
who should be a princess is cut with wounds so deep
that even relief feels like another reason to wither in the sun.
I’ve walked with Jesus on solitary roads, wondering why he
traveled alone. And he told me, (I only surmise, and do not know)
that as we traveled, he was not alone.

I’ve watched the hands of Jesus as a man, my better, my elder,
knelt in a simpler way that I had seen, and washed my feet with
apologies for the obscene cruelties of super-apostles
who had laid my heart open for the world to see.

I’ve heard the voice of Jesus in the mentor who knew me best,
an Oklahoman, a gentleman, a father of fathers who I would rather
have never let down once; but did more than twice. And every time
he called me all I could hear was liquid love that filled the empty
room my heart had become. Long gone, a score of years ago,
I still hope for his phone call when I am shopping or crying
or talking to another one

That needs to hear the same voice that keeps me connected
to Jesus in every act of love ever given, ever received;
that keeps us entranced (if we’ll only give it the chance)
and invites us to the simplest dances. Choreography be damned.