God-With-Us

(a little late in the season, but I've been mega-busy!)

God-With-Us

“Behold, the virgin shall be with child, and shall give birth to a son. They shall call his name ‘Immanuel’; which is, being interpreted, ‘God with us.’” Matthew 1:23

Have you ever awoken from one of the dreams that seems so real that it influences your mood for a good part of the day? You may not even remember all the details, but the mood, the emotions stick with you. It is not that you simply remember feeling sad or happy, you still are sad or happy. Perhaps you actually dreamt about someone you knew, and somehow you have the same feelings toward the person once you are awake that you had in the dream. Having dreamed you have upset a loved one, you wonder what you have done to make them angry. And you keep telling yourself, “Self, it was only a dream.”

Disaffected Days

Disaffected Days

(“I, even I, am the One Who takes away your sins because of Who I am. And I will not remember your sins.” Isaiah 43:25)

The water sounded sweet as black earth,
the sand was sun-warmed and loose between our toes
when we ran to meet the waves head-on;
the hair on our arms and legs standing on end
when the Pacific grabbed our breath the first day
of each summer.

A blond-haired beach-boy played the flute solo
from “California Dreamin’”, where the sand and
asphalt met.
He sat on a driftwood hunk of an old tree trunk,
maybe from the islands, probably from Newport,
and every pretty girl watched him while I wished
I had a tan like his.

Some days it didn’t matter at all, like when Paco, his
brothers and my young white legs took one of the next
Saturdays that summer; probably Huntington Beach.
His dad drove the old pickup, faded green with tires
in the bed. Five boys in trunks and towels had the
best view of the freeway all the way to our day in the sun.
We held our burritos between our feet. The stayed warm,
wrapped in wax paper, aluminum foil and hidden in
brown paper bags. Paco’s mom was a magician;
last night’s supper of potatoes and pork were our
midmorning breakfast in the back of the rattling
Ford.

My best friend was my worst enemy; I do not lie.
One moment we were ranking girls in our junior-high classroom,
the next he pinned me in a telephone booth, blackened me eye,
all because he was bigger than me.

Perhaps our final touchdown after half a dozen orbits,
or, if we’re truly ambitious, a trip to the moon,
perhaps our final splashdown has more to do
with pick-up trucks, tanned flautists, and friends
(or enemies) we never forget. Like the taste of

Those roast potatoes, stringy pork, tangy sauce,
all wrapped up by Paco’s mom in the sweetest
flour taco a young man ever tasted.

If I could find her today, nearly a half-century later,
I ask if she had just one more burrito, the kind with
pork and potatoes.

Hidden

Hidden

(“Who can discern his errors? Forgive me from hidden errors.” Psalm 19:12)

Some are imbedded for so long, it seems like they’ve been there from day one;
we recognized them well at first, in front; but time covered them with sand,
and ash and soot.

I spent six years in Texas before I knew you there existed
strange worlds where
you need not drive and hour to reach the nearest town. Six blocks
north of my new East L.A. neighborhood I crossed the street
and stood in San Gabriel with Alhambra behind me.

In second grade there, (it might have been third) I asked a
schoolmate if I still had an accent. (I think I wanted one, to
be distinct, to stand out. Not a deep Southern drawl, just enough
to be cool and from somewhere else, somewhere where no one
had ever been.) She crinkled her nose, looked up to the sky and said
“I think so, maybe a little.” (I avoid “ya’ll”, if you all were interested.)

But intonation has left its mark, without my knowing it well. “Uffda”,
from my Norwegian friends, and “ennit” from my Native brothers.

“Uffda, that’s a huge bowl of tripe soup, ennit?”

But, unless you recorded my speech with my knowing, and made me
listen through the hour that traced my talking (tied to a chair, I
would never
volunteer), I am certain there are expressions my kids laugh about
when they have their “adult” lunches and giggle about moms and dads.

I’ll be honest, my dad insisted “cassette” had a long “a” and so sounded
like a girl name Kay. He had many old Gospel Quartet Kay-settes.
He had a double tacks: one was to deny he ever spoke that way, and two,
to say he knew for certain it was pronounced his way.

So, Heavenly Father, You don’t have to tell me twice; if the
words I use every day
can trip me up without a single moment of awareness,
I am certain I need You to dig deep where my sins are
hidden better, and with more resolve, than
my inattention to the certain silence of my
latent drawl.

Five-Year Plan

Five-Year Plan

(“Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.” Proverbs 28:13)

It was meant to be merely a stroll,
a half hour wandering from shade to sun,
tree to tree,
to let the dust settle. I wrote it down
five years ago: “Take a walk and
sort out your options.”

I stopped.

Or should I say the pain knocked me to my knees,
freezing me in time. I’m
the one who has to fight the hardest
just to keep my darkest deeds at bay;
the weeds that grow from the muddy mind
so certain, yet so unwound. I’ve renounced

My sins

As often as a gardener squeezes the constant roots
from the old-growth hedgerow that hides the flower bed

From view.

It was meant to be a meaningful stroll,
a half hour worshiping in shade and sun,
sturdily
letting the dust settle. I engraved “grace”
in the morning mud: “Watch the sky and
wait for rain’s erase.”

I sighed.