Stop Weeping

“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, ‘Do not weep.’” Luke 5:17

Two processions met on a Judean road one late afternoon. At the head of one was a weeping mother, grieved at the loss of her young son. Coming toward them was a great crowd following a traveling preacher and his disciples. The contrasts couldn’t have been more acute.

Do You Know Him?

(“Immediately a rooster crowed a second time. Then Peter remembered what Jesus had said to him: ‘Before a rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.’ And he broke down and wept.” Mark 14:72)

It is far too easy to read of Peter’s three denials of even knowing Jesus and assume we would not be so easily swayed. After all, haven’t we already faced the scowl of fellow workers when we do not follow their excesses out of reverence for Christ? Haven’t we felt our tongue grow thick when asked about our faith, and though we stumble through our answer, we would take no thought of actually saying, “Jesus? Never heard of him!”

Might Awaken

Might Awaken

(“In fact, we still feel as if we’re under a death sentence. But we suffered so that we would stop trusting ourselves and learn to trust God, who brings the dead back to life.” 2 Corinthians 1:9)

The air was heavy, no sound would carry,
nor rustle of grass, no buzz of wings;
only broken-throated diesel groans
from tugs up the river. For all we knew,
nothing stirred of the few who showed up
to listen.

Once daylight was warm as a freshly pressed shirt,
muscles keen, eyesight huge, green bright and receptive
to the morning songs. Once seats were filled,
ears were tilted, laughter ran like a room full of toddlers
and everyone had heard our names.

Today was a dark corner, a numb shadow,
a memory that picks names from a hat and
hopes for the luck of the draw. Do I know you?--
for the third time in a row.

Words did not bounce; they barely made it to the wall
and fell spent upon the floor like a preschool attempt at
paper airplane flight. Ideas did not expand, they merely
repeated,
merely repeated,
paused and repeated again; for emphasis.

Some might say the spirit fled, others that the
atmosphere was dead;
some might hear what I heard, and change the dial
to find something worth their while. All along
I knew the day would die. I am sorry my earlier
joys and fancies
have not followed me this far, this lately.

Pretence is the greatest sorrow; mix this lonesome
solitude with a greater solace that better songs,
lyric and guitarists, might awaken the soul tomorrow.

With Love and Hope for Jonathan B.

With Love and Hope for Jonathan B.

(“Keep your eyes open for God, watch for his works; be alert for signs of his presence.” Psalm 105:4 [The Message])

The sun shone warm on a finally day,
after ice chips chilled the spring awaiting
blossoms and new birds, eagles stopping on their
way to Alaska;

Today our backs are warmed this tardy spring
when baseball begins on fields behind the schools,
and the long legs of cross country occasionally slip
on hoarfrost in early runs.

Most of us would wake this day with singing joy,
accompanied by the rhythm section of mower and clippers,
descants peeped by robins and jays warning the pet dogs away.

Most of us would not have to wipe a thing from our eyes except

That one of our boys died yesterday. He borrowed another’s heart
nearly a decade ago, married the best in football mania two years ago,
and loved the lady and her son, a little man as happy as the big man who
found him; the boys were big together; one with a borrowed heart,
the other with invaded blood perking through his tiny veins. Neither
gave up on the other.

But doing one of his many loves; there it is, I believe, the more loves
a man has, the more faithful he is to the one. Doing one of them
at the antique shop he caught his breath, swayed, and caught it again.

He had fallen more times than anyone wished the last two months,
the late weeks of winter; and the doctor hoped he could wait five
year
until borrowing another organ again. But it wore out. He wore out.

He would not sit, he worked, and played, and loved, and embraced
the world he grew up in. Basketball days and football nights, prom
and church programs, Christmas and Thanksgiving with grandpa and grams,

And he fell at the feet of a man who knew his father well. CPR,
911, more breaths, more contractions, more pressure upon his chest.
He was young, there was no doubt he would make it.

EMTs and a screaming ambulance took over the life support
with missing a beat or shedding a tear. More was to be done
before the weeping begun. Blazing toward the same field he
played upon as an adolescent, they waited for the life-flight
to carry him safely like an eagle rescuing her young.

An hour of breaths, of beats up the chest, the copter set down,
and the waiting was forever until, 15 minutes later, he was rushed
into the bay, the father was shooed away, and they lifted off…

…and lost him somewhere between home town and
and rooms bursting with people, persons, wife and parents,
fellow officers and chaplains, grandparents and pastors,
who all hoped so grimly that the miracle would be granted.

That was yesterday. Today, in love with the family that
has hurt more than they deserve, I am silent, besides these words,

And pray my future words will only serve to support
where one column has been removed.

The Summer Was Bright

The Summer Was Bright

(for my friend K.R. on the 10th anniversary of the death of her son)

(“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them.’” Revelation 21:3)

The summer was bright and full of the sky,
The day was quiet, dogs barked and robins reply,
Another long afternoon in the northern plains,
A summer without questions or answers or why,
A morning without answers to the evenings pain.

Where have you gone, my sweet young son,
Why did you leave so suddenly?
What were you thinking, my darling one,
when you waved goodbye silently?

Why did the trees, my eyes still weep,
drop all their leaves so suddenly?
What was the meaning, my sweet young son,
when you left us so violently?

Where are the years, the ones you missed,
why did you leave me to count them?
Who would you marry, the wedding’s kiss,
What smile for your bride, the prayer’s amen?

Where are the dreams, my sweet young son,
Did you leave them reluctantly?
Why do you sit on the porch with me
when I know that you’re gone, gone so long.

The summer was bright and full of sky,
The day was quiet, dogs barked and robins replied,
Another long afternoon in the northern plains,
A summer without questions or answer or why,
A morning without answer to the evenings pain.

It was a day, just like today, like every other summer,
Ten years or twenty, the sun and moon remain,
And I would give my heart, my soul, anything,
To have you home again.
Then comes the day, unlike today, like every perfect summer,
ten years or thousands, the faith and hope remain,
That I will see you, my heart my soul, sweet young son,
Forever home again.

A Plea for Restraint

“Lord God All-Powerful, you are and you were, and we thank you. You used your great power and started ruling.” Revelation 11:17

Who is God to me? Is He just someone I refer to, hoping He will rubber stamp my preconceived notions? My heart breaks over so many followers of Jesus invoking His name to lobby for personal interest. I am baffled over the pettiness and ill will toward people who disagree with us. We don’t inquire of their personal faith, nor their own walk with God; No, they support gun control, they want health care reform, and suddenly, they can’t be followers. I have purposely left out two of the most volatile push-button issues because a strong Biblical case can be made for a particular opinion or stand on them.

Unedited

"Unedited"

(“The sun of righteousness will dawn on those who honor my name, healing radiating from its wings. You will be bursting with energy, like colts frisky and frolicking.” Malachi 4:2 [The Message])

I felt the fog and saw the fresh lather
left overnight on the morning grass.
I sleep past sunrise and waste my worries
looking for swooping angels to snatch me away
from the dim displays painted within this chipped
and gilded
frame.

I don’t ask for more than the promise, although
I cry for lack of enough notice to plan ahead for the
spans ahead of silence, stumbles and hesitation.
I prefer thunderstorms to icy mornings.

I can blame more things than one,
and add to the list if forced by hand,
but the steps I’ve taken are my steps alone;
some simple half-steps slowed by fear, many
appear leaps until eyes have turned elsewhere.

I can write my melancholy on the sunniest day,
pen it, paper it, erase it, crumble it, resheet it
and write it the same all over again.
Why change what I write with the first thought
when the changes are my inner edits to
take the edge off.

I can write my melancholy on the giggling beach,
pen it and paper, like I’ve just stated. The afternoon beams
are the reason for my tears (why would anyone cry on
a day like this?). The afternoon wings me to slower dusk
when tears are hidden by the longer shadows of inattention.

Later than years and further than time I know
the damage is done. Deeper than seeing and
stiller than wings on the soft sky I know
the change will come.

You saw my tears, yesterday, didn’t you?
You had no idea what to say, and wondered
(as I do, my friend) why I would cry when
loved and laden with gifts.

You did not cause them, nor the slivers
from backyard growing up fences. I’m waiting
for the sunlight to take me from pretense to
senses of immense joy on the wings of Righteousness
written
once unedited.

A Slow Road

A Slow Road

(“Thus Shimei said when he cursed, ‘Get out, get out, you man of bloodshed, and worthless fellow!’” 2 Samuel 16:3)

Watch the sorrow that steps so slowly up the hill,
the Mount called Olive, as he leaves a kingdom behind him,
the sun hiding nearly the entire way behind groves of gnarled
ghosts he passed on the way to banishment. Popularity
once was king; shouts of glory once would ring each time
he returned from battle, every day below his window,
and he wore the crown with a straight back, ruddy complexion
and constant attention to questions he knew he never was tall
enough to answer.

It was family that did him in; the guilt, the anger, the choke that fills
sons and fathers with sin when the words fall short of their target. One son
gone, alive; one son gone and buried. The father-king could not utter a word
without stuttering twice over indecision and pride. “You may return, my son,
my rebellious one. But do not visit me, not at home, not on the throne, it is
enough I still call you by name, my Absalom, my rebellious one.”

With father and without him, rebel sons do what kings should expect.
Now father slumps nearly naked to the peak of the small grove where
he had learned to worship in David’s City; Zion’s hill. He cannot bear
the taunts that throw hell and accusation between each pace, within
the space in his head where, hoping for hope, he hears stumble instead.

Shimei, you speak only what the guilty father knows himself,
his scratching sandals write the sentence with each step, that
his Absalom, his rebellious son, deserves the kingdom he
ruled like no other. Yet his sons were at war, and father
could not change history, could not even the score, and
now walks in the woods where the future King

Will pray forward for the family of rebels who know war
too well. The Mount the call Olive will hear the tears
of the Son, the Beloved Son, weeping over the rebels
we all have become. And, for His Father’s sake (and ours)
lays his life down for His friends, not simply hearing the curse
of a rude subject,
but became the curse Himself, even the curse we cast
at Him we thought banished; and was heaven’s King
instead.