Sorry I Missed

Sorry I Missed

I missed our appointment;
I am sorry, sanity got in the way.
I know someone told you that
anxiety was a sin. I know
they told you that
God is in control.
Did they have an answer why
one bullet missed its mark
and another creased the brain of a
loving father that day?

I missed having drinks with you;
I am sorry, dis-ease got in the way.
I know someone told you that
you would never understand them. I know
they told you that
this was all mandated by God.
Did they have an answer why they
never thought that way when the
candidate they adored lost? Did they
bow to God’s decree when the opposition
took the reins of power? Or does God only
work for one side of the aisle, and not for the other.
Did they mention the person who lost is
a man devoted to faith, a woman devoted to home,
a whole convention full of hope?

I missed dinner with you:
I am sorry, the locked doors got in the way.
I know someone told you that
I was a heretic now. I know someone
mentioned my stumbles that can still be seen
in my bruises and my tears.
Did they have an answer to their own sins,
or of the transgressions of the winner?
Did they appropriate love only for their own kind?

My friend, hold tight your kaleidoscope children;
look deep in the eyes of your spouse nearly deported;
beseech the little god who acts like a bully to
shovel his shit in someone else’s yard.
And ask the Only God to send the love to those
who say his name over and over again but have hardly
ever
offered his love to the others who are no different than
us all; ask the Only God to shower the people with love.

I Just Have to Tell You

I Just Have to Tell You

(“Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, ‘Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come…and save you.’” Isaiah 35:3-4

I hate to admit but my eyes are blood-red this morning,
blood-red since yesterday, closed and shut throughout the night.
I though we both received the same orders; the ones I received decades
ago, the same you’ve heard from the mouth of the Lord:

“Go into the world..”

But, here is where my eyes break down, where my stomach lodges
clear up into my throat,
where my fingers shake from mistaken interpretations as
more and more act like dragons
and spit fire at the world they think has begun its
persecution.

“Go into all the world…”

But we gossip about the “family on welfare” where,
parked just in front of the sagging garage,
was a fancy car, a new car, a car sans scratches, and
one that matches your best desire for one too.
And you step into church, with the first sentence ringing:
“I drove by Linda’s place. Ha…she gets food stamps while there
is a fancy car in her driveway!” And our dragon saliva lights the
next best gossips to say the same. Worship did not happen that day,
I think Jesus ran away to comfort the object of these good peoples’ scorn.

“Go into all the world and preach…”

Hey, we pay a pastor to do that. And, boy can he tell a story. I mean,
he has our ear every week. (And they go home never taking their
booster thoughts of truth.) We pay a pastor well, until, he meddles
in politics, or sex, or money. And we would report him the moment
he mentioned the Democrats’ solutions. We don’t walk out, we just
leave our post and send letters of excuses, because I want to leave worship
like a massage, and without bruises.

“Go into all the world and preach the Good News…”

That’s the Ten Commandments, isn’t it? Oh it is so sad that they won’t
let us
post the 10 on every state house lawn, or every
telephone pole alone I-5. We used to be such a godly nation. (Decimating
Native Americans, Enslaving African tribes, Denying Votes to fellow females,
and rounding up every Japanese inside chicken-wire ghettos. Not to mention
lynchings and mobs and bombs targeted with hateful precision.)
We used to be such a Christian Nation.

“Go into all the world and preach the Good News to every creature…”

But you better take a gun with you, or mace, or pepper spray, and don’t
stay too long in the neighborhoods marked by poverty and starvation.
“Here’s a per diem, you can buy all the food you want at McDonald's or
Arby’s. Spend your money wisely, and you will come out ahead.”
They watch us, well, they see us well. And, at least we went on
this mission trip
when the others stayed home without precedent.

By the way, did you notice that one house. Oh it was decrepit. Shutters
hanging askew. Wood siding cracked, splintered and eaten a foot above the
foundation wall. Broken windows and forgotten screens, roof shingles
looked like a melting cake frosting. And then, (don’t mention this to
anyone else)

But, did you notice, that a Cadillac pulled up, maybe two years old,
and shiny, oh it was shiny. It gleamed golden in the sun. Those seats
were leather, I know they were. I just have to tell you. It makes me
mad, people like this, using my taxes to get themselves ahead.

…and preach the Good News…

I’m sorry, God, we didn’t get to it today.

The Air Sounds Like

The Air Sounds Like

(“When the Lord saw her, he felt sorry for her and said, ‘Don’t cry.’” Luke 7:13)

We scratch our heads so often; we question the days and argue with clouds.
We debate the death the looms above the final step for every journey.
We come home from this vacation, we return from that trip to fish,
we pull into the driveway half wondering how we’ll get in the front door;

But one day we will not return. A journey where the footprints simple stop.
No one computed the demanded time, and so our fathers and grandfathers still
have lemonade far into the afternoon, while
a mother and daughter have been parted since the second full moon the first child knew.

“It’s alright, it’s ok,” we say. We know the end of the trail
appears somewhere between one inhale of forest and the last exhale
of goodbye. If there is a half circle gathered around our final moment,
there is waiting, watching. Every vision is a solid stare, fast and focused
upon the nose and mouth and silence (undemanded) fills what might be lost.
One unintended, brings his fingers to the back of his head and scratches just
as everyone concludes the end has come. Mouth and lungs, eyes and fingers
are in suspended animation. The first, second, third, then three at once, then
uncounted
the tears spread around the room without blush or hesitation.

Only few notice the eyes that see unseen. In the silence, the solace is quieter still.
The hand, perhaps, that escorted the waiting one across the final precipice,
was the one who waited now, to dry eyes and find the middle of every room
where grief has swallowed a family, a church, a town or nation. He is
the exact center measured from every tear dropped from eye to earth.

He is the exact reason the last exhale happens beyond our hearing;
He is the exact substance, image, feeling of each one in the room and
the One who made each one in the room: He is the exact. Whether

He touches the bodies of the dead, or the brooding of the living, He touches them
with life,
with feeling,
with breath that leaves the air sound like the first day of birthing over again.