That We Would Stay

That We Would Stay

(“He told them, ‘My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’” Matthew 26:38)

Sadness makes me slumber and pain makes me crazy;
and I could not choose which one I would lose when you
told us you were grieving far greater than we understood.
Perhaps it was the wine with dinner,
perhaps it was the dinner itself;
Or maybe it was the evening fog climbing the mount to
the garden where we had come.

All we wanted was clarity and all we had were pronouncements
we never quite understood. But we could hear it in your voice
that sounded vacant and your eyes red with pleading.
We had spent time with you before, just the three of us and
you,
but tonight was different and the air was heavy with discontent.

I promised to do anything for you my future and present Lord,
but though my spirit willed it, my will was drowsy and heavy
with the construction of a home on what felt like sinking sand.
We wished we were angels and could wing our flight above
the garden to watch out for the coming gloom.

Crushed with grief you said. To the point of death you said.
And we barely heard or understood. It felt like the nets of
safety
were badly torn and every evil was about to fill the massive
holes
that kept classless horror at bay. And all you asked us was to pray.
All you asked was that we would stay.

Some Stay on the Same Square

Some Stay on the Same Square

(“Abraham was waiting for the city that has real foundations—the city planned and built by God.” Hebrews 11:10)

Some stay on the same square, never moving high or low,
never exploring diagonals that crossed their fence lines like
afternoon sunlight. They find silence one way to cope.
They think they are home. There is dirt between their toes,
but their souls are mere mirrors of every marionette face
that has nodded in approval.

I’m not sure where I fit. Some days the only speech I hear
is the buzzing of wings filling the air. Others the moments are
silent as snow.

Some wander like dandelion fluff, alighting on fence posts,
on the ears of lazy dogs in the sun, on the forehead of an old man
wishing he was young. Some never settle but are carried beyond
the sun. Behind the star where no one can prove they exist at all.

I have not wandered that far. But my feet are worn from red
Oklahoma clay, from black adolescent asphalt, from North Country
needles of ice, from imitating the fancy dancers on the summer plains.

The summer before high school, late for an evening walk,
two girls walked toward me who I had not met. They were eating
grapes
in the waning summer warmth. The told me their names, threw
the grapes on the street and told me they were making wine.
And one, I am happy to say, is still a friend of mine.

Some clamp down and never let go. Some hide inside the
doctrines that lied to them about the length and love and
shape and movement of things. Though they would thrive with
a single moment of brave contemplation, their diet is complete.
The healer they long for will never appear until their
lego towers crumble, random and underfoot.

I have built monoliths; I have worshiped granite. I have
longed for magical upheaval; I have written stone monuments
upon my walls.

My bones have become rigid while my heart melts beneath
the warmth that makes every turn of the earth my home.

I Will Always Stay

 I Will Always Stay

(“O Lord, by your favor you have made my mountain stand firm. When you hid your face, I was terrified.” Psalm 30:7)

If your best friend likes butter cream,
then, by all means, head to the grocery store
and pick up the cake. Birthdays are meant to be
be sticky and sweet.

Sometimes the gaze of love comes late,
sometimes we do not feel it at all,
if only we could see, behind the silence,
the heart that carries us forever. We miss
so much when the quietness is louder than
simple hope, lazy days on the lake and
pizza shared on a table with laughter we have
waited for so long.

We walk to the mountains and hope to find God,
we sit in worship and dream of beaches,
we ache for a glance from the one friend who
never walks away,
we find the air so lively we swear
we have been here more years than we have been born.

We listen for the voice, the one that always is
happy we called,
and sunbursts of confetti become the next verse of
our psalm.

But we go days on end, don’t we, wondering how
valuable we are.
We sweat and cry, or close the door just
hoping
someone will ring the bell.

We listen to music, as long as it will last, but
it never replaces the presence of the sloppy bows
tied around familiar arms,
the dazzling ancient eyes we have known so long.
We fear one day,
someday,
the eyes may turn away.

And where will that leave us?

Mercy. We cry. Mercy.
And someone, a voice so familiar we would
know it anywhere, echoes so simply,

I will always stay.

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

 

Do You Hear the Pipes Playing?

(“Though you were like straying sheep, you have now returned to the shepherd and guardian of your lives.” 1 Peter 2:25)

Do you hear the pipes playing,
wooden flutes on distant hills?
Do you recognize the melody,
floating across the silver river;
the acoustics that draw you home?

Do you hear the folk tunes, the roots music,
the banjo and guitar sliding under your consciousness,
the cicadas of the afternoon.
Feet tap on wooden porches, children clap
and dance between the broken boards and
tall glasses of sweet tea.

We have all seen it, the fear at the end of the gate.
We have all felt it, the shiver when we think we have
arrived too late. But then we hear it, the welcome song,
the hug your neck, we haven’t seen you for so long song.
And today you stay longer than you did last week,
today the song sounds stronger, like stones in the creek,
and it makes you want to stay until the impulses to leave
fade behind the music the master has played.

Though all have fallen fast asleep, the music continues
well into your dreams. It encompasses everything.
The fears are real but the melody infuses
the spirits and trauma that left you confused.
There is a wanderer who bids you to follow,
flute and birds lead the way. Tomorrow, like today,
will be the quilt comfort of ballads and blues,
the muse calls you to stay.