The Smile Stood Sideways

The Smile Stood Sideways

(“Then he carries it back home. He speaks to all his friends and to the people that live near him. He says, ‘I have found the sheep that I lost. So come to my house and we can all be happy together.’” Luke 15:6)

The smile stood sideways climbing up his face
like a flowering vine, like hibiscus, like morning glories
following the sun. The music overflowed above
the neighborhood fences and filled the street
with anonymous dancers celebrating like summer
had arrived weeks earlier than expected. Even the
babies twirled.
No one refused the invitation,
no one remained alone.
No one made up excuses,
no one showed up full-grown.
When the lost are found our aging
reverses its course and we giggle like children
when a favorite friend walks in the door.

The day was one shade darker until the missing one
is found. The day was nearly done with its light,
fading as the sun began to take its rest. But
we
could not stop the search, we would not until
we found the one we loved, isolated from
all the others we loved. Our hearts were
troubled until we found her, caught between
yesterday and a hundred weeks of looking.

We exploded in joy, a full orchestra of rejoicing;
we carried her back and called everyone we knew.
There are smiles so broad they sit sideways on their faces
because love has completed its journey home.

The Water Kept on Flowing

The Water Kept on Flowing

(“For He has satisfied the thirsty and filled the hungry with good things.” Psalm 107:9)

He stood at the faucet in the bathroom
at the farmhouse
where his parents had dropped him off for
the evening. It was supper time
in the country
and he was washing his hands before going to
the table with ham and
fried okra.

He turned the faucet one way and the water flowed.
Warm and clear the soap slipped between his fingers
and bubbled on his knuckles. Four years old
or five
he knew the ritual well.

But the basin was unfamiliar. When he turned the
faucet again
the water kept on flowing. He turned it back
the other way
and the water
kept on flowing.
His face turned red, tears began to burn his eyes,
he turned it again and
the water
kept on flowing.
Confused between clockwise and counter,
baffled by left and then right,
his host, probably the mother,
wondered why he was not back to the table.

She wandered in, the door was open, and saw the
boy
so
anxious because the water
kept on flowing.

She took his hand; her fingers were warm.
His were numb.
She turned the faucet and the water
stopped flowing.

And all he could think was only adults know
how
to make the water flow.

Why the Hell Don’t You be Jesus?

 
Why the Hell Don’t You be Jesus?

(“But the Lord stood with me and gave me strength so that I might preach the Good News in its entirety for all the Gentiles to hear.” 2 Timothy 4:17a)

Jesus is all you need!

They say,
and send you away with another
crunchy cliché.

Jesus is all I need!

They boast,
and hide themselves away before their
brittle bullshit

Reveals their balloon busting pride.

Then the days yawn slowly when no one
made the trip to share hugs, nor dollars, nor
humanity, nor proffers of their
body warmth near mine.

May it not be counted against them.

Jesus stands, if we will see, beside the living spring
that transforms the desert as the sycamores bloom.
Jesus hands the sweet figs into our ailing ego,
fully conscious that we may misinterpret the kindness
and claim an exclusive breakfast meeting with the
glorified son of god.

Too many heads are patted by self-serving
spiritualists who quote more than chapter and verse,
but tell you a tale that was told them about a missionary
in Africa
(it is usually Africa)
who actually saw Jesus’ face in the mane of a lion.

I would not argue with the missionary, if I met her,
but I tire of hearsay mysticism. I cry at the descriptions
only read in books, the ones meant to hook you into
their way of thinking.

Here’s a hint; no, I will say it boldly. Why the hell
don’t you be Jesus
showing up at the time the shaking body you see
truly needs it.

And yet, though some consign the slit-eyed
soul to some outer hallway of unknowing,

The Lord does stand.
She does offer her hand.
He does smooth back your hair
matted with tears and sweat
and leaves you speechless about such encounters
for ever
and ever after.

I Slowed Down Enough

 

I Slowed Down Enough

I slowed enough for you to catch me,
I slowed down to a crawl,
I slowed enough for you to find me,
I slowed to no movement at all.

I radioed ahead that I was coming,
I radioed so you would show,
I radioed ahead while I was driving,
I radioed so you would know.

But you kept up your breakneck pace,
You kept up your distractions,
But you kept up your blinded race,
You kept up your hollow fractions.

I stood in the road far too long,
I stood across from you,
I stood in the road with my old coat on,
I stood right in front of you.

I slowed down once I had hit town,
I slowed down at this address,
I slowed down so I could be found,
I slowed down to emptiness.

But you would only blaze past me,
You would ignore my telegrams,
But you would not simply replace me,
You would treat me like I was banned.

I slowed down enough for you to welcome
me home.

 

Everybody Wants to Know

Everybody Wants to Know

(“They kept on asking Him. Then He stood up and said, ‘Anyone of you who is without sin can throw the first stone at her.’” John 8:7)

The phone kept on ringing; everyone wanted to know the story.
Some were astounded, some felt he had been hounded, but most
were curiosity seekers with rocks in their pockets.

The letters with official stationery and watermarks kept arriving;
the mailbox was another source of panic attacks. New accusations,
new additions to the charges, new lies about what they said they had
not lied about. Though some were sympathetic, the still all had
rocks in their pockets.

He had failed, caught in the act, coughed between scene changes,
as sick over failure as over spoiled meat. He had wept, he had scored
a job just to keep his head above water. He shivered as he drove to
meet every client, sometimes drying tears before he went inside.

He heard about satan most times he gathered with the same clan
in a different town. He repented so many times he nearly drowned
in his own tears. He had revealed his weakness, sought out help,
and instead he was dismissed out of hand; one of the hands that
fiddled with stones in his pocket.

When men lie to destroy the one who sinned worse than them,
who gets to toss the rocks? When the men hate to make themselves
greater than the one who failed, how many stones will we need?

He heard about hell the rest of the times he gathered with
a similar clan that could not stand Obama. This time he was
done repenting
and showed the power of the poisoned arrows every time they
flew from the mouths of men that had no time for him. He escaped
to fewer trusted places, turned away from every face; the

fight for affection and the fear of unconnected rejection
nearly destroyed his soul. One rip after another left him
the loneliest he had ever been.

But he knew one thing, if not two, he would never carry
rocks in his pockets or spew another man’s sins by
phone or letter, word or sermon; he would not load another
man with a weight heavier than his own shame.

You'll Never Guess

You’ll Never Guess

(“They themselves did not go into the court house. They did not want to become unclean. They wanted to eat the Passover Feast.” John 18:28b)

You’ll never guess who sat next to me,
while the drama played out below.
You’ll never fathom what it meant to me,
for someone to enter my unclean home.

Never mind that my thoughts are tangled,
my hair has fallen
and my friends cannot hear the distress calls
I’ve sent secondly hoping for someone to
sit on the porch with me,
take up the torch for me
that I’ve already carried too long.

Some friends followed him,
some adversaries too,
but no one stood with him,
the place was infected and out of tune.

They resisted the gravity of the situation,
and slunk back to homes to prepare flat bread
and meat to celebrate their own liberation.
But no one stood with him,

the place was unholy in the short run.

I might have hurried too; who knew
the weekend was the starting gate for rejuvenation?
All I know is I wait on the porch
for someone else who knows pain and isolation
to offer warm skin, a one way ticket home,
a mortgage forgiven or a gift card redeemable for
darkening the pain,
brightening the stains of depression without
expiration.

You’ll never guess who sat next to me
and I hope somehow, they will return.