We Had to Pause

We Had to Pause

(“The Lord God is my strength. He will give me feet like a deer and make me leap along the high hills.” Habakkuk 3:19)

The pace slowed as the day grew longer,
the sprints stole our breath. We were ivy
learning to climb. Taught to keep time by
the beat of rushing headlines we were worn
out from
chasing deadlines that killed our wonder.

We had to pause.
We took meals cooked by campfire,
we drank streams slowly as we dissolved into
the slower tempo of mountain hikes.
We had to waves as faces became clearer
becoming fascinated by freckles, hairlines, and
cheeks streaked with mud. We wanted to
memorize the eyes that saw us, record the way
they translated stillness into passion.

We had to hear.
And that meant dismantling stadiums full of
applause, raiding the meadows to steal a
song so unrehearsed we finally felt human.
We were the lucky ones who happened to cry
when stumbling on sounds, when doves whispered
and babies cooed.

When our breath slowed we could listen between
the beats of our heart. When our feet hurt we learned
to stop and tell stories before the next bend on the trail.

Bury Your Idols

 Bury Your Idols

(“The Lord God is my strength. He will set my feet like the deer. He will let me walk upon the heights.” Habakkuk 3:19)

Tonight more blood stains the streets
while the entitled
use our children for target practice.
Tonight more mothers cry to the sky
helpless as
ducks in a shooting gallery.
Tonight more people
used their rights
to suspend righteousness and
pave the footprints of cowardice;
oh people of pretense, get on your
feet and walk where too many have fallen.

Look in the caskets.
A long, painful, life-shattering look at
what the masters of violence have wrought.
Can you still identify them by their faces,
can you?
Can you tell who died first or last,
or who never saw it coming?
Can you, just this once, learn the sculpture,
the art,
the hard, fucking casualties of your
complacency?

Don’t tell me how high you have walked.
I want to know, has enough blood soaked your
sneakers? Has enough flesh been torn from
bony limbs, enough bodies ripped to shreds?

Don’t tell me you’ll pray. Don’t say it.
Don’t tell me God is your strength
if you’re too weak
to turn your hellish idol into garden
tools.
Don’t tell me how much it haunts you;
get off your pious ass and learn the ways of
the Spirit, the Mother, the Daughter,
the One attacked from womb to Golgotha
with the weapons of institutional anger.

I can’t stand to see another fundraiser,
I will not let your group wash my car.
I can’t stand to see another shirt that proclaims
devilish schemes in the name of
the one who rains on the just, the unjust,
the crust and the bread. Cry

Out.

Raise your voice. Speak up. Loudly.
The voices from sod and pavement
will not wait for you to call another vigil.
Find the words from the
God

Who refused violence, who died for friends,
foes, dust and the earth.

Bury your idols and
let the children live.

Perhaps a Mild One

 

Perhaps a Mild One

(“The Lord is my strength and my power; he has become my salvation. This is my God, whom I will praise, the God of my ancestors, whom I will acclaim.” Exodus15:2)

What I want to know is
why the waters do not always part.
This is not a complaint, or perhaps just
a mild one,
simply a question that fills my ache every time
someone else’s sea stands dry, and they pass by
with a satisfied look in their eyes.

I would sing too, and so would you,
if it happened to us. We might stay in
the riverbed
all afternoon building sand-castles
or cairns to mark the day.

You might even say I am jealous for the stories
told in ten seconds or less
about the mess that now looks like
a wedding cake on display. And yes,
my messes look more like pudding or
dumplings,
I admit.

Though it may not be dramatic,
though the overture is painfully short,
though the curtains open on a scene so ordinary
it could be main street,
or ranch style,
or farm house,
or downtown diner,
or just some children wading in the river
with the dogs biting the water and
turning somersaults in the sand;

Though it may not be a masterpiece
of biblical proportions
or an anthem of alleluias,
the story I’ve learned has enough space
for my questions
and enough wonder to keep me
peeking at tomorrow as it comes over the ridge.

Scars Lose their Luster

Scars Lose their Luster

(“The Lord gives his people strength; the Lord grants his people security.” Psalm 29:11)

Scars lose their luster only in the eyes of those
who have never seen the strength it takes to
stand in the way while soundwaves encircle
like sharks.

It takes a different breath to blow summer bubbles than
to extinguish birthday candles. The gentle air slides inside
the soapy film and it folds upon itself. The huge inhale and
puffed out cheeks whoosh past the wicks and complete the
next stage of gray. Each, in their own way,
are rainbow art and photography.

Look closely at the cratered face,
there once was something magic there,

that either disintegrated upon impact
or was excised by the scalpels of a thousand tongues.

Look clearly at the furtive eyes,
there once was something sparkling there,
that either evaporated upon drought
or was dispatched by the hackles of a thousand guns.

And still, and swinging on the pendulum of song…

It is the power that allows the widow to cry,
it is the peace that encourages the barroom reply,
it is the abundance that fully walks upon the earth,
it is the language that defines all as equal worth;
all is spiritual in the tongue of the redeemed.

It is gritty, not ghostly;
it is dirt clods not prayer cloths.
It is cattle and hay, new births and old departures.
All and in all, the strength is as the day.

We will, and swaying on the compasses of song…

Some Kind of Joy

Some Kind of Joy

(“The Lord is my strength and my shield, in whom my heart trusts. I am helped, so my heart rejoices; with my song I praise him.” Psalm 28:7)

When did I start thinking that my entire live would be lived
above
ground?

There are a lot of people who have cared,
but not enough.

Along the way while trying my best
someone plowed under my confidence.

Much of my imagination was buried below
the horizon while
I slept for decades.

And now dreams wake me growling
at invasions and protestations
that hide in the light of day.

The darkness can instruct me,
send me, arouse me to listen
to the lower chambers of my heart.

Faces I have not seen in 40 years
greet me in love while nearer acquaintances
stay silent.

A lot of people have cared, but is it
enough?

It is not death I fear,
(it is closer than later)
but more life underground.

My songs have change, the lyrics
like water,
fit the forms of my life completely.

I am moving out from approval
to some kind of joy that fits my
doubts and jagged melancholy.

In this I rest, beneath the topsoil and
atop the buttes,
I shall be I

And I shall rejoice the One-that-Is
has planted me, shone on me,
coaxed me and nurtured me

In the quiet rhythms of life underground.

We All Stand

We All Stand

(“God is our shelter and our strength. When troubles seem near, God is nearer, and He’s ready to help.” Psalm 46:1)

The clouds hung like sheets in the wind,
while we craved what we never won;
oceans spin out of control while the earth bucks and bends
gravitation its way and then,
someone discovers the exception to the rule

And we all stand up and declare him the fool.

Lately the rain has colored the pages,
secretly the chords made us young;
celestas ring like handheld bells while chimes draw and call
crowds aloud and pedestrians crawl,someone composes a score upon cluttered rhythms and tones

And we all stand up to answer the phone.

The gentle are strong, sun or gloom,
while the cruel waste their breath and tongue;
lectures lock us imprisoned and letters turn the key
from the outside, to keep us in:
somewhere one voice ends the wrath; “forgive” trumpets grace first to last

And we still stand up to measure the past.

Stronger than She Feels

Stronger than She Feels
(for my daughter Sarah)

(“Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Don’t tremble with fear.     I am your God. I will make you strong, as I protect you with my arm and give you victories.” Isaiah 41:10)

Surely the way opens for you like
the drapes framing the first light of sun for you;
surely the heart you possess
has been given to Him who knows you best.

You fly above and see the sorrow below,
you walk beside the youngest up the steeps of light,
you stay with them to celebrate the plateau upon
the most sun-rich day.

They are dancers in your eyes, only years alive and
so full of daddy questions and mommy mottos,
and you sweep them up, one or dozens,
in one swoop of your arms (the once tiny arms I
watched in ballerina poses). They are your
bouquets, roses and daffodils and countless
dandelions
(what would a children’s garden be without the
butter-yellow weed we blow to across the sky with
wishes sent and seeds to grow in the neighbor’s backyard).

Your feet have always danced, and they will be planted
tomorrow; though your questions outweigh your confidence,
the Destiny, the open-book story with the pop-up pictures
is just beginning its out-loud read.

Every giggle, every baby’s babble; each skydive from the clouds,
each studied arrival at a brand new address; all attest
the beauty, the brave, the spiritual, the grace of a woman
whose God is making her

Stronger than she feels.

Be the Words

"Be the Words"

(“Timothy, my child, Christ Jesus is kind, and you must let him make you strong.” 2 Timothy 2:1)

Where did the fight originate?
The one that started on the street and landed at the feet
of open mouthed bystanders who lived within inches
of the scraped knees that skid across uncrossed words
meant for lower targets.

Flames grab the minds with fist rarely squeezed until
a day, walking past a yesterday friend, she heard the words
that have no more spark than bare feet scuffling across
a dry day shag carpet and shaking hands with the first door
knob
inside.

But the words itched the tiny hairs within her hearing,
the diminutive bones inside her ears and without a snap
or spark to jump the gap from hurt to reason
the battle was drawn, the sides joined, the fight begun,
the coins of the realm minted to buy the truth
to prove who would lose and who had won.

So the strong thought. And so the weak responded.
So the bullies sneered. And so the prey still shivered.
The playgrounds and board rooms,
the courtrooms and ground rules,
the sanctuaries and park benches
are never out of bounds of humanities
skewed frames of reference.

Be strong, be kind; be the strong who is kind,
be the kind who kills with kindness,
be the strength who loves the abuser
without moving, words the firm with a whisper.

Be young and strong, the kind that defies newday dna,
be the kind who loves the victim
without prior approval, words the tender with eyes
unblinking.

Outside the Comfort Zone

“Finally, grow strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power.” Ephesians 6:10

As humans we grow naturally in the direction of our own comfort. That is why we are often inspired by people who take risks and overcome great obstacles. Though we may not be given super-strength to perform amazing feats as Christians, we are enabled to move through pain and even into areas of discomfort. It is those occasions where we learn the true power God provides.

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

Blonde-Wood Hi Fi

(“The Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, says, ‘If you come back to me you will be saved. Only by remaining calm and trusting in me can you be strong.’” …but you don’t want to do that.” Isaiah 30:15)

It is rarely the loud that drowns the good,
nor the quiet that overcomes the whispers.
Arpeggios can fence us in as quickly as power chords
cranked to eleven.
The silence of solitary can stir the uncertain

in mirrors of our own expectations.

It is the quiet lights of home we long for,
the way Papa’s music played on the blonde-wood hi-fi.
It is the front porch speaker with Peter, Paul and Mary
and The Kinston Trio. It is the comedy lp of the
Smothers Brothers and Bill Cosby. They always
sounded the same at home.

It was the 45s I borrowed from my best friend’s sister,
“Hello Goodbye” with “I am The Walrus” on the other side.

It became the Celtic flutes and bluegrass I loved,
and then Count Basie with Dave Brubeck expanding
the cuisine first birthed orbiting a spindle with the
magical needle reproducing the air’s vibration to
a circle of spinning vinyl.

It is my Father’s house where music took my hand,
falling asleep with the earplug from the handmade crystal radio
and I first heard,
“Stop in the Name of Love.” The hooks hooked me, the
mystery fascinated me and the music found nicks and crannies
within I never knew existed.

It is my Father’s love that keeps me coming home,
though the record collection is gone forever. When I stop

And let the music in, like a afternoon swim in the river,
within me, without me, the love of melody and rhythm
settle my anxious questions, and sometimes I still laugh
at which brother mother loved best.

The Strength of My Heart

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26

It was going to be a perfect day. It was one of those Southwest Washington summer mornings that began with light fog but quickly burst into full sunlight. The sky, often gray and overcast, was the same blue as the tiles of an Olympic swimming pool, beckoning you to dive in. This day called, “All is well, come and enjoy!”

That is exactly what I had planned. Our daughter, still in high school had slept in a bit because it was summer, but still rose earlier than normal; her baby niece, Anika was here! Our oldest son and his wife, along with our younger son, had all gathered for a few days of happy family time. Mike and Julie lived in Richmond, VA at the time, and Jonathan, living in Minneapolis, was about six months away from being deployed by the Peace Corps to Guatemala. We debate, laugh, play and eat more passionately when we are all together.

I was just finishing the last lines of a bit of writing in my office, and was ready to shut the computer down and go home. A dear friend happened to be online, and we had been chatting a bit as I wrote. She understood my constant battle with depression, so I asked her, “Please pray for me. I don’t want to fall into the pit while my family is home. I do not want to be the center of attention.” She promised her attentive prayer.

I turned out the lights, locked the office behind me and headed home. We had a brush pile I had put off burning, and today was perfect for it. We would burn it down to embers, then have a nice bonfire that evening. I went into the garage, found my necessary tools and accelerant, turned on the water, dragged the hose to the brush pile and doused four corners of the pile well. As I lit the match to start the burn a ball of fire exploded, engulfing me from the knees down. I leapt and screamed at exactly the same time, rolling to put out any residual flames on my jeans. I am very fortunate that I was not wearing shorts that day.

In pain, my boys pulled me away from the fire and onto the patio while my wife called 911. I now know why shock is the first way our bodies respond to trauma. Until the pain set in, I was able to think clearly and focus on what were the right things to do. My oldest son cradled me in his arms with my younger son sitting on my left; both my boys holding on to dad. That’s when I looked up at them both and said, “This is too funny; I just finished chatting with a friend before I came over. I told her, “Please pray, I don’t want to be the center of attention this time.”

Michael replied, “That is funny.” Both my boys are fully aware of my struggle with depression. Then the Early Responders arrived, swept me up into the ambulance and hurried me to the hospital 25 miles away. I had third degree burns over about half of my lower right leg.

It was going to be a perfect day; instead it turned into moments of fear punctuated with moans of pain and a laugh or two. The worst pain was during the weeks of recovery. If I stood up, the entire fluid that had built up in my healing wound bulged near my calf. More than once I fell down from the pain, right in front of my daughter-in-law. (I have long ago stopped worrying about embarrassing myself in front of my own kids.)

After coming home, thinking things through and looking at what I used to start the fire, I realized my mistake. I took down a can of “camping fuel” to douse the burn pile, thinking that camp fuel was kerosene. I was so wrong…it was “white gas.” White gas is even more volatile than gasoline and the fumes had already settled about wading pool deep around my legs. The match set that entire area aflame!

I am well now, with a story to tell, and a goofy tan line on my legs (if I ever get out in the sun). On a smaller scale, though, we all have days that don’t measure up to our plans. We may even have an entire life that ended up far differently than we planned.

I started these thoughts remembering that I will celebrate 40 years of following Christ in December. It made me think of all the ups and downs, the things I thought God had to do, the things God refused to do, and the many times I have simply let Him down. That will be for another posting. For now, let me say that my life is nowhere near what I imagined 40 years ago when I said “Yes” to Jesus.

Some if it is far sadder than I imagined, some more content. There are times I regret decisions I made because I thought I was following God’s “leading”, or at least the leading someone suggested was God. In the end, none of that matters much. What does matter is, no matter my failures or misunderstandings, or how often my flesh or my heart has failed, God has truly been the strength of my heart and my portion forever. I never would have chosen this path apart from Him.

When My Heart is Weak

(“When my heart is weak, I cry out to you from the very ends of the earth. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I am.” Psalm 61:2)

A ship far out at sea, beyond sight of land and beyond all lines of communication encounters a storm of immense power with little provision or capacity to face the threat of sinking beneath the waves. This seems to be the way David describes the state of his heart. His heart is “weak”, or more literally, “overwhelmed”. He cries from the very ends of the earth. He is in the remote wilderness, far removed from help or supplies. His only hope is a rock “higher than I”; an island, a port in the storm, a lighthouse to guide him through the threatening wind and waves.

It is easy to become overwhelmed with life. One doesn’t have to face critical health or loss of employment to feel overwhelmed. A young teen encounters emotions and relationships on a new level and can feel overwhelmed with the rush of feelings washing over their mind. A young couple, thinking marriage is as romantic as a fairy tale soon is overwhelmed in learning how to live with another person full-time. Though committed, they may believe they are the only couple to ever endure the storms of human relationships. With perfectly pure expectations, they may quickly become disillusioned by the work it takes to keep love strong and alive.

College presents its own maze of disorienting classes, prerequisites, fees, books, tuition and roommates from hell. Jumping from a safe family into the uncertain waters of dorms, professors and career counseling, the student can certainly be overwhelmed. Careers may stop and start like the first used car we ever owned, sputtering into the world with all the excitement of a two month old puppy. But, if statistics hold true, that career may change numerous times over a lifetime. We become overwhelmed by the business of simply making a living.

Never mind the friendships that we hope will last forever that take a turn for the worse, sometimes never repaired. Never mind the children we raise who come with no direction manual, no off button and such a range of attitudes and affectations that we are surprised that both parents and child get out of the first eighteen years alive. Never mind our beautiful grandchildren who live so far away that they grow twice as fast as our own children. We measure our own age by the granddaughter who, graduating from high school, was just a toddler last Christmas. Soon we are overwhelmed by the thought that this will all be over one day.

Leave aside the cross words at a co-worker, the discouragement over missed opportunities, the rules for life that worked so well in our youth seem to have changed altogether. Leave aside the questions we ask from early childhood that still have so few answers. Why do mean people get all the attention? If God is real, wouldn’t he make it really, really clear? Why did so many people die in that hurricane? If turning the cheek is really the best way, why am I bruised so badly? And, please tell me why are the things I hate the most about myself are the things that never change?

Our hearts are weak. We do well to admit it. There is so much about life to embrace with joy and enthusiasm, but we mustn’t hide when the world stops making sense, the fun downhill run becomes a plodding uphill battle to place one foot in front of the other. We thank God for the wind in our face on the way down, and cry out to Him when the upward hike seems to rob every breath.

It is those times, feeling like we are at the ends of the earth, removed from all help, that we cry out to God. We do not ask for explanations for all of our confusion, we ask for strength to continue the journey He has prepared for us. We know the universe holds mystery after mystery, the intricacies of human relationships keep us alert with every conversation we have. We do not want to walk away from discovery, we don’t want to give up on relationships, we want to cry out, when we are overwhelmed and feel like castaways in our storm of uncertainty: “Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I am!”

“Take me to the high place with You that is safe above the hubbub and the cyclones of my anguished heart, and let me rest and renew myself in the crevices where the storm cannot reach.”

Personal Strength

“May our Lord Jesus Christ Himself and God our Father… encourage your hearts and strengthen you in every good work and word.” 2 Thessalonians 2:16a, 17

We humans are the only “animal” given to self-examination. The more conscious of our true self we are, the more mature we are likely to become. Our language is funny, though, because we call someone “self-conscious” if they are shy or concerned about how others may respond to their words or actions.

Great Strength

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

When Jesus calls us, He does not offer a sample platter of Kingdom offerings. He grants His grace without measure to everyone who answers His call. It is important to remember, though, that He also asks us for everything. Grace is God’s free gift to those who know how bankrupt they truly are.

All I Need

But the Lord said, “My grace is all you need. Only when you are weak can everything be done completely by my power.” So I will gladly boast about my weaknesses. Then Christ’s power can stay in me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

The beauty of Christ is seen no better than when set against the darkness of His followers’ struggles and weakness. Just as stars shine more brightly against a dark, rural sky, so those who trust Jesus in the midst of personal pain or hardship stand out more brilliantly than when all is well.

Secure

Secure

“The Father who put them under my care is so much greater than the Destroyer and Thief. No one could ever get them away from Him.” John 10:29 (The Message)


Someone recently commented to me that he felt the devil was getting stronger and stronger. He thought Satan was winning more and more people over, and making it harder to serve God as he got older. I sympathize with his personal struggles and observation of life surrounding him, but the conclusion he draws just won’t hold water.


Jesus is explicit here concerning those who are under His care. Our wonderful Heavenly Father is “so much greater than the Destroyer and Thief.” Yet, even with Jesus’ words of truth and comfort I continue to hear believers worry about how “strong” Satan seems to be.


They fret over their own standing with God. They see nothing but the world going to hell in a handbasket. They attribute everything they don’t like to Satan’s increasing effort and strength. But this sort of thinking us unreasonable and unscriptural.


It is unreasonable because it attributes greater strength to the devil than it does to God. They see a world where God has either given up His authority or is somehow powerless to keep the devil in his place.


It is unscriptural if by virtue of this verse alone. Jesus’ conclusion, based on the Father’s great power over Satan is that “no one could ever get them (believers) away from Him (our Heavenly Father.) Jesus is clear: “no one!” That includes the devil and any snarky pals he wants to recruit.


The devil is real, he does roam about seeking whom he may devour, but does not have absolute power. And, if you want to compare he power to God’s, there simply is no comparison. God’s power is infinite, meaning there is no end to it at all. It is immeasurable. No matter Satan’s power, God’s is infinitely greater.


So, stop the looking for Satan’s evil schemes in every hardship. See the Father’s strength instead. Stop expecting doomsday and expect victory instead. Stop fearing what Satan might do and start loving what the Father wants to do in your life.


Jesus said that no one can take us away from the Father. Trust Him. Take Him at His word. Walk confidently that the Father protects, provides and enables you, even when the devil tries his hardest.


Father God is on your side, and He is greater than any opponents you will encounter. Accept His strength; accept His promise to keep you in His hand, no matter who may try to take you away.


Father, thank You for the strength I have in You. I am confident that You will keep me close to You even in the times when it seems evil is winning. In those times, let me speak of Your great care rather than the opponent’s dreary attempts at power