Smoked Corn

Smoked Corn

I can tell by the way you smile you like the corn
that was smoked on the cob. Spice bites softly,
smoke grounds it, and each kernel is another bubble
of sweetness that combines with the butter in your mouth.
No wonder we talk more together when reaching for
the next bite of burger
grilled just moments ago.

Four adults and a rectangle table. One 2-week-old
baby, soaking up all the attention. Four dogs in our
daughter’s home, plus one alone from our home too.
One ancient cat that barely moves…couch to feed dish…
15 years and fluffy. Wherever she sits is her throne.

Nothing ever goes to waste; the minutes without voices,
potato salad dropped on the floor (that’s what the pack of
dogs is for), and the easy sleep of a baby passed around
the generations at the table.

There was no prayer, but for the bounty before us gratefulness
abounded.
We sang no hymns, but the Baby Man recently entering the world
filled us with song.
And no final benediction, save for hugs and “love-yous” as
we took our leave back home.

There is sanctity in communal meals, there is holiness in the
humility we share;
these bodies do not let us live long at all without
food. We share a table, we share mortality. And so we smile
broader knowing time will not capture us, space will not define us,

And church bells only remind us that eucharist is everywhere
we eat together with seen and unseen guests.

Silence is an Answer

Silence is an Answer

He got up from the table, the food had all been served,
but the looks on the faces, the uneasy gazes made him think
he might need to clear his mind before
they cleared the dishes.

He walked out the same door he had used for over
a decade
and walked out before desert.

It was no wrong turn that took him there; in fact, he was invited.
This last meal was much like scores of others,
but in his sleep he dreamt the drinks might be poisoned.
So, his bride beside him, they left the folding chairs in winter
(they were stuck on the floor and
no one stood to help.)

The night fell before the sun stopped shining,
the talk was subdued, and the goodbyes stayed firmly
on the ground.
He wished for longer tables and shorter lines,
for wider conversation and deeper embraces (not
to suggest too many things were unexpressed.)

He got up from the table, the words all untangled
stayed behind in closets of puppet stages and belfries.
He would check the mail often, his bride beside him,
and opened the past like cobwebbed air.
He broke.

He

Broke.

Silence is an answer, he finally understood.
And he never entered the same doors again.

Turn Table

 

Turn Table

(“My house will be called a house of prayer–but you have made it a brigands’ lair!” Matthew 21:13)

 

We sell our soul, we sell our vote,
we sell our best words and call them hope.
Besides, no one was home when we knocked on the door
that one time six months ago, and now I’ve lost your address
and don’t want to disturb you with a call.

We build our churches, we erect our halls,
we sell rummage and erect our stalls
outside shopping malls in the best part of town.
And when the day is over, we luxuriate in showers
hoping to wipe away every bit of clown paint from our
roles of a lifetime. Most times we’re mistaken, most times
we want another turn down the slide on hot summer days.

Many times, we choose our teams and wonder why
the boys with uncut hair and the
girls with coffee stained jeans
never ask to be in our game.
And when someone cries loud enough, hard enough,
high enough to weep for acceptance…

But that rarely happens since we’ve already forgotten them.
And who wants to be rejected twice? Save your money for
a second piece of pie. No one wants to be forgotten a third time.

How angry can Jesus be? No, really. We awake on Sundays
and crowd into the back of the hall with others who agree with us
on almost
everything. How angry can he be? Every Christmas we find toys
for the poor little girls and boys. Every Thanksgiving we find enough
turkeys to feed a dozen for free. For two months of twelve we
give away to a few and shelve the rest for new classrooms on the
eastern hall.

Some days, when you remember the aching few, do it in a month
that requires nothing of you. Bits and bytes that fly through the sky
are counterfeit coins landing sideways. We need eye to eye. We
need a friend to walk up the driveway.

Worry for Weeks

 

Worry for Weeks

(“But I do have something against you! And it is this: You don’t have as much love as you used to.” Revelation 2:4)

An entire life can be squeezed into a moment,
a solitary word from a frozen sky can
crush the light that rained like spectral colors
across the soul.
An entire life can be freed in a moment,
a singular look from a faithful friend can
spark the dark that shamed like cavernous shade
and heal the soul.

But the fog descended overnight with trumpets of thunder,
the skies creased as supper was set on a thousand tables,
and the river sang the same ballad it had learned long ago.

I worry for weeks over broken things,
I worry week after week over things
I have broken.

Whatever is broken, sit at my table,
Whatever you have shattered, leave it for another time.

I cannot sleep for days over cancelled lives,
I cannot sleep night after night over lives
I have cancelled.

            Whatever you deleted, break this bread with me,
            Whoever you abandoned, there is a new subscription.

I cannot sing for months over hidden sins,
I cannot sing month after month over sins
I have not revealed.

            Whatever you transgressed, drink new wine with me,
            Whatever you withheld, there is no evidence.

And the fog soon lifted as the day closed with orange and pink couture,
the skies danced and dessert was served on a single table for a thousand,
and the river whistled the same ditty it had saved up for this very day.

At the Table

At the Table

(“And he said to me, ‘This is the table that is before the Lord.’” Ezekiel 41:22b)

The restaurant was darker than most, the walls splayed with
lights of neon green. The large booth received us well, our family
that dines together and fills the air around us with high notes
of merriment,
low notes
of secrets,
intervals of silence between an almost-forgotten joke
and the beginnings of laughter (the respectful kind
that knows a father’s punchline well before he gets there.)

Before the food ever arrives the server greets our little tribe,
and we would feed her too if she didn’t have other things to do.
Philippine Paella family style is the majority vote and
the food arrives before the royal princess can finish
her third story about her best friend and learning Mandarin,
and cousins and the new dog that owns the home.
She carries the conversation at six and nearly seven;
theater and spotlight runs deeply in her veins.

Once a year our scattered family tries to meet; the
hug is Minneapolis with Dallas, Chicago, Baltimore,
California and the Pacific Northwest the remote abodes
strewn across the continent.

We fish our favorites out of the giant pan before us,
sweet mussels and sea salt clams, luxuriant crab and
salacious shrimp, along with sausage, fragrant and spice.
All of it resting upon rice turned playful in the saffron sauce.

Food needs a table, meals need a family; we never remember
the quick peanut butter sandwich at home for lunch or
the leftover meatloaf spread across competing rooms for dinner.
One does homework, another reads, and others watch Jeopardy
with memories barely jarred.

Lord, Your table is spread, made ready for our hunger. We need
so much more
than we ask for or order.
So teach us to remain long after the check has arrived,
help us remember the clatter of kitchen sounds
every time we find ourselves eating and drinking
together

At the Table of the Lord.