On Insomnia

On Insomnia

(“I lie down, sleep, and wake up because the Lord helps me.” Psalm 3:5)

 

There was a time that sleep eluded me. Head on the pillow late
at night and there were locust raises buzzing through my head.
I tried to quiet them, prayed the Name, confessed my bowlful
of sinning, and hoped that was enough to unwind my untidy mind.
Or, nights when I fell asleep nicely, I might wake with a start when
the occupants of my dreams made sure to embarrass me. They
would call me out in front of everyone; they would mock me for
being less tidy than them. Early on it was my parents, the ones
I thought had raised me like love. But I constantly dreamed I had
done something entirely unforgiveable. I locked myself in my room
of that dream and woke up crying.
Sometimes I dreamed I was to lead worship at a large function,
using my keyboard, the instrument that draws forth praise from
my fingers. Five minutes before it was to start, I realized I have
zero music, and the singers have none either. I streak to my office
and look through the files. But they are no longer in alphabetical order
and my face is red with embarrassment. I grab what I can and the
singing is flat and lackluster. I had that dream more time than I
like to recite.

Anxiety haunted me. The hissing in my head never went away.
I carried it during the day with hunched shoulders and hope that
no one thought I was home, or in the office. Men were ready to
argue the least likely doctrines they had read from the latest writer
who claimed he knew it all. There were a handful of kind men,
but they had no power. No one ever asked them to be on the
board of directors or become an elder. Sometimes I think
people gaged them as weak in the faith. Some even tried
to force me to admit sins I never committed (although I had
sinned so much more).

It is no wonder that sleep eluded me. But then I took a huge
step back and outward. I retired and no longer stand in front of
people to try to convince them what God has said. Well, a couple
of times a year to small gatherings of people who know me.

It is the relief of the ages that sleep is now my therapy. I no
longer expect to be woken in the night and driven to the couch
to kneel with my face in the cushions acting like a first-class penitent.
Last night I slept from 11 until 8. My daily headache still ate through
my silent barriers. But I walk, I take an hour, and I see children who say
hi to me first;
I see dogs who want to meet me and lick my face.
I see a family of deer deciding if there is enough to eat in this
new small development. I see a friend drive by who smiles
and waves at me. My bucket is slowly filling for the day
and that leads me to whisper praying and quiet reading.

And I slide into bed, my wife beside me, our dog
between us, and fall asleep with no anxiety leftover
from the days when it felt for sure that my head had been
vised and then told it was all my fault. I repented fairly well,
not enough for some people, but that is for another day.
I just know the nights no longer frighten me, and the mornings
greet me with moments of contemplation. I can say I awake
because the Lord helps me.

Much Further than Yesterday

Much Further than Yesterday

(“Wake up, sleeper! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” Ephesians 5:14b)

My thoughts can scatter like marbles
out of the bag
rolling across the floor with some lost
underneath the couch.
My thoughts can darken like fog forming
on a late night downtown
blearily luring me to sleep.

But I can see straighter, eyes opened,
and light filling my miscreant mind.
I can find the sun I had lost track of,
the moon I had forgotten existed in the
middle of the night. I search the stars to
keep me awake with patterns drawn over
eternity.

I could go out for a ride while the smog
chocked my lungs;
I could turn back and find the coordinates
for the home that had challenged my dying thoughts.
I could order the same food as a day ago
and think it was the first time ever.
I could let my brain get some rest
and see things anew once the sun rose again.

I could wake up like a baby waiting to be fed;
I could go outside and feel the dew on my feet
while my eyes became accustomed to the light. I could see
much further than I did the day before yesterday.

How Multiplied

How Multiplied

(“For there will never cease to be poor people in the land; that is why I am commanding you, ‘Open your hand willingly to your poor and needy brother in your land.’” Deuteronomy 15:11)

There is not much but there is
more than I can carry. I could load it all on
my back, but how far could I go?
I could leave some behind, but who would
hijack my best intentions?
Come journey with me, we will share the load.
Come circle the sunset, come draw the morning rain.
Come as I follow the siren call, the angel’s refrain,
and we’ll split everything we find with anyone else
we meet on the trail. Why would we
keep more than they need? Why would we look the
other way?
I’ve pretended to be happy,
I’ve acted like I was not hungry.
But, truth be told, I still have unbidden tears and
my stomach craves an answer. Have you
felt the same way too? Am I the only one?
Do you wake up on days when everything is provided
and still feel like a pauper on the street?
Do you ever doubt the direction life has propelled
you, the trajectory of unnecessary missiles?
There is more poverty than simply lacking dollars,
there is more hunger than missing loaves of bread.
I’ll open my hand, I’ll help you up to the trail,
we can climb the waterfall we discovered as a couple of
adolescent boys when we were to afraid to ascend. We know
the rocks will be slippery,
but we need another adventure, a reason to sigh.
Or we’ll just walk in silence until it is time to eat again,
and we’ll claim our bread and wine, and we’ll
invite each passerby to share our meager provision
and we’ll see how multiplied we can be. We’ll
see how multiplied we all can be.

Ribbons Without Rhyme

Ribbons Without Rhyme

(“Wake up, sleeper! Rise from death, and Christ will shine on you.” Ephesians 5:14b)

I’m not the same. Are you?
We look for a face that will match
the spirit we’ve always known.
But I’m not the same. Anyway,
I’ve lost the instructions that I followed
to play the games so perfectly. I knew the rules,
and so did you. And we masked everything that
didn’t line up or
kept leaking out from the margins of our mistakes.
If only someone had woken us earlier.
If only we took the sun to bed during the longest
night of our soul.

Here I am. There are you.
The air has lifted the notes that drifted
from our pens into the desert expanse.
Faintly we promise we’ll find them before
the day is over. Granted we won’t remember them;
sainted we’ll still search for them two years hence.
I spent some time looking for the words in ink
that once flowed like a midnight moon above the
hard-bed floor. I didn’t guess it. Did you?
And did we quote those before us,
or pretend we are the originals? Strings of
poetry, ribbons without rhyme, we wrapped up the
day, the shortest
day in the cold.

We could invite others to write,
we could open our circle. Couldn’t we?
Laughter has become so expensive, can we
afford to investigate all the reasons why?
Or shall we simply find another band of brothers
to walk along the riverbed, look into the sky,
smoke a cigarette or two and admit we never knew
why
anyone would understand the game we created
or the
words we weaved so seriously when

We walked further than we planned and discovered
more than the mixture of day-to-night. We would
tell the story decades from now.

The Steam May Rise

The Steam May Rise

(“Peace in place of bitterness! You have preserved my life from the pit of destruction; behind your back you cast all my sins.” Isaiah 38:17)

Tonight, the steam may rise from
wet pavement warmed by tropical sun.
Tonight ice may form on heated roofs
to melt away near noon.
Tonight pipes might freeze, children shiver,
moms wonder how soon someone will deliver
the next cord of wood to heat her leaky home.

I might put on a movie tonight.
I might think of calling someone too late who
is my age
and lives three time zones away. They used to live
in my neighborhood. We have become elongated,
whisked like dancing pellets of sleet.

Tonight, someone may dream and wake in peace
who dreads the pillow every night. Knives and
sharpened tongues
have kept her away for years. When her eyelids close
the haunting begins. She would be rid of them. But
dreams are slow and deep. She needs something fierce
to open tomorrow, something strong to lock the past.

I might have shrimp tonight.
I might write, I might wish the ocean was nearer
and I could hear how waves buzz no matter the time of year.

Tonight may narrow my options,
tomorrow may open them wide.
Yesterday I composed a new song,
today I forgot it all.
Tomorrow may offer me a self-portrait
I painted once to remember who I am.

Or perhaps
we can all arise again.