Walk into the Warm

Walk into the Warm

(“For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.” Philippians 1:6)

I saw the ways that sleep overtook you and
the moments you woke fresh-faced from your dreams.
I could remember the days that left you begging
like an unconscious tambourine. You tried every
escape you knew and yet
the discontent
only grew. You were sure there was a way
to scribble a new portrait that appeared more like
the appearance of the divine you had imagined.
You were so afraid of failing that you
masked your innocence with a succession of
prostrate prayers with your face to the carpet.
You learned to preserve the emotions that
collided against the walls of your heart.

Take a breath. Ease yourself into the day.
Lay aside the effigies you erected to present
yourself to the world. Even though it feels like
slow-motion
there is a trajectory within that moves you
to the wholeness you crave.

You can come into the light, you can exit the
cavernous unrest into the un-echoes of transformation.
You are far away from the starting line; overland
your journey is nearer than you imagined, sooner than
you knew. You can walk into the warm and feel your
icy nervous system melt like a baby being born.

You do not need to hide; you do not need to subscribe
to every anxious thought. You will finish this marathon
with life left over to smile as you survey the distance
you have come.

We Kept the Soup Warm

We Kept the Soup Warm

(“As the Lord had promised through Elijah, the bowl did not run out of flour nor did the jar run out of oil.” 1 Kings 17:16)

It took us so much longer than we planned.
We were ready to feed anyone who showed up
but our shoes were slow in the dusky ground.
Our resources were few,
our words even less,
we counted the heads, and we counted the eagles
that flew above the trees. They could see everything.
They said there could be snow in the morning,
they said it might turn to rain. They did not
push their narrative,
they only mentioned it as a percentage of
weather we saw yesterday.

It was no accident, and we kept the soup warm,
it was no frivolous expense of funds.
We trusted the bread into the hands
of children, we placed bowls and
slices in front of the elders who sang
old songs like echoes in a canyon.

We walked some of them home
along the river where the sun sets like
a bird diving in the water. The rainbows
slept for the night and our noses were cold
by the time we came back inside.

We washed the dishes, emptied the coffee,
wiped the tables, and mopped the floors.
We tried to sing the song we had heard,
the words were scattered across the room.

The Appropriate Fashion

The Appropriate Fashion

(“What good is there in your saying to them, ‘God bless you! Keep warm and eat well!’—if you don't give them the necessities of life?” James 2:1
6)

If only you would wear the appropriate fashions,
if only you had proof of your labor,
we might hear what you are saying,
we might ride that wave with you.
But first impressions have caught us in the undertow.

Here is some macaroni and cheese from our potluck,
oh, and an old shirt used as a rag I found in the storage closet.
We have five acres and three thousand square feet but,
not a single place to lay your head, not a single place
for a temporary home.

We must be responsible. What if you steal everything.
And God know, if our insurance caught wind,
we would pay through the nose to treat you well.
We don’t know your background, but we are pretty sure,
from the way you smell, you’ve been smoking that weed again.
You can’t fool us,
we are not children.

I must hurry back upstairs, the worship team is starting to play.
There is a seat near the back I think, right behind the sound booth.
(All he wants to hear is something that sounds like truth.)
All we want to give are tickets to heaven,
all we donate goes into the plate to keep the lights on and
inflate the pastor’s pocket. (Although all he wants is to help
people like you.)

“People like me? What do you mean? I did not schedule this visit.
Someone told me I would be welcomed today.”

Yes, but you need to leave the same time everyone else is dismissed.
We have a long list of ways our charity has been enlisted once a
month
on the third Wednesday of the month.

Stay warm until, and here is some cornbread to take wherever
you lay your head. We’re sorry, but we simply have no accommodations

Here.

The Age of the Earth

The Age of the Earth

(“Don’t pay people back with evil for the evil they do to you. Focus your thoughts on those things that are considered noble.” Romans 12:17)

That was a rainbow you saw hiding
behind the backside of the barn. Those were
bended rays
that moved around the boulders in the way.
The barn, red slat siding, tilting toward the river,
had stood straight as time when the neighbors first
raised it.

The boulder, worn with age, hid eons and eons of
abrasion inside. A golden salamander had sunned
upon the edges that the waters eroded. A boy
and
a girl
had jumped from its gray table-top
laughing into the river.

That was before the borders were drawn,
that was before English was the only acceptable language.
That was before the fences were erected,
that was before feet were inspected for where they
had come from.

Stay put. Stay out. Turn around. Go back.
Pay here. Stay there. Hit the ground. Flashback.

Churches grew on ground next to sweat lodges.
God gave the white man firearms,
the native only had axes.
It was clear whose right it was to
occupy the dirt. Bullets were the proof,
power was the religion that turned moccasins
to boots.

Let us keep our stories straight, let us rehearse
the communal memory so
rocks and barns and sands and stones
remind us of our atonal ways of composing our songs.

The same sun that dried the buffalo hides
burns the skin of children too long playing on the shore.
The same atoms that began eons and eons ago
build the hearts and lungs and feet and hands
of each of us,
now, and ever shall be.

When I shake your hand, I shake the molecules of
both our distant ancestors and the fires they built to
keep themselves warm.

It Was a Fast Train

 It Was a Fast Train

(…to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. Deuteronomy 8:3b)

It was a fast train that got him there,
it was a straight line from fame to desertion.
No one knew his name, no one noticed the lines
in his face
etched over time, etched by tears like iron fillings.
He had studied. He had memorized. He had written it
all
down
and hoped that his journals would suffice to answer
the critics who were saddened that his trip took him
so far out of his previous circle.
There were curls of smoke; there were headdresses
he remembered and colors he could not describe.
He knew that every chance he got
he would listen carefully, he would diagram
the plot
for anyone who wondered how the hell he ever ended up
so far from pressured versions of sanity.

Someone else had paid the ticket; they asked where
he wanted to go. He did not know.
East was hungrier, west was warm. South was
catchier, north was torn.
But he could ride for days without interruption;
he could think for hours without answering a
single question
about his intentions. He wished he had written
more of it down.

He didn’t mind the passengers; they had no expectations.
He tried to sleep but found the dreams were scarier than
the visions of wakefulness. He only wanted a glass of wine,
a friend to break bread, and a hand upon his forehead that
understood the changes of time;

The changes of seasons;
the range of opinions that any one person can have.
He fasted once or twice; his menus were spartan.
He looked for an eye, a smile, a wisp of hair caught
by surprise. He did not like to dive into himself

Until

He arrived and heard that all had been cured by
manna, by oatmeal, by simple fare and
dimpled children who never asked him why.

All I Can Say Is

 

All I Can Say Is

(“Of what use to me is frankincense that comes from Sheba, or sweet cane from a distant land? Your burnt offerings are not acceptable, nor are your sacrifices pleasing to me.” Jeremiah 6:20)

All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right.
You were so thrilled to follow Jesus
after making your first million
that you bought a bracelet that said
WWJD
and sported it in 14k gold.
All I can say is
brother, your head’s not right. All I can say is
sister, you are awake.

You were promoted and applauded,
offered the moon and a couple of planets,
and you gave it serious thought.
Then moved in where
at-risk babies lived; taught them as your own.
All I can say is
sister, you are awake. 

Let’s meet in the abandoned warehouse,
let’s make the floor warm for vagabonds.
Let’s make our own clothes, stretch the leftovers,
enlist the teenagers to share sacred bread
house to house. 

Let’s bathe the feet of widows,
let’s listen to the old men’s stories.
Let’s make our own laughter, stretch the muscles of joy,
enlist the CEOs to move into the neighborhood
and give away their gold.

All I can say is
brother or sister,
we have enough and more than enough,
we are a far cry from simplicity
and could start the journey
any day now.