The Days Are Short

The Days Are Short

(“He turned the wilderness into pools of water and the desert into flowing springs.” Psalm 107:35)

I wanted to get a head start and send you
the pre-snow breath of autumn. The days are short
for bare feet and wine in the sun.
And though my own hours are divided in
half,
I would share them with you as if we had
a hundred years to spend
listening to streams and frogs playing on the banks.
I would walk the levees, even though my legs give
out so much quicker in this slant-lighted season.
I meet my limit far too soon,
or start far too late in the day. Please
don’t feel you must arrange your schedule around me.
But the sparrows were bathing in
a puddle earlier, the leaves hanging lightly to
their branches as they blush before winter.
I wonder if last year’s leaves are happy as loam,
if the rose petals feed next year’s blooms.

Though pain commands my hours, tells my
bones there are fewer miles I can travel in a day, the
dawn peeks in anyway.
Complaint is not a language that settles well on my tongue.

There is time to build a new earth, though my time fades.
There are reservoirs of mercy though the sun sets early.
The deer eat the remains of the apples in my yard,
the guns half a world away disturb the mountain’s flow.
There are babies fighting for breath, there are elders
forced underground.

The day is punctuated. The percussion becomes harsh.
The rivers flow but are dammed by territorial possession.

And we wait for rain that will wash us clean,
we hope the river will soon drown our sorrows
and
cleanse our inhuman intentions.

Come, let us walk together, holding hands across the
hostile borders.

Audition (I'm Fine)

 

Audition (I’m Fine)

We walk side by side on wilderness trails,

talking temperature and humidity and the soon coming winter.

And then children and neighbors (lunches and dinners)

we skim the shallows of conventional conversation.

But the sun and shadows invite us to a slower pace,

where the deeper waters flow. I was once bitten by a shepherd,

you were mauled by a pit bull, we were mere children, and sometimes

dogs frighten us; maybe cats and rabbits and moose and tigers too.

You ask me a question I fear to answer. We stop between crests and

listen to the stream gurgle below. My throat is full of apprehension, but

I answer and fear I shall have to walk home alone. 

But like grace, like heaven, you wrapped my honest answer like a gift,

silver and gleaming in the late afternoon.

I still audition for your friendship nearly every day,

and when things go wrong all you say is

“I’m fine” every time 

I know you’re crying.

I wear my heart in a broken locket,

one hinge forgotten in the earth, the other rusted and

hanging open. It is impossible to close.

You face fire, you walk into explosions, the place where

peace should play is full of anger, and fierce. You cringe, hope to hide,

and close the door to the daggers always aimed directly at your heart.

.

Your sorrow is beautiful as your smile,

your pain is lovely if you let it out into the day.

And even though I cannot see it

I feel it dull and aching inside of me.

“I’m fine” will not erase what

the unkindness has done to your heart.

I know it and carry it, within and without.

I saw stars within you, the moon shining over the dark memories.

There was never a day when it did not rise as evening approached.

But then you closed. You became stone. I knocked, so softly at first,

And could not find the safety I knew within. I knocked just a bit louder

(I did not want to damage even this new granite skin)

And, from deep within all I heard; “I’m fine.”

I know you are not fine. You are beautiful, perfect, gracious and strong;

But you are not fine. Tell me your truth. Don’t make me audition for

your friendship today. Tell me your truth. I promise I'll wrap it as carefully

as you wrapped mine

and hand it back to you with unicorn bows and rainbow wrapping. 

We walk side by side on wilderness trails, this friend I hoped would not fear

the way hearts can interlace like butterflies across a meadow.

We walk slowly, my heart always unclasped in my broken locket,

always colored with the boredom, the emptiness, the uselessness, and sometimes

the love it has received over time. We walk slowly,

your heart sometimes visible beneath your breast, but other times shut behind

doors and locks and granite walls, recessed behind an impervious wall.

The days always end like glowing sunsets when, slowly, you unlock the secrets

and the secret place, and trust me with cries you’ve kept inside. I sigh because

in those moments, I know I’ve won the audition for your friendship.

I Will Listen for the Streams

I Will Listen for the Streams

(“They will not be hungry or thirsty. The burning heat of the sun will not trouble them. For He Who has loving-pity on them will lead them. He will lead them to wells of water.” Isaiah 49:10)

I think I might do my best trying to find God
as a monk in the wilderness,
a hermit for half an hour among the sand
and spiders without a page to read,
without a pencil to write,
just the hard floor the sun baked,
and a stick to etch meditations on the earth.

I think I might be happy for half a day
sitting by the dock of the bay,
no tunes in my pocket,
no guitar in my lap,
just the squeak of dolphins playing
while waves clapped against the pilings.

I think I could construct something simple in the forest

given wet mud and pine needles
and a survival expert as well.
Without a tent or a cookstove I know
I would starve before the sun was one quarter done.
But I’d still watch the blue jays play
and the fawns leaping after their mothers.

I know I’ve seen the face of eternity in my best friend,
in the toddler whose laugh fills the room,
in the longest hug I’ve ever received that felt like Jesus
was squeezing all the hurt out of me.
I know I’ve seen the king in the face of children swinging
at recess. I know I hugged creation when
I greeted my friend in rehab,
and when I hugged him after he failed.
And when those who knew all about me
kissed my cheek like a prince. I winced before
and after, but still saw the sun brighter that day.

The suburbs seem so much farther from imagination,
my meditations do not fit the square corners of intersections
and property lines.
But the same love dwells in this silent weekday afternoon
as does in the constellations, the red sand, the wild waves,
and all the affections that have led me to this place.

I will listen for the streams.

Dwelling in the Center

Dwelling in the Center

“Then the column of smoke covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tent.” Exodus 40:34

The final few chapters of Exodus read like complicated instructions for Lincoln Logs or an Erector Set. Dimensions, materials, and colors are all specified for the tent of meeting. It can be tiresome reading, especially if you are not sure what a cubit is.

When I was young, we would visit my grandparents in Tulsa, OK. My Uncle Veril had an Erector Set. I loved playing with it. It even had an electric motor so you could build a tower with a functioning windmill. Sad to say, I never got that far in my building skills. I have never liked reading instructions; they feel like a waste of time. Just get in and get the thing built, is the way I roll.

I was thankful that we had two men who understood construction when we built our new church building in Harvey, ND. If I had been in charge… (Well, never mind. It would have fallen down by now.) But guided by two men who knew what we needed and gave good instructions, we started with a foundation of a 6400 square foot building that was perfect within a quarter inch on the diagonal. From there a beautiful place of worship arose.

If we only had the Old Testament, we might think that the building we worship in is the most important idea for meeting with God. After Moses completes the intricate instructions, God finally inhabits the tent of meeting in a column of smoke. It is so dense that Moses could not even go inside.

When the smoke lifted from the tent, the Israelites would break camp and follow it. Exodus ends by telling us that “the Lord’s column stayed over the tent during the day, and there was fire in the smoke at night. In this way all the Israelites could see the column throughout their travels.”

In a moment we’ll look at what the New Testament has to say about this. But let’s stay with this image for now. Imagine being among the tribes of Israel, watching the tent finally erected, and then a column of dense smoke fills its interior. You have only experienced God through the mediation of Moses until that point. As far as you know, God talks to Moses, Moses talks to you. God separates himself from humanity.

But now God actually shows up in the middle of your encampment. Yes, it is after doing the requisite preparations, but that makes sense too. Even if God does want to be among us, we also need to know that He is different than we are. The tent, in the middle of humanity, signals God’s relationship to humanity. He is a God who relates to us where we are.

And, God fully fills the tent. So much so that Moses cannot even enter. God not only dwells among them, but God leads them. No more through the mediation of Moses, the people can see for themselves that God is present. And when the column of smoke moves up and out of the tent, they know it is time to move on.

When John describes how Jesus came into the world he says, “The Word became human and lived among us. We saw his glory. It was the glory that the Father shares with his only Son, a glory full of kindness and truth.” The phrase “lived among us” means “tented with us.” Jesus is the presence of God in flesh and blood. Now, notice this. In Exodus it said that the “glory of the Lord filled the tent.” John says of Jesus, “We saw his glory. It was the glory that the Father shares with his only Son.”

The tent of meeting in the wilderness was a picture of what God ultimately wanted to do. God no longer must be experienced in some sort of manifestation. He has already shown up in His Son Jesus. 

Let me be honest. For a good 20 years of my Christian life I went to worship services and meetings and longed for “God’s presence.” I would stay late to pray. Others would tell of their experiences of a “glory cloud” or some similar thing, and I would seek for the same experience. I wanted “all” of God. I do not want to negate anyone’s personal experience, but I do need to make this statement. If you have trusted Jesus, you have all of God within that you will ever have! God never doesn’t show up, because Jesus dwells in you now.

Here is how Paul describes it: “God wanted his people throughout the world to know the glorious riches of this mystery—which is Christ living in you, giving you the hope of glory.” Colossians 1:27 You do not have to pray harder, read the Bible longer, attend more meetings or any other religious action. Christ is all and in all. And all of Christ dwells in you.

“Why, then, don’t I feel like He is there?” Ah, that questions haunted me as well, especially when I heard other people’s tales of spiritual and mystical experiences. (Let me say again, I do not discount anyone’s experience, but to long for what someone else has can become a form of covetousness and even idolatry.)

Let me give just one idea that helps me. This time, not the erector set, but packing a car for a trip. My mom was the most fastidious packer in the world. She once packed a Volkswagen van for a two-month cross country camping trip with all the equipment and a family of six! But packed well, there was space for the whole family.

It may not be the best analogy but think of it like this. We all have lots of stuff packed into our lives. And they are not good or bad things, they are just the stuff of living. We have jobs, school, meals to prepare, laundry to wash, cars to maintain; all of these occupy our mind and our time. With so much occupying the center of our life, it is not easy to consider that Christ is actually dwelling within us.

Now consider the deepest part of your being, your soul. Think about the deepest desires, the highest beauty, the music that inspires you, the friends that make you laugh the most. All of these are gifts from God. Even your unmet needs or tears of sorrow are places to experience Christ. When your heart is moved by an act of kindness, it is Christ within joining with your own spirit. When you struggle with deep pain or excruciating temptation, Christ is your “hope of glory” and is fully present in that moment.

Mom packed that bus, putting everything in its place, so the center, where passengers sit, could be clear as possible. She did not ignore the suitcases, the camping gear and ice chest, she simply arranged them to leave an open center. Think about doing that with the “stuff” of your life. Do not classify it as secular versus spiritual, just arrange your life to have a center where you always find Christ. The truth is, I would much rather have Him dwelling within me than having to go to a tent full of smoke, wouldn’t you? Let Him dwell in the center of your being. That is where He wants to make His home. Not as a ruler or a lord, but as a loving and compassionate Brother as you wander through life’s wilderness.