Wrapped Itself

Wrapped Itself

(“You still lack one thing: Sell all you have and distribute it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” Luke 18:22b)

What has wrapped itself around me like a boa
squeezing the life from me? What have I wrapped my hands
around so tightly my knuckles have turned white from my
over-protection? What is it that, so shiny, captures my
gaze? What has cemented my feet into this tiny island of
wanting what is mine?

What have I missed with this hoarding habit of mine?
What has twisted my devotion like broken handlebars on
a brand-new bicycle? When did I decide to
keep it all to myself? When will I relax my
muscular grip on all that glitters and still is not golden?

I’ve always feared poverty; I’ve never owned very much.
But the way I save myself looks like a miser blowing the
dust off his last penny.
I have worn out the paths I thought would enlighten me;
I have fallen over the edge when no one was watching.

Who is this that is calling me; who is it knows my
name so well? Who wants to ease my clasp around
dollar bills or diamonds? I’ve always thought I might
lose it all too soon so do not give away as much as
I could.

I have a talent for pretending consecration, for
acting like a penitent face down on the carpeted floor.
I don’t mind giving as long as I have enough for
tomorrow’s good meal. I don’t mind giving so long as
I get what is mine before I sign the check.

So, here are my hands, as open as I can offer them.
Here is my heart, as supple as I know how. And
lately
I sit and wonder politely.

Wrapped Around Hope

Wrapped Around Hope

(“For I will be merciful toward their evil deeds, and their sins I will remember no longer.” Hebrews 8:12)

You could not have timed it any better,
the fates aligned, and the angels faced the
future with their eyes as fierce as tigers.
Too many gave up taking themselves all
too
seriously.
We live with pain, pounded by the past
and fooled by the future. We look for answers
to manufacture gods in our own image.
Signing on the dotted line, we expect to be
charged with misdemeanors and felonies,
admitting our criminality, feeling like guilt
with shame running down our chins. We hoped
we would be better by now.

We memorized every misstep,
memorialized each sin.
We sat on Santa’s lap knowing we would
never deserve what we’d asked for.

Still,
we wrapped ourselves around hope.
We tried to elope before the wedding began.
We tried to leave early from the annual board meeting.
We wanted to hide away because people always save
the harshest words for the conclusion. What we need
is benediction;
what we hide are the contradictions that drive us
into undercover dungeons.

Yet,
the light is washing away the cobwebs,
the morning is inviting the lost and lonely,
the afternoon is singing songs set free,
the evening invites a quiet contemplation.
And the angels turn their faces toward the
sun as we watch them glorify the one who
opened the skies for us well before we gave up
all our vices.

Weary We Come to You

Weary We Come to You

(“He welcomed them and spoke to them about the kingdom of God and healed those who needed to be cured.” Luke 9:11b)

Weary we come to you,
shoulders slumped by weights we wished
we did not carry.
Fearing future, our breath caught in our throats,
we wait for words like soil opening to the sower’s seeds.
Bereft, but not by birth.
Spoiled by demands that devalued our momentary
lucid dreams, we want to be wakened by promise
that understands we are dust. Tell us
our worth again.
Like sparrows, like lilies.
Clothe us in poetry,
baptize us where the river meets the
sun.
Do the waters reflect your face?
Do the hills echo your voice?
Do we hear the ribbons that wrapped us
newborn with each syllable you speak?
Our beds are sometimes sodden,
our sleep interrupted by memories that once
stung us between the close and open of days.
You know every point on our timeline,
you know every shadow we’ve hidden.
You know the cancer that beat us into
unwilling submission
to beliefs that stained the pages of our stories.
Will you call us to join you
while we flail on the waves?
While we are waterlogged will you walk to us
though we mistake you for another figment of
our imagination?
We would bow,
but you bid us stand.
We would divert our eyes,
but you take our hand and heal
what we could not understand.