My Misdemeanor

My Misdemeanor

(“David said…to Jonathan, ‘What have I done? What is my sin? What have I done wrong to your father, that he wants to kill me?’” 1 Samuel 20:1)

What is my misdemeanor and why do you indict me?
You should have been my friend across the foaming ocean,
but you cross-examined my intentions, took my words and
set them up like a canvas tent in other people’s mouths.

Lord, I am not a felon, or ever pulled a tongue-like-knife
upon the unsuspecting. Yet my back is riddled with
stabs and unhealed scabs from half a dozen righteous
who tried their best to shine.

I ate in your home and rooted for the Niners,
I visited you at work and saw you cry over lost love,
I voted for your sorrow, I laughed at your gags and puns
while you wrote secret notes and handed them out like candy.

Lord, I am not a criminal, but I’m a sinner, plain as can be;
Lord I’ve never stolen someone’s name or tried to replace their reputation;
I’ve sent sympathy cards, apology notes, and repentance letters
hand-signed and dated.

But with whispers, winks, and subtle nods that amounted to
hiring hit men, they knew the true, spanned grand jury decisions
but skipped the trial and sent their prey to detention straightaway.

Lord, I am not worthy, I am tar and feathers, ashes and sackcloth,
tears from the deception, and lonely from the inception of the plans
that left me homeless. My misdemeanor was not worth the
anger or the meaner side of justice. I laid down my musket
years ago

And will not take it up again.

Opening Words

Opening Words

(“Then one day as he was teaching the people in the Temple, and preaching the Gospel to them, the chief priests, the scribes and elders confronted him…” Luke 20:1, 2a)

Shout darkness at the sun, bay at the dawn and call it doom,
your discount words will not render rainbows black. Alarmed
by blinders, the swords and jagged ripsaws of invention
hold no power over the Northern Lights when they visit
the silent boy sitting late night on a rock outside the cave
wondering why his ears ache from the weight of attempted
eclipses of glory.

Write the perfect opening words; let the novel snake its way
through mistrust and doubt, leading protagonists in and out of
canvas walls set up only for opening night. The readers will believe
based on authorship alone, with original sources gathering dust
behind bowling balls and unused ski gloves until trust
has faded like a word from King James obscure.

Open the French windows, push them out into rain or wind,
sun or still, and let the light play on the wall as it will. Reverse
the bay window
with cardinals and jays nearly entering the room,
sip your coffee, break croissants with your neighbor
and watch for another word to drop like dew upon conversation.

Pour another cup and butter the broken bread,
death and life circulate despite our best intentions,
and let the touch, the fingertip of a single hand awake
the cistern of deep unfilled too long. Glory shines,
light reminds that death is, if we have desired,
the transfer without baggage, the day we had hoped
each day would be when we awoke each morning.
It is the final invocation; the location of all in one
without the weight of what’s done is done.

To Tell the Truth

“Moreover, the Eternal One of Israel will not lie or change his mind, because he isn’t a mere human being subject to changing his mind.” 1 Samuel 15:29

Truth; perhaps the most foreign concept to most of us. We like to think we are honest and we want to come off as truthful people, but we usually spend more energy maintaining an image than allowing our true selves to be found out. That is why so many relationships lack much intimacy or satisfaction at all. We never are sure whether others are being “who they are”, and we spend the same amount of time buffing up what we hope people will think about us.

Interested in the Impossible

Interested in the Impossible

(“Jesus answered, ‘What is humanly impossible is possible for God.’” Luke 18:27)

I want to dive in, encourage every single reader, and tell you, “Everything is possible with God. You are going to be ok. You will get that job. Your husband won’t lose his. Your wife will have that child you are waiting for. You will pass geometry.” (Well, ok, maybe not so much the last one.)

Appearances Lie

Appearances Lie

(“And I will raise up for myself a faithful priest, who shall do according to what is in my heart and in my mind.” 1 Samuel 2:35a)

Let the appearances lie upon the hills like the spent shells
of last night’s 4^th of July display. It all smells of gunpowder when
the lilacs should fill the air. For 45 minutes we grunted with the thunder
displayed by experts who know which triggers to pull and which wires to touch
and which mixture must meet like teeth in a gear to fling the flower and stars
further than near.

Let the paper boats float in the puddles we created by hosing
the pavement at the end of our driveways. Muddled with gravel
and soaked like a dog shaking down the house after a rainstorm
it only goes so far before it descends a house, maybe two down
the street, stuck in the spaces of the storm drain, waiting one last
whoosh, a full push of water, and it falls, creases sponged with
no repair.

There is more sham, even among the shameless, than we ever hoped true.
There are speakers who never shut down, broadcasters never editing a word,
newspapers filling pages with paragraphs with words with jots and loose tittles
until the alphabet spills like toddler’s juice from lunch on the floor.

There are more costumes, even among the contestants, than we expected,
it’s true.
Every blue with another hue, iris and navy, sea foam and royal; like glitter painted
with ponytails the smell of greasepaint overpowers the latent effect. Did your
dress aim at meaning? Were you evoking anything from us, save a desire to
quickly shut down the store and send everyone home with a refund and a promise
to let them choose what-to-wear, ready-to-wear; not scotch cotton and plastic
balloons labeled “party fare”?

There is more talk, even among beanstalks that have seen more ingenious ways
to bring produce home than giants would care to disclose. Stand for a moment
and if we were not tricked, we know the words were trimmed just enough to evade
them when the questions come bouncing in. And the response-ads leap high
pretending to catch a big-league fly just about to plunge over the fence. Taped
before a life or death audience, the camera pulls back and we know the secrets
of one more candy store that tried to sell nutrition.

Where is Your Cohen, Father; the Faithful One.
Where is our Cohen Brother; the Truthful One.

Speak to us True as from Calvary’s grave
to the tomb’s incapacity to save the day for
the talkers who figured their way was done.

But You fooled them all, risen before dawn,
to prove truth is better served when offered
first forgiven; not instigated.

Available

“Someone who is trustworthy in a small matter is also trustworthy in large ones, and someone who is dishonest in a small matter is also dishonest in large ones.” Luke 16:10

It is invariable that, of 20 people to sign up for some new project, nearly half will find reason not to show up. We are all quick to volunteer, to raise our hands to help put in a new garden, help a neighbor move or take food to the sick. But it is surprising how many people bow out days before the opportunity presents itself.

Childness

Childness

(“May he bring you new life and strength while you are old. For your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him.” Ruth 4:15)

I heard the tornado spin through a child’s voice over telephone waves;
whining close to his house, upstate New York, the report included noise
and possibilities of boys being lifted out of their shoes to land flat-footed
on the soft green lawn of the neighbor’s dream.

Twisting wind never frightened him, it was curiosity that connected him
to such progressive torque. Alive or dead were unconsidered, and nowhere
to be found in his equation of childness and caution. It was more important to
radio in the information to travelers along the way.

You see, we were wandering, with his beloved aunt and uncle on board,
and he could see the possibility of a carhop drive-thru pulling up to order
a little less wind. He left his uncle a voice mail, with authority, with concern,
but little quaver; simply the courage a seven year old boy knows when he is assigned
the task of warning other about tornadoes.

The love of grade school cousins, or the affection of four year old granddaughters
are gifts bestowed between black spike storms that scare even demons
to their death and adults to quiver at the edge of the turbulent precipice.

The love of cousins, the pure joy of granddaughters never dissipates the threats at all.
But their courage turns black to song, shy to joy, and tears…

Tears now flow, but from stories read in a fairy tale full of princes and princesses,
where granddaughters cry when the prince is pained, and the princess may never
see him again.

And for one moment, Papa and Ani see each other, tear to tear, and know
though the tornados may come yesterday again,
the pause is enough to love the world good night,
and wake for joy of another day far away from prospects
and expectations.