The Master Potter

“House of Israel, can’t I deal with you like this potter, declares the Lord? Like clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in mine, house of Israel!” Jeremiah 18:6

I am not skilled at all when it comes to art made with hands. I cannot paint, and any work in clay ends up resembling the science fiction creature known as “The Blob”. But I have watched at potter at the wheel, and it is amazing to see a simple lump of brownish-gray clay slowly take shape into a useful vessel in his hands.

If I Had My Way

If I Had My Way

If I had my way I’d see everything you say
handwritten so I could not mistake the script;
and then I would wait.

Having words that hurt I’ve dropped so many whys in the air
it is a wonder I do not suffocate on my echoes. But the “what’ I’ve
held, heartbeating in my hand, instructs me better than then answers
I never hear from why.

If I had my way I’d ask everyone repeat
the last thing they said to me, complete with
tone and gesture. It is just that I am locally unsure
how well memory suits me.

Having letters of recommendation, I’ve inquired,
sending those citations with the query. It would have
been better to ask you, face to tears, why the signature
meant nothing when I read it so clearly.

If I had my way I’d repeat that conversation,
with courage, along with a friend taking dictation,
so, both words recorded, I would not fear the hoarded
phone numbers no one shared with me.

Having headaches daily, the kind that grind when
workdays grind like black asphalt until the backroad dead end,
I’m half the help, slow the think, eyes that hurt when hearing buzzes,
and want to lock my door, or find again, someone’s couch where
my faith can be human.

If I had my way, I’d have you read the letters,
sent in hopes of catching the last line drive that
whizzed past my head. And I would turn up the volume,
mute the background noise, so all you hear is the intonation
of sadness that wants to be seen as at least
half a human.

Having headaches nightly, most tears are hidden,
the future vacant. I do not wish to moan or
gasp, I’m on my last legs (it feels each meal)
and I hide so deep, I’ve never known so deep,
in the cave of my Savior where dark is hope and
silence my companion; pain’s best words spoken
without deception or hesitation.

All I Need

But the Lord said, “My grace is all you need. Only when you are weak can everything be done completely by my power.” So I will gladly boast about my weaknesses. Then Christ’s power can stay in me. 2 Corinthians 12:9

The beauty of Christ is seen no better than when set against the darkness of His followers’ struggles and weakness. Just as stars shine more brightly against a dark, rural sky, so those who trust Jesus in the midst of personal pain or hardship stand out more brilliantly than when all is well.

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.)