Little I Know

"Little I Know"

(“Just then the men were allowed to recognize him. But when they saw who he was, he disappeared.” Luke 24:31)

How little I know of the smallness,
how narrow my view of the focus
which circles, a bright patch on creation’s dark fabric,
how little I know, and how can I speak
of larger denouements toward at corners of the map
not yet surveyed.

I am like a child unweaned, with a taste for only what I know.
I am a lapchild and know Abba’s face well when held close enough
to see His features, smile and scarred brow; callous and wounded hands.
Most times I know Him well and His voice makes me grin, makes me weep,
makes me remember the sweet in the middle of creation’s sometime
bitter brew.

How little I know of Him complete,
how far His silhouette of profile in the mists,
how little I know of His silence,
how quietly He invites while carnival barkers and
whirligigs drown my hearing.

I am a child who hears with ears accustomed to
timbre and tones named well by others who have offered their opinions.

Let me low and high discover the unwritten that words
are not hidden, that come unbidden before I’ve become
well-tempered tuned.

Shallow Thoughts on Suffering

“One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him, saying, ‘Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!’” Luke 23:39

It is easy to see this criminal on the cross as a blundering fool spouting the venom that was simply part of his unlawful lifestyle. Even though Jesus was innocent and unjustly crucified, most who received that sentence were the worst of the worst. So, it is no surprise that we are quick to deride this fellow’s sarcasm that ugly day.

Taken by Surprise

Taken by Surprise

(“You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not take that to mean that you can do as you please. But work for each other because you love each other.” Galatians 5:13)

I was taken by surprise at the wild night and the demise
of floodlights pointing the way to the boarding house location.
I knew dozens who danced in abandon, waved at random faces
appearing in the crowd. They shout so loud that one man’s prayer
is swallowed by vocal improvisations, out of tune, out of time,
discarding rhyme, stepping over the swooned on the concrete floor.
Freedom was a dancer who mollified mentors while untying the knots
that taught apprentices the steps.

Turn up the volume, vibrate the walls,
let God pick up one end of the earth, if it please, and whip it like a
locker-room towel until the seas reach peaks and mountains flow
low beneath the feet of unreachable depths. God is not hindered
by social norms or costume codes on the walls of institutions of
higher learning.

So we, free as He, vacate every convention, except our personal inventions;
the cures that medicate loneliness every time we turn down the lights
and leave the dance abandoned on the floor, concrete cold once every
body has left alone, home, rays extending from a fixed center,
and the farther we fly, the farther our neighbor.

I was taken by surprise at the handful who, though free as God Himself,
wandered the after-streets, checked the littered corners, sleep in their
eyes, cramps in their calf and thighs. They were sad and smile complete,
these few of freedom’s elite who knew when the carnival shuts down
there must be a few around to be just one degree freer.

I was taken by surprise by the looks in the eyes of those whose freedom
let them linger, renewing the wounded and enjoying the gravity that
pushed them closer to liberty’s labors of love.

Inquire of the Lord

“When the Philistines heard that David had been anointed king over Israel, they went up in full force to search for him, but David heard about it and went down to the stronghold…so David inquired of the Lord.” 2 Samuel 5:17, 19

David actually been anointed king years before by the prophet Samuel when he was much younger. After years of being chased down by King Saul, David is finally anointed by Israel itself. Saul has committed suicide and the people are ready for a godly leader to take his place.

You Welcomed Me

You Welcomed Me

(“Though my sickness was a trouble for you, you did not hate me or make me leave. But you welcomed me as an angel from God, as if I were Jesus Christ himself!” Galatians 4:14)

I saw question marks hovering around your head like
gnat attacks that park in the sunny spots between forest shade.
You had an uncle whose head never quit hurting, a neighbor
who swallowed bourbon for the pain by prescription,
a doctor who healed you niece, a dozen tales of men
and females whose migraines counted against their earning potential.

Though straining at the leash like my dog who smells a cat
in the same place, under the same bush, every single walk past
the same house, and won’t give up until the cat scurries away,
claws her nose, or most of the time, simply has unoccupied the space
days before our arrival.

With more discretion than my dog, I’ve seen your eyes as the question marks
insist verbal assault and you hold back, silent and love, sad and hope
unable to offer a single method or medication to squeeze open my head
and let the pain escape like air from a punctured balloon.

Your sad eyes bright, say more than the mighty words of the unknowing
who keep showing pictures of the last person they know who was healed from
who knows what, (I know not when), and say, as I walk slowly away, “I thought
God answered prayer.”

You would limp for me, I know. You would transplant my pain, if not far
out to the ocean, into your own body and emotion without fear. You ignore
the question mark pests, refusing to pour out a keg of queries I’ve answered
over and over.

You know, though never asking, the simple cool touch of your fingers
along my forehead, a cloth cooled by evening breezes, soothes the clench,
moves the cracks in my head that feather down my neck and back, and
for moderation, 5 or maybe 10 minutes, I can breathe, smile, see today
worthwhile for a little longer.

I see the questions you have, so opposed to the massive droves of gnat-like
babble. The question on your lips is clearer in your eyes, softening with
half-tears; held back for my depression, expressed for my impression that
you would rather stay as long as I need, and go as soon as even one best-love
has been overwhelmed by the uninvited pain again.

But your question remains, and I rarely answer until I know there is no other place to go.
You ask: “Tell, me, how can I help. If there is anything (or nothing at all),
please, let me know.”

"If You Are Willing"

“Father, if you are willing, please don’t make me drink from this cup. But do what you want, not what I want.” Luke 22:42

It is nearly impossible to come up with a personal example of what it felt for Jesus the night He faced the looming cross. He knew, as everyone else in his time, the torturous methods used by Rome in exterminating offenders. He was fully aware of the horrors that could possibly play out before even the first nail was shoved through his hands. He faced His skin being stripped from His back, blow after blow, from the metal and bone tied into the whip known as the “cat of nine tails”.

Get Things Ready

Get Things Ready

(Jesus said: “He will take you upstairs and show you a large furnished room. Get things ready there.” Luke 22:12)

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
outlying villages where the streams run slow,
to find the banquet hall reserved for the few,
one hundred or less, and with a view
of the pacing river off the redwood balcony.

Let me return with happy news,
the room is perfect; blue jazz or summer blues,
and now to flood it intimate late night mood,
savory and candles, talk and food
while watching the river off the redwood balcony.

We would gather, shoes set aside,
hesitation and invention, step inside,
and now the mood crowds our own expectations;
inspecting our invitations
while we watch the river off the redwood balcony.

Hold that thought, repeat that phrase,
banquets are laughter and jump-the-gun applause.
Why this supper before suffering;
this meal and announcement of Your intention
to die before we have barely digested

Your words at all?

Send me somewhere, and I will go,
baffling villages where streams once flowed,
to find the leftovers, many or a few,
and invite them all, alive and new
to watch for the river off the redwood balcony.