Into The Quiet

Into the Quiet

(“When Jesus saw that they were ready to force him to be their king, he slipped away into the hills by himself.” John 6:15)

I have seen men on cable tv with atrocious haircuts (and women too)
speaking for God the Creator of All, the Potentate and Holy One,
Invisible, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Who speaketh unto us
in antique English like Shakespeare. There is a reason students shudder
at both Titus Andronicus and the KJV of Lamentations.

Could I understand κοινή Greek commonly, I could dispense
with tv translations altogether. But that is another poem which
must wait until I learn to translate my own stubborn phrases into
a language dead enough that none could critique my work.

I have seen graves with green unsettled. Half a dozen, an hour before dark,
and a day after the cancer won the struggle for the man’s last breath, the grass
hugging the sod with the shine from too many shoes shuffling a certain prayer
they were told would bring the widower’s husband back.

I have seen tv men swear to resurrection, prayer that brought the hands
disrupting the dirt piled above. The man climbed out, without stepstool
or directions, to find the world the same as it was the day his respirations
ceased.

I have seen tv men (and women too), or those with no access to air time who
snatch their lucky anointing because they lived long enough to finally receive the
votes they needed to give them the freedom to tell the unheeding
how God’s creeds are meant to be obeyed. Shame for the backward glances
and unanswered mail when a voter needs an answer.

Oh, but You, Son of Man and of God, eschew hairdos and personal assistants,
but find Your time alone on hillside fog and morning with Father to hear
how Your kingdom comes
without popular vote or golden thrones. And though its sorrow must
waft like incense through every fiber of Your humanity, the cross is
Your throne and our misdeeds Your crown.

I heard that you told those closest to you, “I am sending you in the same way
the Father sent me,” and I always took it to mean less self-seeking and more
quiet mountain retreating. But I have seen tv men (this is poetry, so I admit
my license usage) who love themselves and the stage, and I could be one.

Lest I forget, the sins that crowned Your crumpled brow, I will quietly
hope to follow well, and, not before the crowds, but before my King,
I will
bow.

Great Strength

“I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

When Jesus calls us, He does not offer a sample platter of Kingdom offerings. He grants His grace without measure to everyone who answers His call. It is important to remember, though, that He also asks us for everything. Grace is God’s free gift to those who know how bankrupt they truly are.

Satisfied With What I Have

“And I am not saying this because I feel neglected, for I have learned to be satisfied with what I have.” Philippians 4:11

I wish I could throw four or five rose bushes in the ground, nicely rowed in front of my house, and they would produce a rainbow of delight to the senses: the petals, soft to the touch, awakening to the morning sun, the aroma wafting through the first breeze of the day into my open windows, and the blooms ranging from the first buds barely revealing the colorful treasure within to the mature blossom heavy from overnight dew.

Who Sees the Movement?

Who Sees the Movement?

(“When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, ‘Do you want to get well?’” John 5:6)

Wait for the water, watch for the springs that
bubble angel’s breath to break the surface tension
of plural years immobile, of secluded days centered
in the circling crowd.

Watch for the ripples swept by angel’s wings
that begin adjacent and end detached. For all
the years of waiting,
a stronger paralysis, a force of fiction,
impels the inaction. Each added anticipation
lowers the hope that once brightened the
first morning on the bank.

A pool of confection, glass candy to cool the
perception that the wait is myth, the storied cures
are legend. And, though walking is out of the question,
a staff new as the old days in the sun, awaits the moment
the first query and longing is answered.

With a quiet descending so slowly that only the discerning notice,
once the final bird has sung, the breeze brightens, the water
glistens
with diamond reflections of wind and sun. Unseen,
the wings freshen the mediations of those placed
and left there to revive or die.

What does a paralytic do when the waters of healing beckon?
What movement will take the immobile improbable?
Who left a man who could never move an inch closer
than the place they propped him, dropped him like
a rock float to the other shore.

Who sees the movement within the motionless?
Who lifts the staff unused? Who asks the inevitable
with intention to answer? Who brings the waiting water
further upshore to the flood tide meandering wider
than it ever had before?

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Let Me Stay Home This Month, This Year

Did you hear the alarm voice half an hour after
you were awake? Waiting to wake, the morning creeps
in, peering through seams in the curtain, ambient like
shadowless illumination. Those days I pray the rain
will force me to stay inside where I have every reason to
hide
with my head buried beneath the pain.

Four years, the chart begins, but the horizon fades
as if the sun will never set upon this season
of missed hours simply holding my own. And
most of my friends fear
their prayers go unanswered.

This pain is the pen now that has scraped away the last
upgrade to my face. The lines are bare, bone and woodgrain,
etched without my knowledge. Like siding weathered
on the old beach house, the storms have blown unrelenting,
pelting the old boards exposed to the shore.

I do not fear the flood, nor rain; the sun forces my lids
shut like slits between the curtains. I do not fear the
silence, nor alone; the conversation and rattles of
pots and pans
are the interruptions my pain cannot stand;
I am sorry for the startled gaze, the mumbled grimace.

I fear my prayers go unanswered, I pretend we are closer,
You and me;
I lean upon the only image I have,
place it between my ears, between my eyes,
and resolve I will not falter, I will not retreat;

There is no resting place for the invisible,
no convalescence for pain without a name
(at least a favorite; migraine or tumor).


They call it NDPH, I call it a spear that impales
what used to be my best intentions. Now I cannot wait
until everyone is gone; though my affections
have only grown for the love of those
who refuse to let me suffer this invisible foe
alone.

The Honor of Suffering

“He allowed you to believe in Christ. But that is not all. He has also given you the honor of suffering for Christ. Both of these bring glory to Christ.” Philippians 1:29

No one enjoys suffering. I just came from a visit with a friend who spent the last eight weeks in hospitals and convalescent care. In his 80s, he broke his leg over two months ago and had a nasty infection invade where the break occurred. He has been home three weeks and finds it extremely painful to walk. Even though he had the attention of doctors, nurses and therapists while away, he willingly gave all that up to be at home alone. Any of us would feel the same way.

Changed by Love

Changed by Love

“For God loved the world in this way: He gave His One and Only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.” John 3:16

There is a reason we do not use our best china for every meal. In our house it was because we had just one set, it was an heirloom, and Mom knew that eventually we would chip or break nearly every piece of that set. (I know, I asked her several times as a kid while stabbing green beans off a melmac plate.) Alright, for those born after 1975, “Melmac” was molded dinnerware that looked like hard plastic. (It had nothing to do with “Alf’s” home planet).