Banquets to Come

Banquets to Come

(“But the bread that comes down from heaven is such that a person may eat it and not die.” John 6:50)

Do not feed me diamonds, I will not eat them,
Do not serve me golden, I cannot taste it.
They have no fragrance, no foretaste of banquets to come.

I will dine on sunrise and drink its reflection from
the silent river still as autumn. I will drink the conversations
poured from yesterday’s thermos, the chill pinching my cheeks
with the hope of no more goodbyes.

I am a starving wanderer with an appetite wider than
the prisms refract. I hunger, on lazy mornings like these,
for the kitchen where momma baked

The French rolls from a secret recipe; butter, cinnamon,
sugar and cream, cornbread gold and
topped with molasses’ coffee crunch.. The damp air
from the crack in my bedroom window
met up with the aroma from the Jenn-air oven. Dad was there first

and never a single one leftover if anyone

slept in.

Kept Me at Bay

Kept Me at Bay

(“Do not labor for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of man will give to you; for on him has God the Father set his seal.” John 6:27)

The morning had its way with me again,
bearing down like the north wind against a lone walker,
parka wrapped closely, head downward into the day,
barely making his way before breathing fast inside
the nearest shelter.

All week long the pain laid siege to my best plans,
starting early, pounding my body with reluctance.
Decision #1, pull off the covers. Decision #2,
put my feet on the floor. Decision #3, is the bathroom
warm enough. Decision #4, pick the blankets off the floor
and find the couch warm enough until the second try
near noon.

From Sunday until Saturday it kept me at bay.
Best intentions became texts and tiny phone calls,
polite apologies for missing breakfast. I eat less
on weeks like this; either my defense against the siege,
or my body bluffing the pain into believing I still have
all I need.

How do I call You, Dearest Friend, on these days;
how do I explain my absence on days I could have
left the pain bloodied behind me, using all my resources
in one morning’s hour.

How do I seek You, Never Hidden, on these weeks;
when the Bread of Heaven is my only food,
when I pray for reinforcements daily while the
week leaves me dragging, fighting the invisible,
the wind, the pain, the words, the same questions
I have for You again. When do I lay down my arms
and rest in Yours? How do I greet the mornings
when the siege-works are set up without warning.

How do I call You, Friend Closely, who knows me,
and, though You can heal me, leaves me helpless
and hoping rest today will gain fresh tomorrow.

How do I seek You, Always, though my mornings
murmur absence? Silence is better than wrath,
mercy is in these moments.

Multiplication: It's What God Does

“Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks to God, and distributed them to the people. Afterward he did the same with the fish. And they all ate as much as they wanted.” John 6:11

I have seen the same miracle replicated over and over nearly every day. Oh, it may not be 5,000 people fed with a single fish sandwich, but God’s world is full of turning the tiny into the tremendous. Six years ago a friend bought eight fruit trees for us to plant on our property. Last year we got our first crop of apricots, and this year the plums burst out from their blossoms.

Skeletons and CPR

“Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to the wind. Prophesy, human, and say to the wind, ‘This is what the Lord God says: Wind, come from the four winds, and breathe on these people who were killed so they can come back to life.’”  So I prophesied as the Lord commanded me. And the breath came into them, and they came to life and stood on their feet, a very large army.” Ezekiel 37:9, 10

I served a number of years as chaplain for our local Emergency Services. Every person on the crew was a volunteer and often was called out in the middle of the night to assist a crisis. From an elderly woman who stumbled down her stairs to a teenage girl with third degree burns over 70 percent of her body, these men and women showed themselves heroes time and time again. It was a privilege to serve them in their own hours of spiritual need.

Boundless Mercy

“All honor to God, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ; for it is his boundless mercy that has given us the privilege of being born again so that we are now members of God’s own family. Now we live in the hope of eternal life because Christ rose again from the dead.” 1 Peter 1:3

I love a good magic show. Whether it is up-close street magic or a grand staged event, I always enjoy the illusions. As a child I picked up a couple of card tricks and couldn’t wait to spring them on my friends. I had a slight advantage, my dad being and amateur magician. Because of my father’s interest I also read graphic novels (they were called comic books back then) about both Harry Houdini and Harry Blackstone.

The Corner of the Desk

The Corner of the Desk

(“And the prayer of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise him up. And if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.” James 5:15)

The cardboard box full of neatly folded tissues
is squarely arranged on top of the desk..though…

At its feet, tossed like carnations, the wadded few have
absorbed the tears of honesty, the stories of pain
we hear with uneasy skill.

Do you want to know the valleys, do you care
to listen with love; will you embrace the uncommon tale
baked on the days of withheld rain?

Will they offer you more than a mirror’s image,
will they speak in unknown tongues and await your
uncertain interpretation, will you return their entrusted heart
unharmed? Remember how they entered, completely unarmed;
sat in the corner chair, never broke eye contact with

The corner of the desk.

Will their dreams reset to innocence, or will the scars
we touched set off alarms when incidents of trust sounded
like the screech of eagles scanning prey.

When they hand us, on cold and sweaty palms, the heart traced
with anxieties unspoken countless alones, how will we return the trust
of confessed cracks they’ve kept turned from the sun? Dying is easier
that new incisions over aged scars.

When they hand us, on bent and broken wings, tiny faith
still alive with shallow breath and captured eyes, will we show
our own wounds now

A second Masterpiece;

Filled cracks the brush’s tracks where the Father’s hands
retraced creation’s plans. Day, light, night, sleep are sweet
where the wounds once ruled.

A Different Degree

A Different Degree

When every footprint sinks to a different degree,
displacing the mud or sand beneath the weight of
one single
human being,
we detect the evidence of another life form
to speak and eat with, to smile and tease with,
to joke and to wander the skies from sunset horizon
to midnight apogee. We who walked the same woods alone
turn full circle more than once or twice over, expanding
its diameter three feet at a time to discover
another to break the silence of the hillside forest,

Until turning the last degree, on the periphery of vision
we meet. My heart stops, my hands shake, my mouth so dry
that words are pasted on my tongue and down my throat;
yet so anxious to speak after speaking has nearly been forgotten.

I turn full and final, the circle that meets you eye to face,
and, though no words are spoken, I see you are dressed
far too conservative for me

And turn the circle round with my footprints sinking
to a different degree behind me.