You Only Look at Me

“I cry out to you, but you do not answer me; I stand up, and you only look at me.” Job 30:20

Recently a good friend of my passed away unexpectedly. He had heart problems, but no one had pronounced an end date. As far as he and his family knew, he had a few, maybe many, good years ahead of him. Alan was the director of a drama ministry and we had invited him to bring a Christmas-themed production to our little church here in Southwest Washington.

When You Speak

When You Speak

(“To Him who loves us and has set us free from our sins by His blood, and made us a kingdom, priests to His God and Father.” Revelation 1:5b, 6a)

I.

If you come up my walk on an afternoon,
winter when the shadows are low upon ground,
my dogs will greet you (or warn me) and will not stand down
until they have finished their security check and wagged you
in on hind legs hopping. Dogs are hopeless. Mine always
seems to be smiling the grin of a Husky ready to do the work
of a hundred men and do it again after a nap on the snow. Mine
always sounds angry when she barks at the sounds nature never
intended:
door knocks, car latches, rumbling engines and plates dropped
on the kitchen floor. When she sniffs a deer wandering between
the house and fruit trees the growl is guttural; deer and humans
alike
cannot hide the frightening image of ancient predator and prey.

But, give her sway, open the door, and she is ready to play,
though every auditory cue suggested dinner was upon the
canine menu.

II.

I have aged longer, a decade in five, as pain has depleted
the cistern of joy. Each day alive takes longer as the
knives in my head slash each thought from origin to
completion; from truth to unreasoned hallucinations.
I hear nothing but noise (though my best songs have
hibernated long enough to voice my first recollection.)
My best friend’s words (they are comfort, always and first)
are grit and dirt to ears sandpapered clear of resistance.

III.

Oh my God, and my Good. You have not change,
you have not moved.
You have loved and are the Healing Pool in which
I drift, I sleep and I wake. And yet

When You speak
I hear the pain cringe, I feel the clinch in
my shoulders, the drain of emotions
and my default is zero when once
Your words
were infinite joy to the hearer.

Speak to me though I startle, for,
Your words, mistranslated by my pain,
are the reason I still speak of my God,
my Good, then, now, and again.

The Used-Up Troubadour

The Used-Up Troubadour

(“They sing to the music of tambourines and harps, and the sound of the flute makes them happy. Evil people enjoy successful lives and then go peacefully to the grave.” Job 21:12, 13)

Music never disturbs me, never blurs my travel from
opening sentence to thesis to end. I never turn it off
(except when I’m writing) the soundtrack of my life;
Donovan and the Mamas and the Papas; Iron Butterfly and
the Carpenters; Dave Brubeck, Count Basie. Led Zeppelin and
Keaggy; all played the ages of my unstaged history.

But, tenting alone with cold autumn sod as my bed,
barely a single hope drops from the night dew into my head
afraid to nod off and dream. Most times, in my fright,
they woke me screaming at a time when forsaken was not
the word; a man must have friend to find himself forsaken by them.

Other times, in my singular hope, sunlight in a sliver brightens
the slowed connections between the ever-tiring synapses. Nearly
waking
my heart believes the reverie to be my reality, and
waking
my eyes are shattered like the last note sharpened far out of tune.

Those times the merry songs are taunt and mock; their
perfection bears little introspection, and their joy only as deep
as the next round of beers. Those times the rhythm, like gypsies
round wagons in the night, despite the tambourine scheme of things,
I’ll crawl behind the third or fourth layer of trees in the grove.
The crackling of fish on the camp stove is a better tempo for
my addled brain.

Too many have watched me jump the hurdles mid-chorus;
song and fun and joy and spun, I’ll still dance (less often)
without a reason. But, the days when I was left bleeding on the sidewalk, I mean bleeding,
not bruised; I mean leaking, not misused; but that time people danced and sang while I
hoped I would still breathe tomorrow and my children would know their daddy was
going to be ok
because

For a time, he never sang the songs he once danced anew.

There is None

There is None

(“Dearly loved friends, don’t always believe everything you hear just because someone says it is a message from God: test it first to see if it really is. For there are many false teachers around.” 1 John 4:1)

They are political, they are hidden wind,
They are hypocritical, they are only half sinned.
They are magic words, eyeball readers, mercy cheaters,
They are meaning clippers, double dippers dropping friends.

I once listened, cried, wept at their altars. I shivered, shook,
waited for the catered message to walk me home out of the hardship,
carry me quickly from hell to His Lordship. “You have a Christmas gift
coming, my son” he said. (I love Christmas, always have. I would love
something wrapped and tied with a bow on top from God.)

“Where are you looking for churches,” he said, “I do some inquiring
for you,” he said. He did inquire and, along with my name, told them,
if it’s all the same to them, perhaps they might select another name.
(I was to blame, they dug my grave of shame even deeper). I was
waiting for a good report. Mysterious messages appeared, voice mail
(I hate answering voice mail), “something has come up, and we are going
a different direction”, right after he inquired for me, my hopes expired for he
had not told us but a quarter of his plan.

They are righteous (in their own eyes), they speak truth (in their own ears),
they do good (to those who will not embarrass), they preach grace (except to
those who need it).

The false are righteous, the false are correct, the false drink coffee,
the false buy you new ties and hang them around your neck.
The false reflect the sun, the false blind everyone, the false drink no alcohol,
the false do no wrong at all.

I have confessed, I have more confessing left. But the false, in their perfection,
never admit their own sleight of hand, yet demand full repentance from all
(the more you confess, the better you will heal).

“You want grace for yourself and judgment for others”, one once said.
Instead of responding, let me test it instead. Once said say, “I have said things
I regret. I was out of order. I hurt you with my words.” I say to Once said,
“All is forgiven. Forgotten. You are now free to move about my friendship again.”

They will call my wife names, and protect their speech with claims of
authority.

No wonder, more than once God, your words say, “there is none righteous, no not one.”

You Infuse

You Infuse

(“Anyone who says, ‘I live in intimacy with Him,’ should walk the path Jesus walked.” 1 John 2:6)

Only You know the reservations,
the slow procrastination that paints me
static. I do not care about the dimensions (2D or
3D with glasses), I am sad about the stagnation.

Only You know I am like a painting at a museum.
A father takes his son to see “The Blue Boy” on the wall,
and the son takes his own son to see the same. I am the same,
unchanged. Beautiful in silky grey; warm in the background green,
I am mounted and unmoved.

You are a Master Artist, not a painter. I am
a new creation, not a painting. A father and a son
visit me apart and are not ashamed that I am unchanged.

Only You infuse my taciturn crawl with fragrant oil,
the perfume all nature wears unaware. In silence sometimes
I find
the tears I cried over misshapen mimicry are part
of the elixir, the tonic of Your love.

Being, I move. Trying, I lose every scented molecule
of Your affection. I have stocked an entire pantry with
colognes and sprays to disguise misguided efforts
to hammer my own painting tightly to the wall.

I would never lose the fragrance if I merely moved in
closer to
only You.

Cliff-Edge Day

Cliff-Edge Day

(“His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence.” 2 Peter 1:3)

Holding tightly to another cliff-edge day
I hear the dirt clods tumbling below, beside, away.
I see the patch of grass, the brashly painted island
with boundaries tightly drawn.

I do not wish to write another screed of pain,
the words have piled up like broken lava
and I stand atop the cone, the crater, knowing
sooner or later
I will tire of the subject and take a 

European vacation just to prove I can still
live outside the lines.

There is a force (I shall not say “hand” or “arm”,
anthropomorphism does not suit the spiritual subject
in concrete verse)—(yet, I should not say “force” or “power”,
as if something like the hum of machinery kept me
from falling)—

There is a devotion (not mine, but Another) that
refuses to see me fall, though boulders roll unevenly
passed the appalling picture without explanation;
I am secure, though I would rather crawl alone past
the constant question, “How are you?”

I am beaten, I am worn, I am divided, I am torn,
I think with dust in my eyes, I see with  my mind
addled with icy sunshine; and lay quietly on the same
couch (my body imprinted in blue cushion by now)
when I would rather stand Grand Canyon tall, rising
early, adhering late to the Canyon walls.

Yet, all is stalled by the fingernail grasp that
uses a whole day’s energy by half a day at noon.

God's Chosen People

God’s Chosen People

“But you are God’s chosen and special people. You are a group of royal priests and a holy nation. God has brought you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Now you must tell all the wonderful things that he has done.” 1 Peter 2:9

Darren Sproles shouldn’t be playing NFL football. The average height of an NFL quarterback is just over 6”2”. Running backs average height is 5”11” and weighing in at about 215 pounds. Not only does Sproles play in the NFL, he broke the record for most single-season all-purpose yardage in 2011, with 2,629 yards. Playing for the San Diego Chargers, New Orleans Saints and the Philadelphia Eagles, he is the first player in NFL history with 2,200+ all-purpose yards in four different seasons.