The Spaces Between the Letters

 The Spaces Between the Letters

(“For it was by God’s grace that he experienced death’s bitterness on behalf of everyone!” Hebrews 2:9b TPT)

How could I let them do all the thinking for me,
how could I take so long to use my mind again?
I pulled up to the first sign of life, the first certainty,
the elemental arguments that proved the doubters wrong;
and I parked there like a big rig overnight where
night can last a lifetime.
I left it in neutral, let the engine run,
let the heater keep me from the cold and frozen landscape
I thought I understood.
I left it in neutral because
I had let the ink speak for me,
think for me. The flat black and white
was cemented like a shrine; never mind it was
thousands of years before my time.

So, every time you sought me, every time
you needed help,
I searched the documents like dispensing prescriptions
and wrote them for your life.
“Don’t divorce” (though he hit you)
“Be in church” (though it caused you pain)
“Get a job” (there were none)
“Just abstain” (addiction bites)
“Pray some more” (mine was saccharine)
“Read this book” (parts made me cry)
“Bible study” (genealogies too)
“Plead the blood” (on my honor)
“Use the Name” (nothing stronger)
“Take more walks” (depression’s cure)
And I never told you that
the prescriptions I wrote
did nothing for me at all.

I know so much less now, yes, nearly agnostic.
I know the minus and the plus now, and how unforgiving
pen and paper become.
I know you better now, with my faith somewhat rarer;
I would learn the silence, I would learn the pauses,
I would memorize every tear on your face.
I would empty out my own doubts
(if you would receive them)
and simply walk beside you though
the world has gotten larger than either of us
imagined.
The spaces between the letters on the page,
scribbled on the yellow lines of my legal pad,
are greater than the sounds of the alphabet.
There is more air in the molecules,
more space in the universe,
more doubt in the certainty,
more quiet between hello and goodbye.

He tasted our pain. He let the bitterness that
brings us up short cover him like a veil.
I cannot explain it, but he wrapped himself in darkness,
and inhabited the spaces between our doubts and
our faith.
And still I am hollow, and still he dwells in
the echoes we wish would fade away.

Answers no longer satisfy me; I would be a traitor
to give them to you.
But, this open space where souls meet, and eyes,
is the only place I have felt alive.

You Paced Yourself Well

 

You Paced Yourself Well

(“Look to the Lord. Always look to him.” 1 Chronicles 16:11)

You’ve drunk it down, sweated it out and
once you would have laid down your life.

You’ve thrown food to the winds,
confessed your sins and mildewed plans
while every syllable from the solo act,
every word from the invited speaker,
hitched your thoughts to higher dread.
You listened and fell, your soul escaping
the hell you thought was part of the discount package.

You hated the ritual, this routine of bleeding
your prayers on moldy carpets until someone closed
the back door. You were alone; you had stayed long
enough until only the custodian heard you wriggling
to leave like a worm on a hook.

You hoped one day it would stick, one time the proof
would enter you like a beacon or a knife. If not god,
at least a bishop or an elf might see the effort you
put into your piety. The only think you hid was how
you wished mystics were more forthcoming about the
emptiness of groveling.

You paced yourself well, hoping to complete the
marathon once, if not twice. Now too old to breathe
so deeply, you hoped the buckets filled with your weeping
impressed anyone who knew anything about seeking.

Where was God in the straining, in the agony and paining
over mosquito thoughts and missing the maker’s marks?
Outside the ward where you slept and ate, where knee-pads
sealed your fate,
there were donuts and black light posters,
poets and belly dancers. There was
the morning breeze
that swept up from the warming sod.
There was the museum of modern art
and a café where friends joked about naming
their newsletter “The French Press”. But mostly,
entirely, easily, openly

There was God.

Run Out of Road

 

Run Out of Road

(“How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!” Luke 13:34b [The Message])

It seems certain now, after observing you from afar,
that you may have run out of road and are spinning your wheels
in the sand.
It is understandable,
knowing only the route you pursued,
but honestly, it escapes my reasoning and knowledge of
your surroundings why you don’t raise your eyes,
look around,
and notice the desert you drove yourself to.

It seems evident how, for how long and for deeper still,
you yearned for a badge of courage, a congressional medal,
an emblem earned to show your commitment to
machines that mowed down the opposition well,
and how certainly you remained true to a narrative
no better than a fairy tale.
What you failed to observe was
the magic kiss you wanted was just in front of you.

It seems ages ago, the first time around, your maiden journey
circling certainty. The snow swirled around the asphalt like
snakes before you found the tracks of previous drivers.
Safely you navigated icy patches with nothing but the taillights
of big rigs to guide you. You arrived. You sighed in relief.
You were safe. And you were lost. Waiting out the storm was
the only choice to make.

Though you did not know it, there was a course correction
waiting for you in that cold café with more space heaters
than tables. The dark wood paneling may have hidden the
wandering one from your view, or you may have been too
busy reading to see him. He longed to loan you his parka,
drive an extra mile with you, and to shield you from the coming
blizzard that would disguise the road back home.

But you finished your breakfast, nose in the best book,
sucked down the remnants of your coffee and walked past the
man in the corner who rose to meet you, who always rose
to meet you
in every rest stop along the way.

I Slowed Down Enough

 

I Slowed Down Enough

I slowed enough for you to catch me,
I slowed down to a crawl,
I slowed enough for you to find me,
I slowed to no movement at all.

I radioed ahead that I was coming,
I radioed so you would show,
I radioed ahead while I was driving,
I radioed so you would know.

But you kept up your breakneck pace,
You kept up your distractions,
But you kept up your blinded race,
You kept up your hollow fractions.

I stood in the road far too long,
I stood across from you,
I stood in the road with my old coat on,
I stood right in front of you.

I slowed down once I had hit town,
I slowed down at this address,
I slowed down so I could be found,
I slowed down to emptiness.

But you would only blaze past me,
You would ignore my telegrams,
But you would not simply replace me,
You would treat me like I was banned.

I slowed down enough for you to welcome
me home.

 

Grain-Sized

 

Grain-Sized

(“Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord his appearing is as sure as the dawn; he will come to us like the showers, like the spring rains that water the earth.” Hosea 6:3)

Have you watched the rain fill the potholes and
the next day the sparrows are bathing?
Have you seen the way old eyes fade
when the lengths are measured so precisely?
Have you missed the sun on a befogged morning
and refused to walk out into the gray?
Have you ever,
even if you don’t remember,
walked barefoot all summer until you
did not need shoes at all?

Have you smelled the lavender and remembered
your grandmother or the florist who loved the dirt?
Have you tasted a strawberry and remembered
the kiss of an early love?
Have you been to the beach, watched sand crabs
swim in your castle’s moat?
Have you watched the orange sunset turn to
red tide under a renewing moon?
Have you seen the ways young eyes fade
when campfires sing until dawn?

Have you felt the verdant forest coating your skin,
the boundless sky caressing your shoulders,
the breezes sigh like a joke gone wrong
that everyone laughs at because wit has become
joy which needs no permission to grin?

Have you hiked a hill until your back was fire,
but would not retreat until you stood higher than the
aspens below you? The alpine lakes show you more
from above the timber line.

And some days do you sit and do
nothing at all
while you think the world is livelier
outside your room?

Have you every wondered how someone so
grain-sized
can imagine universes within and without you
or that the divine infuses
it all like rain, like flame, like
the very next dawn.

I Guess I Grew Up

 

I Guess I Grew Up

(“Turn both your pockets and your hearts inside out and give generously to the poor; then your lives will be clean, not just your dishes and your hands.” Luke 11:41 [The Message])

I guess I grew up without knowing your culture
celebrated
a bath in a lake or a hot tub just off the sacristy.
I guess it surprised me how loud the applause was
when a poor beggar came up out of the water
(and went home without supper, and went home without bread).
I guess I never questioned why
my annual report demanded how many heads went under the water
and had no fill-in-the-blank for how many mouths were fed.
Don’t get me wrong,
I’m glad for every person added to the roll,
but can’t we, just once, or even from now on,
count the toll it has taken for the forgotten and forsaken
to spend food money on rent, and rent money on diapers,
and diaper money on food, and food money on
nothing left at all.

Don’t tell me BLM is violent until
you dismantle the razor wire around the
enclaves of elite purveyors of happy blessings
and pastoral greed. Don’t tell me
all lives matter
until you disarm the anger that puts
each shade darker than you
at risk. I don’t care how many tithe
checks you have written. Don’t tell me
you love everyone the same
and then complain
that the manicurists speak in Vietnamese
right in front of your pale english face.
Here’s a tip: leave an extra 20
for the ones still learning the language.

I guess I grew up without it getting through
my thick wooden head
that guns and god are on equal footing.
I guess it surprised me how much those
who never take a drink
don’t mind a little anger in the name of
the
Prince of Peace.

But did I digress? I do not think so.
I have digested 100 different tales of
presidents who are muslim,
care bears that are devilish,
teletubbies that are gay,
and the correct way to pronounce
the name of g-d when, I dunno,
there were no tape recorders beside the unburning bush.

What was the last time you looked in on
the disabled pastor
and offered refreshment, a little water,
a little oil, a candle and a quiet whisper that
says
sometimes uncertainty is

All we are allowed.

I guess I grew up.

The Tightness of Things

 

The Tightness of Things

(“Those who are wise will shine like the brightness on the horizon. Those who lead many people to righteousness will shine like the stars forever and ever.” Daniel 12:3)

There is a light that penetrates the tightness of things,
a love that inhabits the elements and atoms of things.
Most live like lantern fish, mine workers with temporary
lamps on their heads. With factory-direct flashlights
they hope to illuminate the world.

There is a sun that irradiates the life-ness of things,
a grace that infuses the core and the splinters of things.
Most live like tiny kings, squires collecting rent from
lean-tos and taking tea in their receiving rooms. Underneath
the stars and moons they reduce it all to capital gains.

There is a flutter of wings that directs the spirit of things,
a peace that whispers behind every leaf and fingerprint of things.
Most live like boiling water, vapor blasting its way to the
top and casting each thought in scorched confusion. Above
the timers and schedules the blossoms have not moved

An inch since this morning.