I Want to Write about Beachballs

 

I Want to Write about Beachballs

“In peace and justice he walked with Me...” Malachi 2:6b)

I want to write about beachballs in church today,
I want to write about babies crying.
I want to write about bad breath in church today,
I want to write about old men waiting.

I want to write about a kingdom of love,
a gathering of bepatched people under a tent.
I want to write about a kingdom of peace,
a tribe without a name, having spent every bias.

I want to talk about questions in church today,
I want to talk about wondering doubt.
I want to talk about kitchens in church today,
I want to talk about new bread broken.

I want to talk about a nation of peace,
a brewing storm with nothing but nourishing rain.
I want to talk about a kingdom of love,
a table without end, open, and amen.

I want to write about birds and bears in church today,
I want to write about the society of friends.
I want to write about children who run,
who think fun gathers around their feet,
I want to write about the greeting that always means
stay as long as you want
and longer
because none of us are going away.

I want to write about a new menu to enjoy,
I want to write about exploration today.
I want to write about a new sound to rejoice,
I want to write about picnic parksounds today.

I want to write about why
we measure anything at all
when the pegs of our tent have been stretched
so far
that nothing can be seen but the horizon.

LIke a Trial Balloon

 

Like a Trial Balloon

(“Rejoice greatly, people of Jerusalem! Shout for joy, people of Jerusalem! Your king is coming to you. He does what is right, and he saves. He is gentle and riding on a donkey, on the colt of a donkey.” Zechariah 9:9)

I wanted today to be soft like a trial balloon,
but it was crunchy like leftover bits of tortilla chips.
And still it had the trademark of the divine all over it.

I wanted today to be glistening like a birthday cake,
but it was scratchy like acne or poison ivy.
Yet still it had the maker’s mark identifying it.

I wanted today to be back slaps and victory songs,
bass lines and jazz vibes,
but it was castoffs and headline pain,
backward lyrics and notes between the lines.

The author, the known and unknowable,
wrote the copyright
in script that spoke
so little
I knew it was meant for me.

They Nearly Stole the Show

 

They Nearly Stole the Show

(“All the people saw this and began to complain, ‘Look at the kind of man Jesus stays with. Zacchaeus is a sinner!’” Luke 19:7)

You stole their money, they stole your soul;
they knew what they heard,
they understood the whispers;
they decided you were impure,
they knew where you lived and
what you hid.

They were sharpened peaks of brass,
their words fell like granite upon
the infamous. They circled their best
epithets in red (Sinner, sinner, oh
sinner man). They hauled the dust
from the outskirts of town to dump
on the heads of derelicts who should
know better. They nearly stole the show.

What does an invitation mean? A
loaf of bread and shared wine? A
table set for two where
the Son of Man
pierces you with eyes wilder than
eagles, sharper than a roman sword.
But you stay, you are untamed by
the laugh you hear for the first time;
the laugh of joy. You are unrestrained
by the tears that you know he sheds
for your own.

The gates have opened, you have jumped the fence,
the air is sparkling, the birds sing in present tense,
the way is unfolded, the road a homeward path,
the sun is indiscreet, the winds sweeter than honey.

Emptying your darkness into such beneficent light
unbuttoned the gathering days as you shared the
harvest of grace.

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

 

I Did Not Miss the Wedding

(“The Lord said he would live in a dark cloud.But I have built you a high temple, a home for you to live in permanently.” 2 Chronicles 6:1-2)

The hills were a faster green this year as if
angels attended every blade of grass.
But with each footstep across the fields
my brain was full of steel marbles
rattling in my head.

I did not miss the wedding, would not miss it
for anything. But I missed the next morning when
the jumble of family nested in the living room. The
vise tightened around my brain that night.

The rains are a slower steel this year is if
riders lassoed them, bucking between the hills
that pushed the river to the sea. Showers were
predicted, holding off their payload the entire afternoon.
And when the wedding party were seated, chatting and playing,
the rain, mist by drop, arrived like guests
who had lost their way. We lowered our heads,
balanced our plates, and carried our chairs to the
rented tent for such an occurrence. The cheesecake
was well-protected.

She was waiting for something, the expectation in her 3-year-old heart
was ready to burst; she was waiting, shifting from one foot to the other,
ready for the moment to arrive. She was crazy for love,
crazy for love,
busy for fun. The dry tent was not her temple
so she escaped into the rain on the greening lawn.
Such tiny legs, such whirling with pink taffeta
trying to catch up. She extended her arms and became
a whirligig ready to explore the skies.
Her flaxen hair whipped round her face and shot
water droplets into the night.

I did not miss the tiny dancer,

I danced with my daughter
for the first time ever. It was magic, not make-believe,
it was perfectly impossible, it was the way humans celebrate
love, longing, friendship and family. It is the music that

Opens everything.

Tap You on the Shoulder

 

Tap You on the Shoulder

(“Jesus told them a picture-story to show that men should always pray and not give up.” Luke 18:1)

It is love silently, eyes closed in an open field
letting the birdsongs carry every ache (the fullest love
feels the most pain.)
And when the sky is clouded with iron gates (like mining
ore from the shadows) that is when

I don’t know why I think I should
tap you on the shoulder when
you are already
looking at me.

I have so many habits I cannot explain.

Give Me the Biggest

 

Give Me the Biggest

(“The Lord replied, 'If you have faith the size of mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you!’” Luke 17:6)

Give me more, give me more,
give me more faith so I
can rip the trees to shreds,
bulldoze the mountains, then send them both
to the sea, to the sea, to the sea
for eternity.

Isn’t that what you meant? It is clear enough, I think.
The syntax is explicit, the images concrete,
the only think I need is more faith to defeat
the stubborn bushes and burning mountains.
Although, come to think of it,
I have heard no reports of flying hills along the
beaches with a dying trajectory.
Nor have I seen mulberries like roman candles
fleeing the gravity that holds them in place.
I have not noticed a single neighbor
backhoeing the hole where the flowering trees escaped.

We always want more,
we always want the meter to read above redline,
we always want the single cure for everything.
Give me the biggest, let the fire spray from my fingers;
give me the fullest, let the blaze be felt from my eyes.

And so, you undo me when you decrease me, and
invite me to
want much less, so much less.
And I am distressed after having uprooted
peaks and shrubs so many times
in my dreams.

Give me, then, the grain that cannot be seen from
across the highway,
upon the pulpit,
and is nearly invisible for those with higher vision
from people-length away.

Forgiveness is more an obstacle than
Everest or the Great Sequoias.

Like Fairy Tales

 

Like Fairy Tales

(“But we should be glad and celebrate! Your brother was dead, but he is now alive. He was lost and has now been found.” Luke 15:32)

It’s like fairy tales with the ending that fixes everything,
like the carousels that promise gold while mixing horses
and unicorns and princesses and cardboard tickets.
It’s like the neighbor next door playing their music too loud,
like the ravens who rule from thirty feet high then soar toward
your head. You are not allowed so close to their home.

It’s like champagne before the wedding,
back pain after mending the treehouse for the grandkids.
It’s twirling like a top,

curling your toes when the raindrops break the summer heat.

It’s the interruption during the sermon,
the baby sticking his tongue out at the
man behind him,
and the man laughing and sticking his tongue out
too.
It’s the interruption during communion,
a paper airplane dive-bombing from the balcony,
and a note inside that makes her parents want to hide
but makes a teen boy blush when the wine is served.

It is every distraction, every absurd note played without
rehearsal.
It is every expansion, every blue note that dares to play
between the half steps decreed by convention. It is
every transaction that leaves less pocket money
but more time to love how funny random cloudbursts
feel on our skin.

It is each moment, another second of
trumpets and strings, caterpillars with wings,
exiting and entering; it is always (after all)
a moment of new beginnings.