Narrow Trails and Soft Landings

“Some of you say, ‘We can do whatever we want to!’ But I tell you that not everything may be good or helpful.” 1 Corinthians 10:23)

We hiked the rocky red crags of Zion National Park. Growing up, my family did a lot of camping, hiking and site-seeing. This day we started near the bottom of a beautiful outcropping that began in the shade and wound a shallow trail toward the top. Close to the summit the trail narrowed quite a bit. I was 12 and my brother Joel was 10 at the time.

If You Will Believe

“Jesus said to her, ‘Dear woman, you are made well because you believed. Go in peace.’” Luke 8:48

“Dear woman,” He said. More literally, Jesus called her “Daughter”. It is the only time in Scripture that Jesus addresses a woman this way. I do not know what she was called by others, or what names floated in her own thinking. But, I’m sure many of them were quite unaffectionate.

A Rainful of Thunder

A Rainful of Thunder

Sing the longing, the refrain of spiral clouds after
chorus one, two and three. Rehearse the verses you’ve heard
from improvised warblers giving dawn its due revolution.

You’ve heard the mourning dove, seen them nest,
and return next year, the next, and left the nest waiting
outside upon the balcony. Was it their young who returned,
or the chance landing upon the previous pairs address?
It did not matter, their coos accompanied the rhythm and hum
of the slow meter of everyday drums.

Echo the wind. You’ve watched it since beginning to see
what the invisible leaves behind and the visible steps aside
just as you wished for an unobstructed view. Were the
clouds lost ghost ships and did the earth slip from under
your feet as they teetered across the sky? Were leaves spinning
timbrels the trees used to join the dance? Was this the time
when all stands still,

Breath is imperceptible,
time does not pass but waits like a diamond web
to catch certain memories and give them back
once dreams and wonder have followed
our popsicle sticks down the gutter on a hot
and sticky summer
just after the shout of a rainful of thunder.

Stronger than She Feels

Stronger than She Feels
(for my daughter Sarah)

(“Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Don’t tremble with fear.     I am your God. I will make you strong, as I protect you with my arm and give you victories.” Isaiah 41:10)

Surely the way opens for you like
the drapes framing the first light of sun for you;
surely the heart you possess
has been given to Him who knows you best.

You fly above and see the sorrow below,
you walk beside the youngest up the steeps of light,
you stay with them to celebrate the plateau upon
the most sun-rich day.

They are dancers in your eyes, only years alive and
so full of daddy questions and mommy mottos,
and you sweep them up, one or dozens,
in one swoop of your arms (the once tiny arms I
watched in ballerina poses). They are your
bouquets, roses and daffodils and countless
dandelions
(what would a children’s garden be without the
butter-yellow weed we blow to across the sky with
wishes sent and seeds to grow in the neighbor’s backyard).

Your feet have always danced, and they will be planted
tomorrow; though your questions outweigh your confidence,
the Destiny, the open-book story with the pop-up pictures
is just beginning its out-loud read.

Every giggle, every baby’s babble; each skydive from the clouds,
each studied arrival at a brand new address; all attest
the beauty, the brave, the spiritual, the grace of a woman
whose God is making her

Stronger than she feels.

He Knows

"Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw it, he said to himself, 'If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.'" Luke 7:39

He knows who you are. You cannot sneak up behind Him. You cannot blindfold Him and say, “Guess who?” You cannot hide your shameful moments; He knows every one of them.

Stop Weeping

“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her and said to her, ‘Do not weep.’” Luke 5:17

Two processions met on a Judean road one late afternoon. At the head of one was a weeping mother, grieved at the loss of her young son. Coming toward them was a great crowd following a traveling preacher and his disciples. The contrasts couldn’t have been more acute.

Contrails

Contrails

(“But when the people of Israel cried out to the Lord for help, the Lord again raised up a rescuer to save them.” Judges 3:15)

I’ve got the graph of my life trailing me like
the contrails left by private jets writing nonsense on the sky.
Look closer, for the graph is longer than the quick glance
at a winged point upon the bright azure background.
Seen from the ground and looking over head, the graph is
a long snake; some segment a lazy “s”, and others multiple
“z”s
tracking the quick turns when change came unexpectedly.

Seen from the ground, my life was not up and down,
but a series of oases separated by journeys; a path or
a highway; a pattern or madness; mapped coordinates
or advised itinerary; few turns were solely my own and
most were leased opinions with fewer options the
longer I flew.

Seen from the ground, my life was not fall and rise,
but a curious adventure where the present is a line,
focused and fine;
and the past is fading the further behind; a broad brush
of recollections and uncertain directions with fewer
alive who knew the truth of my first years of flight.

On a rainy day you may catch me squinting toward the sky,
one hand covering my forehead, one hand reaching out “why”,
and you would hear, from this fellow wanderer, the same prayer
he prayed, “s” or “z”,
“I’m not sure how I got here, but won’t you please rescue me.”