Today You Will be With Me

“Jesus answered him, ‘What I’m about to tell you is true. Today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke23:43

I vowed I would never say it, never entertain the thought; but the last night of our two week vacation with family in Minneapolis I cried out, “God must be punishing me!” The pain had continued the entire 14 days. I only felt good enough one morning of the entire vacation to venture outside of our oldest son’s house to find a coffee shop for some quiet reading. Even then, I stayed a very short time. That was the only time I left their house.

From There

From There

(“Together with Christ Jesus God also raised us up and seated us in the heavens.” Ephesians 2:6)

Unheated and numb, the fingers burn urging broken windows
closed in prairie midwinters. Patched as well as we can, the cold
still sneaks through the threadbare attempts at warmth.

Our world is white and crystal; it is cotton and silk.
Our world is cottonwoods bare in December, stark solos
waving black against the blue sunsets in ice. Our world
is sundogs and coldstars; it is barren and waiting.

Warmed all day the windowpane burns the fingers against
HVAC attempts at beating the heat. Midsummer sun draws
its arrows, amplifying the boiling point; potted plants
have lost their bloom left on the sundeck alone.

Our world is sand and muddy; it is linen and wool.
Our world is apple trees full in September, offerings
and reminders outside the perimeter of bonfire songs
that match the orange dusk. Our world is heatstroke and
corndogs; it is burden and winsome.

Above the atmosphere and
outside planetary rotation;
height and time expand our view. The farthest stars
may have winked their final gasp long before our eyes
perceived it.

Above the galaxy and
outside the creation’s beginning;
within time and space the New Man came
to transfer vision, sit us down on the highest mountain,
and let us, darkly, review it from above.

More on Pain and Suffering

"The men who were holding Jesus in custody taunted him while they beat him. They blindfolded him and asked him repeatedly, “Prophesy! Who hit you?” Insulting him, they said many other horrible things against him.” Luke 11:63-64

It would be the utmost arrogance for me to assume the pain I have endured for nearly six years comes close to Jesus’ suffering. I have a headache of unknown causes diagnosed as New Daily Persistent Headache. I endure pain twenty four hours a day, with an average of six out of 10. It takes more than one try most days to simply get out of bed, and my physical activity has been severely limited. My wife and I just visited our kids and granddaughter for 14 days in Minneapolis and I ventured outdoors only once, with the pain keeping down the rest of the time.

Open Invitation

Open Invitation

(“He said to them, 'I have really looked forward to eating this Passover meal with you. I wanted to do this before I suffer.'” Luke 22:15)

I saw you outside the door. You approached it slowly, like you
were uncertain of the address. You looked up at the wall and
down upon your downloaded map and seemed assured this
was the right place.

I saw you outside the door. Your body swayed in toward the light,
then back toward the olive groves while your feet stayed planted secure.
The aromas were familiar, Passover since you were a toddler; roast lamb and
garlic, parsley, eggs and wine to remind you the God with a Name will have
no slaves.

I saw you outside the door. You made a wide arc toward the dark
between two closely planted olive trees. You could lean your back against one,
your feet against the other, and squint to your right, the door that beckoned:

inviting light and something so serious that the usual menu was incomplete.

I saw you between the trees. I whispered and early spring bore my breath
toward your face, “Come in with me, the Master asks us to celebrate tonight.”

You cast your eyes to the ground, and slowly, tracing my face, I know you
recognize me, and I am sure it is true.

“Yes, I was on my way in, friend. And, like you, I feel I have no right to enter.
You know my lusts, don't you?” A pause/selah. “I have also lied, you've heard.”
Another pause and selah. “You know how well I spoke and how poorly I acted,
I can see it in your eyes.” l o n g e r pause - - - s e l a h. And now the breath
you could see was ice inside of me. I shook over every betrayal known and yet
undiscovered.

“Yes, I know you know who I am. And I have been worse than you know. But,
I am here for Him, because of my sin. I am here to drink the wine I must drink,
or else die in my grief. I am here to drink the cup of bitterness,
the cup of my forgiveness.”

I touched your elbow, barely. Departure left you open to steady yourself or push
me away, stealthily leaving the open invitation. But, like a diesel in winter, you
warmed to the light framed by the door waiting open on the Eastern Wall for perhaps

only two or one more.

We sat, remember? I mentioned that, though I knew the forgiveness deeply, I still had not control
over the shivers every time I remembered how untrue I had been.

I hoped that you, new and without a history of deceit, could be clean and never shake except for
joy and laughter. And so it was, your mouth broad, your teeth wide and gleaming at
mercy's dance.

We have met there, each year since, begging the Savior would suffer no more
than He already had for us. We have watched, each year since, for others
who, shiver or static, still cannot quite make their way
through the door.

Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

Pale Dots on an Inky Sky

(“Because you are sons, God has sent forth the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, crying, 'Abba! Father!'” Galatians 4:6)

I did not pick up this sword on my own,
it was placed there, in my arms, by those (though planning no harm)
who designed their plan of war and placed me in position.

Let me rephrase that: perhaps I did raise the sword, but it
was not for the enemy they chose. They recited my duty,
verse by verse, and expected a fiery spectacle with their
enemies dying at my feet.

Please do not blame them; it is the only warfare they know.
Please do not mistake me as one of their own. I belong,
it is true,
to the same one they name. And, without comment about
whose tent they inhabit, I have found the Name warmer
than the fires of Big Guns ordered by General or Admiral.

I wield it wisely, or I do not wield it at all. I have heard
the call, once so far away I wished to hush the breeze to hear it.
Like a pale dot on the inky sky, barely perceptible, yet I knew,
up close it would fill my purview many worlds over. I have
heard
the call. Within this time. And it obscures every design and order
I thought I was under. Stronger, fiercer, the volcano's exclamation;
and yet: Softer, familiar, the dove's invitation.

One was the broken fissure, having blown its top,
the other is volcano fire, the power no one can stop.
One was human mapping the divine,
the other, the Father fully safe, never benign.

My hand grips the sword, my heart gripped by my Father's words,
and I swing, oh so very rarely, only to free the prisoners, cutting
through their chains,
denouncing all names but the One Name who is Abba to
all who will believe.

Dust and Thirst

Dust and Thirst

(“Come down from your lofty place and sit in the dust.” Jeremiah 48:18a)

You sit in your dust and you laugh as if you drink all day from
a tap of crystal liquid; so cool your burning eyes assume all will be
healed under the flow of its spring.

You bivouacked a place higher than your enemies,
you set up camp to display your long stature, your tall statues,
your walls which shine with whitewash sheen. In the desert you
can pretend all summer and nearly all autumn as well; the veneer is

smeared upon the stacked rubble walls. You stole the shimmer from
mica and polished bronze in angles to reflect the sun's long rays
for the fat portion of the day into the last few sightseers' approving view.

But the rains reveal you are austere; enough water to persuade your
pretty pebble to let loose of their sham of a veneer. You are done.

I stand in humanity's circle, showing off my latest braintrust just the same
as ancient Moab and Dibon, its royal city. Here's the thing, we who sing
our praises through the summer until the rains of revelation expose our
bling as nothing more than drugs store trinkets, we will thirst in the dust
if we do it long enough.

Come down from your heights, you boaster of National rights;

Start the hike today, off the mountain; do not delay, your boast is only
brighter balloons filled with the same gas as the names you've claimed
are behind every conspiracy. You are the tyranny you decry.
Your hunger to be right is the heresy that prevents tomorrow's meal
from gracing a family so hungry their faces are smeared messy after
the feast.

Some Days are Heavier

Some Days are Heavier

(“When someone is weak, then I feel weak too; when someone is led into sin, I am filled with distress.” 2 Corinthians 11:29)

Some days are heavier, the gravity pushes down like a cloud
full of gravel; while just a step and a half over the children twirl
like cottonwood dancing on the breeze. There is little to be said
about geography, myopathy; it is simply the weather that pushed
you around and left an opening in its soul full of dandelions and
dragonflies,
while you drag your disguise under the hailstones you nope no one notices.

But I see. Or at least discern the evidence. A lovely white porch
with
elder limbs for shade and the next day spitballs from the sky
shredded the lanai. Leaves were pureed, paint was splayed with
chips of white and green the jigsaw pieces of an infinite puzzle
or remains. You remembered why you nearly decided it
was a bad idea to put the glass table outside.

Some had insurance. Some had luck. Some discerned the future.
But you, you must have been on the receiving end of judgment
for hail so large to hover so long over a target so precise as
the white porch where people imagined (mostly the uninvited)
your adolescent raucous.

We sat outside on spotted plastic, shared a sigh and a drink,
and though the air was still heavy as iron, the hand of a friend
was better
than the doctrines of neighbors about
the hand of god.