Abbreviated Fog

Abbreviated Fog

(“If you return to the Almighty, you will be restored— so clean up your life.” Job 22:23)

If you don’t mind, would you take some time to
simply be silent
and sit in the pain,
and restrain yourself from trying to
put god in a place that explains what
you can never understand?

When someone has lost it all,
is it your calling to take some more?
Will you seize the fractures in his soul
and insist he walk upon the shards?
Is it so hard to live within the ellipses,
the dots and dashes,
the abbreviated fog of suffering
with another whose life has become
a broken paragraph, the torn pages of
a book nearly written.

The wind speaks better than the air that escapes
from wise men without knowledge. Spacious in their
capacity to blame and misname every flinch
of the afflicted, they see only effects that must have had
a cause.

Will you pick apart the psalms of despair,
throwing them upon the ash heap of your assumptions?
Will you hear the moans and reject the questions
because answers are easier to handle? But what if
the sand filled your castle; what if the fire melted your
everything you had crammed into your storage sheds?
What if the heads of everyone in town turned away because
they relished answers just like you?

Stay quiet my friend. Sit close enough that I hear your breathing.
The time for talking will come. But now, leave your dissertations
and start the tea kettle please.

Call it Jazz

Call it Jazz

(“I tell you the truth, whoever accepts anyone I send also accepts me. And whoever accepts me also accepts the One who sent me.” John 13:20)

Please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
tolerate me.

I mean all that I am, my frightened thoughts,
my unsteady frame,
my journey through the wilderness,
my nightmares, my anxiety,
my sins and the irony of a follower full
of doubts,
a flower dusted with thorns,
a friend who needs human touch more than
scripture quotes or attempts to diagnose my condition.

Let me come to your house, lay upon your couch,
shed the tears I will not shed unless I know you’ll not turn away.
And if I do not get better, let me cry myself to sleep.
Let me sit at your table with only coffee and memory,
let me stop pretending for just an hour.

The fingertips of a friend equal the hand of God.

I promise I’ll send you a card, a thank you note,
a gift or a poem. I’ll write on lined paper every
word that describes what taking me into your heart
has meant.

But please accept me,
and by accept I do not mean
put up with me.

Because I cannot become anything other than
what I am today. And I am longing for
the eyes of a friend, the tears of a fellow traveler,
the silent comfort for weeks at a time, the storyteller
who does not care if my poems rhyme. I long,
far and short,
for anyone who will accept this arrhythmic heart
and just call it jazz.

This Is Not About Me

This Is Not About Me

(“Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” John 12:3)

I promise you, that if my tears were perfume,
the world would smell like roses in the Sahara,
in Siberia, the inner city and the vacant lots.

But they are just salt.

But this is not about me. Pardon me,

But you have seemed a ghost, a zephyr;
like air; no. Hydrogen.

Everywhere (apparently) but so diffuse
you refuse to be held.

I am a sentient being, and sensitive to touch.
You are more famous, yet further than I can reach.

Many have left you for less than this,
and I sweat and shiver filled with longing,
tissue and regret.

But they are just water.

But this is not about me. Forgive me,

But I’ve emptied the wells of my eyes on a thousand
carpeted altars,
unloaded my life on your shoulders and
unfolded every ridge in my brain like
the San Andreas Fault.

I feel your cross daily laid across my back,
I choke on the dank cavern of the tomb,
But the rising, the morning, the third day
evades me, and I seem to loop:
day 1
day 2.

But this is not about me. Revive me,

But I have never prayed hard enough,
obeyed long enough,
or, so it seems, cried well enough
to hear what No Greater Love would say.

Though I cannot find you,
you have confined me to time and space.
Trembling I’ve asked, if not your voice, your hands,
your eyes, then
let me wash your feet.

Trembling I’ve asked, if not your voice, your hands,
your eyes, then
let me wash your feet.

A Letter Sent

A Letter Sent

(“When the news reached Pharaoh’s palace, ‘Joseph’s brothers have come,’ Pharaoh and his servants were pleased.” Genesis 45:16)

Every poem I write is a letter
sent
to the ones I’ve loved. They are meant
to diffuse the confusion of past
clowns and charades;
to clear the dusty air from my overnight mind
that awoke hugging a sliver of the bed.
I write in the hope the sky will be surprised
because I’m stuck in the moment,
riveted to the chair,
wanting to stop crying and laughing alone.

This is why I write,
in the hope my words will fold in on themselves
and, like a paper airplane in freshman English
sent from the back of the class,
will land in a soft slide upon your desk.
You won’t even need to read it once you see
it is from me.

Every word I type is a plea,
(I shall not beg)
that someone will recognize my face,
my time, my sweat, the footprints I left
when I only wanted the best for you. Sounds
I haven’t heard in decades
fill my silent isolation.

Did 12 years mean anything? Were 40 a vapor?
Are the cell towers dead? Did you run out of postage?
Is your bank account empty? Have I used up all my hugs?
Am I too weak, too needy? Even just a plaque with my
name spelled out small is something I could hang on the wall.

Unlike Joseph, I stumbled more than I want anyone to know;
still, did any of my days matter? I am sorry for sounding morose,
but couldn’t Pharaoh at least offer a toast and mention
that, though I did not finish perfectly,
I finished pretty well?

When God Weeps

When God Weeps

“‘Look,’ said the Judaeans, ‘see how much he loved him!’” John 11:36

Jesus was on the way to Lazarus’ tomb. Martha, Lazarus’ sister had met Jesus on the road, falling at his feet and saying, “If you’d only been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!”

Jesus had received news of Lazarus’ illness, but delayed two full days before embarking for Bethany where Lazarus, Mary and Martha resided. The two sisters and their brother were good friends of Jesus and he stayed often at their home. Now, though Jesus’ friend was very ill, Jesus did not hurry.

Most are so familiar with this story that some of the emotion of the narrative escapes us. But think about Martha meeting Jesus on the road after her brother was already dead four days. She knows, she believes, she has no doubt that if Jesus had been there earlier, he could have healed Lazarus.

Jesus tells her that her brother will live because he is “the resurrection and the life.” Martha holds tight to her trust in Jesus, despite her grief, telling him, “I believe this: that you are the Messiah, the son of God, the one who has come into the world.”

They both make their way back to the house to find Mary being consoled by their friends. Mary immediately tells Jesus the same thing as her sister: “If you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.” Jesus sees her tears and the weeping of those around her and is stirred deeply within, to the point of being troubled.

He asks, “Where have you laid him?” They invite him to come and see.

And then, the memory verse every person knows, because it’s the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” He burst into tears. Not a single tear. Not a little sniffle. He wept. This isn’t the sort of tear you wipe away with a tissue during a sentimental movie. This is deep, from the gut, weeping.

This should astound us. Jesus told his disciples before they left that he was going to Bethany to “wake up” Lazarus. Jesus knew that in only a few moments his friend would come walking out of the tomb he had occupied for half a week. And yet he weeps.

Please don’t picture Jesus here with a tear running down his cheek. This is red-eyed, snot-nosed, full-throated weeping. The preacher would stop preaching at the sound. The singer would stop her song. Everyone would turn to hear where this wailing came from. And they would see the Son of God in full-on waves of grief.

Had we been there I have little doubt we would have said the same as the friends who had gathered: “See how much he loved him.”

Do you see it in your mind? Can you hear Jesus’ weeping? Here is the one who is perfectly human. Jesus is the full representation of what humanity is like. And humanity cries. Humanity weeps. Humanity grieves. Humanity openly expresses pain over the love of someone we lose.

This is important for us. Have you been raised to hold back your emotions? Did people ever say to you, “Don’t cry”? Well, Jesus won’t say that. Cry. Weep. If you are in a situation that feels dead, it is perfectly human to give sway to the emotions within.

Please do not think it a lack of faith to let the tears flow. Please don’t let your culture or upbringing prevent you from giving full expression to the present grief or pain. You may have finally reached your breaking point at your job. Your children may have wandered so far, your heart yearns for them. You may have a breach with your parents. You may even be in an abusive marriage or relationship that once seemed alive. There are actions you can take, but please don’t refrain from weeping.

In the dead moments of life, weeping is the gift God has built into our very being. Now, some of us are more prone to emotional display than others. Only you can know your true self. But please, do not hold back because it does not seem appropriate. Let the tears flow. Pain is real. Grief is real. Dead-end jobs are real. And death is real. So real that the Son of God himself wept deeply as they approached the tomb of the one he loved.

Which brings us to the next observation; not only is it human to feel grief, but God grieves with you. Do not hurry to Lazarus’ resurrection without stopping here for a moment. I don’t care what sermon, what book, or what preacher you’ve heard; your tears are no sign of a lack of faith. Your weeping does not show mistrust. In fact, God weeps with you.

Your pain is God’s pain. Your grief is God’s grief. Your frustration and confusion are His. When you want to bang your head against the wall, God is there, not to scold you, but to hold you. When the hurts of a thousand memories crowd your mind and you wish you were over them by now, God does not upbraid you for your lack of faith. He settles in right with you and weeps so openly that if someone else was in the room they would say, “Look how much God loves her!” “Look how much God loves him!”

And, by the way, once you have learned this to be true, you are able to weep for others as well. Your tears will come more easily than your judgment. Your heart will be moved by those you once dismissed. You won’t be afraid to embrace those whose lives are shattered because You’ve felt the weeping heart of God. You no longer feel compelled to tell people, “Come on, look alive!” You have learned to weep with others.

Above and beyond it all is life! Jesus knew the depth of his friends’ grief, he expressed the overflow of his own love for Lazarus, but he also was about to show that he ultimately comes to bring life, abiding life, eternal life.

So he stood at that tomb, raised his voice and shouted, “Lazarus—come out!” And Lazarus did. The graveclothes still hung from him; his face still wrapped in the cloth. They untied him and Lazarus was restored to his family.

Please do not be hard on yourself if, in the middle of what feels like a graveyard, you don’t feel very alive. But here is what I know. The more you open yourself to truly expressing your heart and the more you open your heart to God’s empathetic love for you, the closer you will be to knowing within that, no matter the situation, there is life. That life is in Jesus, fully and completely, and he loves you so much he will weep with you though the healing takes a lifetime.

Grief is Slow

Grief is Slow

(“Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’” John 11:23)

Grief is slow like the summer sludge in desert spring-beds,
grief is fast like yesterday’s clouds,
grief is heavy like muggy midnights,
grief is light like Christmas memories.

But death feels permanent, stiff and dry.
Death smells of the end of a long season
rather than a grand finale.

Death sneaks up on us though we’ve known its name
from the first last breath that did not return.
Death is sudden, a phone call after lunch or
crumbling on a tennis court.

And we look at the dirt, we stare at the sky,
we turn to every compass point, we cross our fingers
and hope that dying is not a forgone conclusion.

Though the seasons spiral around us, they are not the same.
The leaves that fall do not rise but turn to dust while
the branches sleep until spring awakens the sap again.

Traveling sailors return to port, children come home from school,
dogs sniff their way to owners who moved a hundred miles away.
Memories stay like tent pegs, the canvas ballooned by wind.

And yet, though this world is built upon clay--
monuments, palaces, armaments and warriors all decay--

There is more to say than someday. There is more to hear than
questions unanswered. There is more to see than lets the light in,
there is more to hold than our heart’s capacity.

So rise, love and grief, meet together at the moment of hope,
when, in the midnight of despair, behind the backs of everyone there,
life spoke to life like
deep speaks to deep
and gave death its expiration date.
More is here than skin can touch,
but in its touch knows the air is full of
living even after the breath has gone.

Spirit/Manna/Water

Spirit/Manna/Water

(“You sent Your good Spirit to instruct them. You did not withhold Your manna from their mouths, and You gave them water for their thirst.” Nehemiah 9:20)

I didn’t choose to take the long way home,
though some of the detours were cause and effect.
I didn’t pick the silence of isolation,
the pixelated memories,
the texted correspondence that
still defies expectation.
The explanation would take longer than
the moments we have left.

I’d rather wander with you, friend or friends,
and not talk, but share water from the spring,
a loaf under the pine,
and the Presence that, in spite of the winding,
or perhaps, because of the wandering,

Still whispers the name that captured me helpless
at the beginning of the day.

I didn’t choose the long way home,
but friend or friends,
if you will go with me we’ll
take it slowly and feel each ray of sun
lancing through the branches to
touch our faces the way every face
should be touched.

I didn’t choose the long way home;
but, walk with me awhile.
Sing your song to me, I will not interrupt.
Or speak of pain buried beneath the years.
I promise I will hear and stop our walk long enough
to see the tears fall near the single-file ants along the trail.

I didn’t choose the long way home,
but I need your time right now. I need your shoulder now,
the very weight of your presence, the very warmth of your voice,
the vulnerable quiver just before the words we speak when we
do not know what to speak at all.

I’m taking the long way home, will you come with me?
We walked the hills of Contra Costa, the tundra of North Dakota,
the mud and beaches of the evergreen Northwest, and now
I need the company of every piece of bread we’ve shared,
every sip of water or wine,
and every transcendent moment when we divined
there was more to the Northern Lights than science
can define.