Two Cheese Enchiladas

Two Cheese Enchiladas

(“And while they still disbelieved for joy and were marveling, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’” Luke 24:41)

So much depends on the weather (I hate
to admit that.) Too much depends on the
barometric pressure. I would have walked miles
to meet you but, forgive me, some days are like
graves my body digs to disguise the scenic route.

Did I disappoint you? I wanted to show up.
No. I wanted you to show up.
Sometimes I’m buried so deep I probably did not
hear you knocking. Or other times I can’t face meeting
another face that sees my pain and does not cry. My
apologies.
I am not strong. People lie about that. I just don’t wave
my doubt loudly in the sky. When I do hoist it on the flagpole
it is half-mast, not nearly as agonizing as I let on.
And here I go again, running letters together like they
mean something fascinating. All I’m saying is
I need something more than old songs on the radio.

Days like these, mangled up between joy and disbelief,
I would surely answer the door if you showed up with
two cheese enchiladas and a beer.

The Dust We Kick Up

The Dust We Kick Up

(“Wasn’t it necessary for the Messiah to suffer these things and enter into his glory?” Luke 24:46)

Silence sits like a smiling seraph
watching the fog dispelled as the afternoon grows long.
We sprint like we have no time,
and hope the dust we kick up will settle by night.
All the while the divine movement,
a sun outpoured, an avant-garde line in an
unread poem,
invites us to linger. It entices us to wait until
winning is the last thing on our mind.

Despondent, though the breeze tried to revive our
deflation,
we still walked home. We still journeyed. We share our
fruit and fish with others on the road.

Who knew? The question never entered our minds. That
the story was not over. We still had miles to go. We still had
callouses from planting, bleary eyes from wanting it to
be easy. We knew the enemy well. We knew we followed
lamely. We knew something more than bedtime stories had
to be our benediction.

But we never counted on a universe that groaned with love like
a mother birthing a firstborn. We never counted on suffering to
be the picture i.d. of the power that moves through kingdoms and
ages, villages and sages, crosses and aching; we never counted on
god squeezing through such a dirty knothole to find us

On the other side.

Sunshine Perches

Sunshine Perches

(“You belong to God. He has done this for you so you can tell others how God has called you out of darkness into His great light. 1 Peter 2:9b)

Sunshine perches on 25 fenceposts along the road,
beside the field.
Laughter encircles the pines above the meadow,
below the clouds.
Grapes ripen on the vine on
days like these, blue jays define the sky.
Terriers and poodles, at least a decade old,
cross the double yellow lines to greet old men
who walk early in the afternoon.
Everything happens sooner or later.
Everything is soaked, everything dries on the line.

I thought a neighbor’s dog walked by the corner
of my office window,
but it was a young buck nodding at the apple leaves.
I thought a kitten was sitting in my driveway,
gray as the gravel,
but it was a rabbit scattering into the rhododendrons.

I knew I saw my grandson smile,
and take my finger,
and laugh at papa jokes so heartily the
whole neighborhood shook.
I knew he knew
what I know today:
There are surprise while we wait for

Everything to happen.

Barely a week into life, and he knows my name.
That is what I tell people when I pick up a coffee
to take to his mom and dad,
so weary, so beaming, so bright they make the
stars sit up and wonder. Conquered by love,
they cradle him next to the sunshine

That perches on their railing; the deck where stellar jays play.

The World Swings Open

The World Swings Open

(“Jesus prayed, ‘Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing.’” Luke 23:34 [The Message])

Awash with mercy, the world swings open, the
oceans laugh, the air is wider than long.
But the oceans moan sometimes
at the eyes that will not see. The breath is
too narrow
to glide on the afternoon air. The
same
spirit
that chained the novelist to
a forsaken desk between miscreants,
still insists the ending is reserved for
an elite few.
Who knew
that love would ever be defined by
those who never taste the new vintage
that spilled from a body so maligned?

That day. This afternoon. A century from now
when the moon is overhead. One second before
the big bang. Five minutes after the baby cried.
Thirty-five years since my mother died. The
thru-line
runs from pierced hands and feet
to my backyard,
to the desert heat,
weaving castles, incomplete confessions and
the mercy seat.

Oh Wounded Love, oh Child of divine habitations,
oh Human gunned down in the ghetto, shut down by
 emboldened halos,
oh Glory that fills more than all existence,

We rethink our mass differentials and
line up, tiny as we are, to light up
the old executioner’s road with

Tales of mercy that refuses to die.

A Whisper Shattering Everything

A Whisper Shattering Everything

(“But from now on the Son of Man shall be seated at the right hand of the power of God.” Luke 22:69)

That’s the point, and still is.
That’s the point of view that has changed all that is.
The next sound is a whisper shattering everything.
The next question raises eyebrows.
The prisoner was cross-examined and
never backed down. They dragged their
chains across his forehead, their lightning was pale.

Preachers predicted a coming Armageddon,
the apocalypse was just around the bend.
But the universe kept arcing, the word kept
asking
why the world should be destroyed.
Blood up to the bridles and swords flashing
sky to sky while
the Human One
stood in the silence, filled up the vacuum
left panting like rain.
Vacant accusations suspect that God would not
mind
at all
burning up the earth to house all the
flagrant doubters locked into their cells.

Yet the grass still remains soft as baby’s skin
beneath bare feet that only want
to walk home in peace.

That’s the point, and always will be.
That’s the point of view that opened eyes can see.
The next sound is a parched cry from wooden beams
that wipes the slate clean.
The next question announces mortality,
why, o why, have you forsaken me?

And the human one, with the cry of finality
says it is done, finished, complete and needs no
annotation. Sit on the edges of

The world;
it is time gaze again, without/within,
and redefine our fiery rhetoric with
the new world started and being,
finished and headlong,
a creation where the
human one
whispers to power in ways that
shatter everything.

Love is Not Bottled

Love is Not Bottled

(“The greatest one among you must be like the youngest, and the leader must be like the servant.” Luke 22:26)

I opened the invitation as soon as it arrived in the mail;
unexpecting any change but only more delays,
I read your proclamations. They were the aroma of rubber
burning up the bridges between neighbors. They were the fire
you called down upon the masses, the enemies you cooked up in your
ghost kitchen
where you kept top secret spices, restricted recipes.
You hoped to tickle our ears with
days of fickle feasts no one attended.

You loved your calculations. You posted every poll that raved
your newest followers. You whistled for the gremlins and acted surprised
when they broke in, broke windows, crashed glass, hunted servants and
cheered between the gallows and a cross. Your flags said Jesus.
Your words said fuck.

I walked two houses down from my quiet bungalow. The
daisies smelled like bath salts; the dogs licked my hands.
I waved at a toddler riding a tiny 4-wheeler with a tiny pink helmet
as her crown. I waved again. She looked. I waved once more. She smiled.

The neighbor boy became a teenager today. He loves my feisty chihuahua.
My second grandchild was born yesterday. He already knows my name.
(Or so it should be, world without end, amen.) The mom is my daughter,
the dad her husband who can’t believe he has a new best friend the
size of a cantaloupe. Love does not decrease the more we give. Love is
not finite. Yet we store it in pickling jars and put it in vegetable basements
along with the wine we made from last year’s dandelions.
But love is not bottled. Love is not demanded. Love is never drought or
famine or threadbare or loyal to geography or sports teams. It is

Yes. It. Is.

It is the story every human has told, and every other human desires. Love is
laying down my pistol, my rifle, my cannon, my tablets with rules written in stone.
And love is a child, a 24 hour one, a 6 pound one, a hungry one, who reminds us

Why we keep begging anger and handguns to stay outside before coming to voice
their opinion at
the next board meeting.

My Pace is Slower

My Pace is Slower

(“The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.” Genesis 32:31)

I never wanted to slow down. I never wanted to lose the race.
I was the fastest in my class; well, faster than the fastest girl.
And that was saying something, she could outrun most of us.
But I was always middle of the pack with the boys, until, in
high school,
I ran a mile backwards just to prove I could do it. Track and Field
had no such event.

I did not slow my pace. Books ran through my fingers like water.
I sold snow skis and Levis, I sold office desks and stacks of invoices.

I raced across the Midwest. Gathered youth from towns in Oklahoma
to lock-ins and car washes, to altar calls and crowded basements. We
marched downtown, prayed for professors, and packed them in on
Friday nights with free popcorn and sodas. But

I was a school bus without a driver. I was grasping for something lighter
than the dark and leaden way my heart left me in the middle and at the end
of every race. But I kept up the pace. I tried to measure my winnings by
the smiles I counted everywhere I went.

And then the bus crashed. The leaden darkness broke through my
paper skin onto nearly everyone I knew. I had not wrestled with God.
I had not tried to wrestle with myself. (Or maybe someone wrestled with me.)
The stress and success were
butterflies that flew the nest upon the first falling snow.

Rest/unrest. Strong-arm/weak-mind. Smooth takeoff/crash landing.
Days of running track became decades of wanting to take it all back.

I’ve stubbed my toe trying to get up. I’ve falling on my face into the
red dust of the oval track. I’ve cut my feet running barefoot on gravel.
I’ve unraveled in the wind while everyone was watching.

My pace is slower. I limp when it is cold. Some days I feel like
I’ve climbed a mountain with no way down. Others I am grateful
to walk around the marina, near the river, smelling the fish station
and salt. I walk the same route and do not care if I ever walk like
an athlete
again.