Grace

 

Grace

 

pool newly made from morning rain,

murky brown and burnt umber

it halts my onward march

I stop to consider the way round

 

brush and bush lay right

hectic stream lays left

both lead somewhere

playing for time to make my choice

 

I crouch before it

wondering if I dipped

fingers into its stillness

would I be rebaptized

 

into the ancient creation

layer upon layer of life

brewing, bubbling in this

sudden fen

 

God's breath still moves

across the waters

pulling from chaos

this sacred pause

All the Tiny Deaths

 

All the tiny deaths

A soul suffers in a day.

From silence when you want to speak,

Speaking and being unheard.

All the tiny deaths

That come from hiding who you are

And being what you’re not

The soul withers and shrinks

Just a little bit more

With each bitten tongue,

Clenched fist,

Restrained smile

The truth might set it free

But honesty takes courage

And courage comes from truth

And the truth cannot be told

So the soul keeps dying

All the tiny deaths

But without death’s release

So the soul just keeps on trying

Clinging to hope and life and

Waiting for resurrection

If it should ever come.

Until then it endures

All the tiny deaths.

what to do when you're burned out

 

you’ll want to eat your feelings

with chocolate chips and mini marshmallows

and a chaser of crunchy peanut butter

that’s okay but don’t forget to treat yourself

to oreos or fudge stripes too

commit small acts of defiance like

pressing all the try me buttons on toys in Walmart

or refuse to concede to society’s demands for

capital letters or punctuation

you’re burned out not grammar’s bitch

it’s okay to feel old, like really old

like thirty or forty or maybe seventy

years older than you actually are

burn out does not respect age but it does age you

comfort tv helps

so do naps

 your mind can be turned off  

when the partridge family is turned on

just remember you are burned out

because life is hard and sometimes feels like a slog

through deep sucking mud

yet maybe there’s dry land ahead

maybe the color green blooms just beyond

your line of vision

and lavender and roses grow abundantly

thickening the air with their perfume

Get In Line

 

 Are you mad at me?

Get in line.

Are you looking for someone to blame,

a slow-moving target,

a convenient scapegoat?

Get in line.

Are you looking for me to take

your side, go to battle

in this pathetic war that’s been declared?

Find someone else

willing to lose their head.

It has become clear  

that I am a pawn in your

Childish

Petty

Junior High

Game.

But I refuse to play.

I’m tired.

Worn to the bone.

I can’t do this anymore.

I

CANNOT

DO

THIS

ANYMORE.

Junior High was

a long time ago.

Drama was just a hobby.

I’m done.

Does that make you mad?

Get in line.

 

Burned

  I am

singed, charred, scorched.

Anger, blame, and shame

have reduced me to ash.

The former form of me,

body and mind,

spirit and soul,

is now only outline

filled in with smoke.

Touch me,

I am little more than

swirling haze.  

Breathe on me,

I blow away.

Nothing left but

smoldering embers

of memory

and misunderstanding

Dear God

  

Take this stole

from my neck,

this robe

off my back.

You don’t scare me

with your salt.

I will look back.

 

Pull this cross

from my chest,

yank this Bible

outta my hand.

I’m over it, God.

You take them

to that promised land

 

Block me from

the pulpit,

keep me from

the font.

My well is dried up,

living water’s all gone.

My soul wastes from want.

 

In case you

haven’t noticed,

I’m tired and I’m worn.

Exhausted from the trying,

the worry and the strain.

My prayers return unanswered,

so, yes, I will complain.

 

The good news

feels damn lousy,

your kingdom

just won’t come.

Hope has left

the building,

the parts outdo the sum.

 

This poem is for

the clergy,

the prophets and

the priests.

Feed us like

you promised,

or make this calling cease.

 

The sheep have

bruised the shepherd,

the hens embraced

the fox.

It’s lonely where

I’m standing,

the one outside the box.

 

Helpless

On your first day of school

we drove by the building because

I ached to see that brick
still stood solidly on brick.

You, pigtails bobbing, walked

with other little ones,

looking for nature in the playground.

Seeing our car, you pointed and waved.

So much for furtive parenting.

What would have I done that day

if something had been wrong?

Would I have thrown myself across

your small frame, protecting, sheltering?

Of course.

Baby experts warn that what

wears down a parent is the

exhaustion, that bone weary

tiredness that never dissipates even

when your little one sleeps all night.

But I disagree. What really crushes

a parent’s heart is the helplessness;

it is all that you cannot fix

or mend

or kiss away.

What would I have done when

you walked away, so scared and alone?

Would I have borne your burden,

carried your pain?

Of course.

But I am helpless to do what I wish I could.

All I can do is watch and wait and love.

Mary must have keened with grief

watching her son die.

Any mother would.

Maybe it’s blasphemy, but

I imagine God felt that too.

Helpless with agony as his child

bore such pain.

It is comfort to believe

that God and I feel the same.

Helpless.

A Prayer of Gratitude -- July 22, 2018

This was an original prayer of gratitude written for this past Sunday's worship service, 

and for a longtime church member who is leaving to move to another state.

O Glorious, Incarnate God,

Out of love, you became not just like us,

but one of us;

taking on the frailty of our flesh,

so that we would see, touch,

feel and know your love

in the living and dying and rising of

your Son.

We thank you, Lord,

that your love and grace is still ours

to know through the people 

you place in our paths.

Thank you for friends who ask hard

questions, making us reflect more

deeply on our faith.

Thank you for those people in our lives

who seek to serve you with energy,

intelligence, imagination and love,

for they inspire us to the do the same.

Thank you for the gift and the 

empowering of the Holy Spirit,

whose presence we feel

when we sing and pray and

worship with one another. 

Thank you, God of love and hope,

that we are not called to walk this

curved road of faith alone,

but that you surround us with

companions along the way.

Thank you for those who make

your love real to us in every 

thought, word and deed.

Thank you, O God, for friends.

Amen.

The Church It Is a Changin

Written for Ellen Gurnon's installation to First Presbyterian in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. 
Sung to the tune, "The Times They Are a Changin," by Bob Dylan

For Ellen Gurnon

February 11, 2018

Come, listen dear Ellen,

heed the words that I sing.

cause being a preacher

is no easy thing.

The people are hungry

for the good news you bring

in this world of sorrows prevailin.

There’s sickness still lurking, death still has its sting,

and the church it is a changin.

Remember, my friend,

you’ll have to be strong

to stand up to those

who say some don’t belong.

For God welcomes all and the table is long.

The battle for justice still wagin.

And our sisters and brothers

keep crying, “how long?”

for a church that is a changin.

Don’t worry, sis,

it’s okay to be scared.

When it comes to this life

we are never prepared.

The church that once was is no longer there,

yet God’s future is surely amazin.

But one thing that’s sure 

is God’s unfailing care

in a church that is a changin.

Come listen, dear Ellen,

it’s not all up to you.

For God calls you and God calls us all too.

It’s good to know, God’s making everything new,

and through love, the world rearranging.

It’s love that’s the answer, it’s love that is true,

in the church, God is a changin.

In the church, God is a changin.

Bird

Winking at me with a

bold, black eye,

the bird with the

garish yellow coat

hopped outside my window.

Flirtatious and cheeky,

as though we were old

friends and this

moment our reunion,

he strolled closer.

Beak to glass,

hand to heart,

I held my breath,

hoping and hopeful

he would settle on that sill

But noting our differences,

a chasm between us,

he flew away,

joining avian revelries

at a backyard feeder.

Exhaling a sigh,

I keened his loss between

sips of coffee,

wishing for fluency in bird –

a “thank you,” for stopping.

How Do I Pray?

How do I let go of

DISGUST

ANGER

RAGE

How do I speak

LOVE

HOPE

COMPASSION

PEACE

How do I pray?

Heartsickness and despair

have bound my tongue.

Dread and powerlessness

constrict my heart.

Revenge whispers its

bitter nothings in my ear.

Hatred fills me

I know how tightly

I am caught in the

Tempter’s snare

How do I pray?

All I have is trust

God speaks tears’ language

God transforms rage into TENDERNESS

dread into COURAGE

hate into HOPE

God hears my faltering

feeble attempts

holds me close

releases me from the enemy that is me

sends me out to LOVE

as I have been LOVED

not because I feel it, but because

LOVE is LIVED.

Prayer is not limited to bended knee.

Sometimes prayer is in the walking.

Storms

Crawling under a table,

my fourth grade storm shelter,

I read, the unfolding story

drowning out sounds of wild rain

demanding entrance at the windows

Clucking teachers pecked and whispered

my oddness promptly reported

disquieting quirks of

my parents’ youngest born

Facing off with grownups

a gunfighter without a gun

stammering an answer

“I was scared of the storm,”

“I did what made me feel safe.”

Safety left me long ago

 my body a crooked “S”

I lie quaking under cover

no unfolding story but my own

cat's purring, insistent warmth

tucked into the bend of my 

knees is small comfort as I lie

waiting, waiting

for the storms to pass

Nice Boys

            Kevin pursued her the summer after ninth grade. A year ahead of her in school, he spent those three months before junior year riding his moped to her house on warm afternoons. They would talk and kiss on the swing in her parent’s backyard before he rode away again to his job at the music store.   

            Kevin was unfailingly polite whenever her parents were around. He was friendly. He invited her over to his parents’ house for dinner, and she immediately made a friend out of his mother. They spent the 4^th of July together in his backyard. He shot off rockets and tried to impress her with his daring. She rewarded him with kisses and hugs. 

            She’d never really had a boyfriend before. In junior high, she and a boy held hands on the bus for a school trip, but this was the first time she could claim a real boyfriend. Her parents would not let her go on a car date with a boy by themselves yet, but his mother would give them rides to the movies. She hated scary movies, but she watched them with Kevin, so she could grab his arm and his shirt and squeeze close to him for protection. 

            They would call each other late at night and talk until one set of parents or the other finally yelled for them to hang up and go to bed. But even that didn’t keep her father from pulling her aside one day and telling her,

“Kevin is a nice boy. That’s the kind of boy you need to go out with. He’s a nice boy.”

            At the end of the summer, she used the babysitting money she had saved for two years to fly to Washington State to visit her favorite cousin and his family. She promised Kevin and his mom that she would take pictures of west coast sunsets and the Pacific Ocean. She sent him a postcard each day while she was gone. But when she flew home, something was wrong. Kevin didn’t return her phone calls. His mom told her she would have him call when he got home from work, but he never did. One afternoon, just before school started, he rode his moped up her driveway and told her that it was over. He didn’t want to start school with a girlfriend. There was just too much for him to do. It was better this way, he assured her. 

            She spent hours in her room crying along with every sad song that poured out of her radio, wondering over and over again what she had done wrong. Finally she got tired of crying and sad songs and found her way back to normal again. 

            But Kevin was still around. They ended up in Ensemble Choir together. She ignored him. He ignored her. Yet by her junior year, they had reached a truce. They were not exactly friends, but they didn’t hate each other either. She looked at him one day and realized she didn’t care if he liked her or not. It didn’t matter. She was in love. As she declared to her friends every day, she was really, really, really in love. Liam went to a different school. He was two years older. He was rebellious and funny. He smoked cigarettes and loved motorcycles, rock and roll and her, but not in that order. She wrote his name over and over on her jeans; the ones with the holes in the knees. Her mother never got mad at her for doing this, but the jeans were washed more than usual. It didn’t matter; she would just write his name again. 

            Her parents didn’t like Liam as much as they liked Kevin. Her father never pulled her aside and told her that Liam was the kind of nice boy she should date. Instead, they laid down unprecedented rules. 

            “If you’re only going to date one boy, then you can only see him once a week.” 

She was defiant and found a million reasons to sneak off and see him anyway. Finally, her parents gave up and let her date him. But she knew they thought he wasn’t the nice boy Kevin was. 

            Just after her 16^th birthday, the school had a blood drive. You were supposed to be 17 to give blood, but she wanted to so badly, she lied about her age and gave blood anyway. There was a choir concert that night, and the nurse advised her to go home, rest, eat a healthy dinner, and she would be fine for the concert. But something went wrong. At rehearsal, as she stood on the front riser in her stuffy choir dress with the lights shining down on her, she felt dizzy and weak. Spots did gymnastics in front of her eyes. She grabbed her friend’s hand and said,

“I think I’m going to faint.”

She did. She dropped like dead weight. The strength of her friend’s grip on her hand saved her face from being smashed into the floor. She woke to find the panicked worried faces of her choir staring down at her. Even Kevin looked scared.

            Some of the choir members helped her up and dusted her off. Her dress was brushed clean, and the other girls clustered around her and helped to redo her makeup and smooth down her hair. The concert went well, without any more shocks or fainting. She didn’t realize, though, that her body wasn’t going to be back to normal for a while. The next night a friend threw a choir party. No parents, no supervision, and plenty to drink. She drank two beers, then giving blood caught up with her again. She was drunk. She felt dizzy, and her legs shook. She tried to walk to the bathroom, but she stumbled. Kevin caught her. He helped her. He took her to the bathroom and held her head while she got sick. He wiped her forehead and the back of her neck with a cool cloth. When she finally stopped throwing up, he led her upstairs to a back bedroom, took off her shoes and told her to lie down on the bed.   

            She had never been so grateful to this nice boy she had once cared about. But why was he lying down next to her? Why he was putting his hands all over her? Why he was trying to kiss her and roll her on her back and hold her down? He was touching her and pulling at her clothes. She was so drunk and so sick, she couldn’t make him stop. She couldn’t fight him off.

She tried to say, “No. Please. Don’t do this.”

But her words slurred. She wanted Liam. She wanted Kevin to leave her alone. Just leave her alone. The door opened and someone poked her head inside. 

“Oh, sorry.” 

            She opened her mouth to scream, “Wait! Don’t leave me!  Help!”

Her voice seemed to have abandoned her; no sounds, no words. Yet maybe the door opening, maybe the fact that there was a witness pricked Kevin’s conscience, because he stopped touching her, pulling at her. She rolled away from him and cried into an uneasy sleep. The next morning Kevin was gone. She drove home, still sick and now so scared. Should she tell Liam? Should she tell anyone? 

            One of Liam’s friends called her that day, and she started crying on the phone. He picked her up to go for a ride. Finally, her words rushed out. She told the friend what happened the night before. What should she do, she pleaded with him? What should she do? He grimaced and told her to try and forget about it.

“Never tell Liam,” he warned. “Never!”  

She never told Liam. She never told her parents or her other friends. She was ashamed and embarrassed. She was convinced that everyone would blame her. It was her fault for giving blood and drinking. She didn’t remember leading Kevin on. But maybe she did. Maybe she did.

            In choir practice on Monday, Kevin would not meet her eye. She glanced over at him once only to see him staring at her. He turned away when he saw her looking back at him. She wondered how she ever liked him or willingly kissed him. She could not imagine ever crying over him again; never again. She heard her father’s voice. 

“Kevin is a nice boy. That’s the kind of boy you should you go out with. Kevin is a nice boy.”

No, Dad. He is not nice. He is not a nice boy at all.

Why?

Too pretty for its sad purpose, 

the blanket covering the small body

 was shiny gold.

A baby doll lay beside it,

dropped, I guess, on impact.

One more life lost

among so many lost lives.

More parents going home 

without their children,

more children falling asleep 

without their parents.

If you're keeping score

hatred earned another point,

swooshed the net, slipped past the goalie

knocked the damn ball outta the park.

I'd like to say that

love will get the next one, 

the game's not over yet.

Surely we're due a photo finish.

But as long as there's a scorecard

we'll never see the end.

Just more pictures of

shiny blankets, small bodies, and

a doll who's lost her child.

Lament

She asked us to lament.

Lie down on the floor

weep, wail, wring our hands

learn suffering’s sound.

Unsure of this teacher

permitting us grief

we tentative students

persisted at blind happiness.

O! To reclaim that

blessed invitation.

Now my cry,

“my God, my God,

why have you forsaken us?”

would swallow the silence,

Subdue the void

left by that absence.

I would give heartbreak its voice,

sing agony’s crooked tune.

I would gnash my teeth

fashion sack cloth

drench my head in ashes.

If remorse could

stop Death from cradling

babies in his unrelenting arms,

if sorrow could melt

weapons like wax;

repentance dry the eyes

of every parent

of every child lost,

no sense, nor reason,

then I proclaim my remorse.

Shout apologies to the heavens.

I turn back, turn around,

change direction,

heed the prophet’s call.

Only Comforter, speak comfort. 

Cry hope. 

Soften stony hearts.

Reshape new from old, living from dying.

Teach us life, teach us love.

My God, my God, hear our lament.