Yesterday’s game to play. A poem.

Yesterday

the teacher asked my middle
son what do you want to be when you grow up
and he replied in the usual fashion of one
who believes
there is a world to grow up into
where souls don’t have to flee to mountains
and days are not filled with reminders of how things must have been for Noah
And so I smiled and nodded trying
hard to believe in growing up
and peace under
darkened suns and moonless nights

Today

I fled to my garden where mounds of hydrangea blooms cool
if only for a moment
the low grade fever of sadness spiking within me
Truth be told I’m hot and shaky and my head is filled with news flashes and the

thud

thud

thud

of boxes of food and diapers–diapers!–as they land on hills
trembling from the cries of the least of these and
despite the hydrangeas my soul screams
where
are the Bonhoeffers and Niemöllers and
why
didn’t we listen to them in the first place
but still
the bright yellow cross painted by my oldest son years ago stands steadfast beneath our river birch
and the Still Small Voice moves me like a
trumpet call and I choose
not to grow weary but to

go

keep watch and
live.

*****

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away

~The Beatles

*****

cross

 

 

 

 

second chances

second chances

 

*****

“A Southern story of second chances.”

That’s one of the tag lines for How Sweet the Sound.

It’s fitting, I think. So many of the characters have been through trials and are just plain tired of trying to find a God who seems so elusive in the midst of their pain and shame.

But strange things happen when we reach the end of our selves.

Second chances come around.

More because we choose to take them than because they’re handed to us.

How might God be asking you to take a chance today?

three cries and a thrill: a poem

dark
shadows spatter across the gray horizon
like hard coal
thrown
against the brown withered winterscape
all the ground groaning for life
but
the nevermore of blackbirds
taunt
until
wait
the red stain on the wing
there
stripes of crimson
fighting against the fickle
season
change
feathered bones pushing heavenward
as if blood surely does redeem
golden light an accent
an afterthought
hope

*****

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