Gotta run, gotta run
‘Til day is done
Help me, Lord!
Amen.
Uncategorized
Pain
Pain is an odd blessing.
It’s the body’s warning
(Or the mind’s, or the heart’s)
That it may be time
To do things differently
Than you are doing.
That kitchen knife you’re washing?
Pull it away!
That door you’re closing?
Open it!
That heavy bale you’re lifting?
Put it down!
Oh. Not there.
That’s your toe.
Pull that away.
Sorry.
There are other times
When pain’s warning has to be ignored.
I’m running, pain,
Don’t tell me that my legs are tired.
We’ve got somewhere to go.
I have to be here, pain,
To honor one I’ve lost
Despite the sadness and the tears.
It will be but a moment, pain,
To live the heartbreak once again
And rip away emotion’s scab
(It’s only had a day to form, again)
But it’s the price I pay for what
I value more than life.
Pain is an odd blessing, God.
Oh, I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Median
It took a moment to realize what I saw:
In the median that separates
The asphalt belts of highway
An utter lack…
Of snow.
The grass I saw looked pale and wan
No brightly glowing green, at least not now,
But just emerging from a heavy blanket
I don’t look
My best.
Despite a forecast threatening
Another snowfall in a couple days (oh, not again),
I’ll seize some hope from this poor pallid green,
This median
Of grass.
O Holy One of heaven and of earth,
Renew my hope and courage in this season,
To cross the middle zones of life
And crossing, find
The spring.
Falsehood
I have grown weary of the lie that this
Is a society that values work.
We shame the ones who do or can not work,
And thunder moralistic speeches from
The floors of legislative chambers and
The pulpits of religious homes of prayer.
The ones who seek and can not find a job
In an economy they did not wreck
(Which others, who enjoy the benefits
Of wealth, demolished in their mad pursuit
Of gold), endure the condemnation of
The comfortable and the privileged.
I have a job, and though I’m praised for all
The effort I put into it, the truth
Is that I sit upon a chair and type,
For which I’m paid far more than those who bear
The burdens of delivering the stuff
I order on the Internet, or clean
The bathrooms of our building to preserve
Our health. The hardest workers in the world
Are farmers in a jungle or the edge
Of deserts: one who struggles to remove
The e’er-encroaching weeds; the other bears
From stream or well remote the water which
Will coax the crops to grow. And their reward
Does not approach the compensation I
Received, so many years ago, at school,
For shredding obsolescent documents.
And still we gravely claim to value work.
A quick and superficial glance at rates
For income tax reveals a startling truth:
That you will pay more tax for what you earn
By work than what you gain by sitting still.
In every bracket, gains in capital,
When what you own increases in its price,
Is taxed at lower rates than what you’re paid
To build, or think, or write, or do, or clean.
It’s cheaper to do nothing than to work.
We value work by blaming those whom we
Will not employ for what they can not change.
We value work by paying those who work
As little as we possibly can do
And still retain the services we need.
We value work by taxing what we earn
More highly than we tax what we do not.
Oh God, deliver those who work from our
Hypocrisy, for it is sadly clear
That we, as a society, will not.
May those who labor find the hidden joy
Which lies within their toil, at the least
To know that those who scorn to pay a just,
Befitting wage will stand before you on
A morning glorious, and face the son
Of an impoverished carpenter. Amen.
Parent’s Pride
The joys of parenting are manifold:
My hands still feel, despite the passing years,
The pressure of small fingers and small palm
(My happy thought) experienced so oft
In crossing streets and crowded shopping malls.
My heart still swells with happy pride to see
The photographs of public readings, plays
And concerts, graduations and awards.
My eyes delight in memory of belts
Of many colors earned in karate.
The joys of parenting are manifold.
This morning I awake content as I
More rarely do these days: a child is home
From college (not the other; I enjoyed
His company two weeks ago). They each
Are making their own lives, which bring a new
And different pride, which counts upon reports
They make, and scanning social media
(O blessed invention for the parent of
A launching young adult!), and precious time
In conversation over dinner (How
They both devour Indian cuisine!).
The joys of parenting are manifold.
Last night I made a new discovery
Of joy. My younger daughter simply said
To me, “I have an amazing brother.”
She does. He would as well, except that he
Has an amazing sister. I have two
Amazing children, whose accomplishments
Include the rare ability to see
The value of the people whom they choose
As friends and confidants, and see as well
The virtues of the sibling they’ve each known
The balance of their lives. That’s hard for some.
And hearing it, my soul exclaimed and danced.
The joys of parenting are manifold.
I wonder what new joys another day
Will bring, what wisdom and what grace will spring
From this amazing daughter and from this
Amazing son? I smile as I write:
The joys of parenting are infinite.
Vanuatu
Lord, aid your stricken people
Of Vanuatu,
Who endure the wind and waves,
Who raise their heads to woe,
Who suffer.
Speed our aid
Across the miles.
Lord, aid your stricken people
Of Vanuatu.
Amen.
Choice
As day awakes, and prods my sleeping frame
To do the same, my fingers gently probe
The shelf beside my bed, in search of one
Essential dress accessory: my pair
Of glasses. ‘Tis my daily quest for sight.
On many days, my fingers light upon
The edges of the frame. On others, though,
My scouting digits press upon the glass,
And leave in oil my fingers’ signature.
Now comes the choice. For I can face the day
With vision clear, unclouded by the smudge
Whose ridges bend oncoming light aside.
Or I can lazily decline (it’s hard
To make the effort on some drowsy morns),
And let the world distort before me, let
A cloud obscure a portion, let a gray
Occlusion come between me and what I
Apparently do not much care to see.
It doesn’t happen every day, but some.
As I arise today, O God, may I
Encounter your creation with such sight
That I can see what is, and give you thanks.
Lend inspiration to my fingers, so
That I may wipe the obfuscating splotch
Away.
Reciprocal
Take any number.
Let’s say it’s two.
Make it a fraction.
Draw a line above it.
Put a one upon the line.
Now we’ve got one half.
Set another two there.
Multiply it by the half.
They’re reciprocals:
One over two, two over one.
Reciprocals, when multiplied
Always bring the same result:
It’s always one and the same.
Like violence.
That original integer never matters.
Make it one, or thirty, or thirty million.
Flip it with one to gets its reciprocal
And multiply.
It’s always one and the same.
Like violence.
Violence initiated:
Violence returned.
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
The bomb erupting on the city street,
The bomb descending from the fighter jet,
The bomb concealed beneath the desert road,
The bomb still lurking in the farmer’s field:
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
The gun which wavers in the robber’s fist,
The gun which rises from an agent’s holster,
The gun which nestles in the soldier’s shoulder,
The gun which sprays its magazine in wild, mad abandon:
When bullets strike,
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
Raising children, there was something that I learned
When they both came crying, saying,
“He started it!” “She hit me first!”
It’s not OK to hit, and I don’t care who hit who first.
You don’t hit first; you don’t hit back.
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
Sadly, there’s a number which is greater far
Than one.
It’s the count of funerals,
The toll of death,
The multitude of mourners.
These reciprocals have a way of multiplying
Which has nought to do with math, yet
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
Violence.
It’s always one and the same.
Reciprocal.
Roommates
I’m afraid I don’t sleep well with others.
On retreats (like this one) I will share a room
With friends and colleagues.
I fear they don’t sleep well.
I can’t say I’ve ever heard
The noises that I make at night,
But I imagine bucket loaders,
Screaming of hydraulic pumps
That drive the dump truck’s bed aloft,
Din of gravel crashing down.
I’m afraid that others don’t sleep well with me.
On retreats (like this one) I will wake repeatedly
Throughout the night.
It’s not my bed. They’re not my blankets.
The noises all are wrong.
In a simple cot at camp
Or the most decadent of grand hotels:
I wake, re-wake, awake, flip over,
Then inhale, exhale, and sigh.
I’m afraid I don’t sleep well with others.
In this silent hour before the sun arises,
I rise to give my poor compatriots
A bright brief chance to sleep,
And lift to you, O God, my prayer
For them (and me)
That in this day, you magnify the virtues
Of the coffee we consume
And even more: our exercise of judgment,
Care for others, talents for creation,
Abilities to synthesize and
See a new way plain.
We’ll need your help, O God, because:
I’m afraid I don’t sleep well with others.
Cycle
There is a curious cycle
In ministry and life
Between stuff I need to talk about
And stuff I need to do.
It takes a deal of time
To talk about the stuff
I need to talk about.
It takes a deal of time
To do the stuff
I need to do.
Cycle and conundrum
For the time that they demand
To talk about or do
Is singular, one and the same.
God of the ages, come and aid!
Unknot the tangled time.
Guide the conversations
And regulate the work.
For there is a curious cycle
In ministry and life
Between stuff I need to talk about
And stuff I need to do.
Aid me, God, I pray.
Amen.
ordainedgeek 