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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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Yesterday
The emails and the phone calls piled up
In metaphoric ridges
That recall these ivory embankments
That rise along the driveway
Back at home.

Inevitably
These new tasks demanded my attention
And the project at the top
Of my to-do list was the one
Hardly begun
At close of day.

Today, O God,
Let me tell the story of your grateful people
And watch the mounds
Of ivory distraction
Melt beneath the gleaming
Of your sun. 

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I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who’ll make me laugh and hold me while I cry, 
Who’ll honestly reveal to me the flaws
My character or personality
Display to all the world but hide from me:
My arrogance, my lack of self-esteem
(A curious conjunction though they be).

I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who’ll lend to me forgiveness while they wait
For me to recognize when I offend
And render my abject apology.

I thank you, God, for giving me strong friends
Who do not fear to share their hopes and fears,
Their disappointments, longings, joys, and griefs,
Their questions and their answers, who’ll attend
To my importunate advice and give
It due consideration, whether it
Has merits, or confirms the arrogance
They note, reveal, and suffer graciously.

I thank you, friends, for all you are and see:
For you reveal the loving God to me.

Amen. 

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They sought the vote,
The franchise of American democracy,
Denied them by oppressive law
Denied them by the mores of the time,
Denied them by the agents of the state,
Denied them by an education
Denied them by the state,
Denied them by a test of education
Denied them, which they could not pass.

And so they came unto the Edmund Pettus Bridge. 
A wall of officers,
The agents of the people,
Denied them passage.
On horses and on foot
The deputies and troopers charged.
They beat the marchers with their fists.
They beat the marchers with their clubs.
They beat the marchers’ lungs with gas.
They beat the marchers’ hope with violence.

They charged.
They beat.
They won the day.
They lost their goal.

Today, O God, the force of racism
Remains.
It’s subtler now, or tries to be.
Does anyone really believe
That laws requiring ID for a voter
Protect democracy?
Don’t they protect instead
The ones in power
From the ones, whose skin is dark,
Who otherwise would vote?
Does not the need
Which mothers, African-American, Hispanic,
Feel to give, “The Talk,”
Not regarding love and sex,
But how to encounter the police
And live,
Expose injustice that endures?

What bridges, God, remain for us to cross?

The blood that stained the Edmund Pettus Bridge
Reproaches us for half a century.
The blood that stains the streets of cities now
Repoaches us again.

How shall we cross the bridge of justice?
How shall we cross the bridge of peace?
How shall we cross the bridge of penitence? 

Do not forgive us, God,
Until the marchers cross the bridge
And we, repenting, join them. 

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Dit dah dit dah dit dah dit dah dit dah.
Five “A’s” in Morse’s code, or in the ears
Of English speakers, rhythm natural
Of speech. Ten syllables upon the line
March easily together. Dante, though,
Composed his Tuscan grand Comedia
In lines eleven syllables in length,
Not ten. Its native tongue sounds quite as sweet.
How strange and wonderful that beats distinct
And various guide human languages
So differently, so gloriously! The Bard
Of Avon’s iambs dance upon the stage,
And il Poeta’s terza rima glides
Upon the page. We must confess, that were
Dear Nigel to confer the prize, he would
Accord it to the Tuscan, for his lines
Go to eleven. Well enough. But I
Am schooled in iambs, and their rhythm guides
These lines which dance, I fear, without the grace
Of Shakespeare’s, nor achieve felicity.

“Dit dah;” the iamb, echoing the speech
Of ordinary days, a word obtained
From Ancient Greek, inevitably calls
To mind (to mine, at least), a bush ablaze,
Where voice avows, “Ehyeh asher ehyeh!”
“And when they ask the Name of Who has sent
You, say, ‘I represent I Am.'”

Oh, You Who Are, the great I Am, accept
These humble iambs, and my gratitude
For wondrous words, for laughter’s grace, for friends
And family, for love beyond the reach
Of human understanding. God, I thank
You for the iamb. Dah, dit dah: Amen.

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