Bread

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I wonder what it was like to sit on those green hills and listen to those strange words falling from the prophet’s lips. Did those words hit their hearts like thunder? Would a tremble have gone across their limbs as they heard this man say that he had come from heaven and was indeed the bread that would grant them life eternal? I wonder if I too would have been more focused on the fish and bread I was munching on than on the face of the man that stood before me with hands outstretched. I wonder if my thoughts too would have narrowed on the potential of this man being a revolutionary king that would be the pivot point upon which my fortunes would turn. Or would I have had the wisdom to see that perhaps there was more to this man and that I only needed to sit at his feet and listen? I would love to say that I would have been echoing the words of the one brash young man who declaimed his loyalty and been no less shy at admitting my lack of other options as I recognized that eternal life came from the strange words falling from the prophet’s lips. Perhaps? It is hard for me to say for that is not my story.

What can I say now though? I do believe this prophet’s words and I recognize a calling that has been issued that I cannot help but follow. A flame burns upon my brow and my clothes drip water from the sacred fount. I sit and eat this bread and drink this wine and look up to the tree that is stained in my Savior’s blood. Father my Father, I come. Spirit oh Spirit, I come. Jesus, I come.

Accommodations Must Be Made In the End She Says with Not a Bit of Condescension

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There are little moments that make me quite happy. Some of them involve the way my skin warms when the sun hits me through the leafed branches as I lie on my back and look up at the sky on a summer afternoon or perhaps the goosebumps that erupt on my skin as I gaze across the ocean on a blustery grey evening. But other moments are slightly less tangible and involve my racing thoughts as I sit upright at the opera as the waves of music gallop on past my head in unceasing grandeur and more noble beauty. For some reason even in moments of beauty where the light stands still and I tilt my head to consider the momentary state of the union in my inner parts I still somehow find room for the various factions in my mind to toss taunts back and forth across the divide of consciousness. Sometimes I stretch my hand out and try and craft a perfect moment where all parties come together in delightful harmony to dance a reel and fill my heart with the kind of joy that comes but once a blue moon or so. But what am I really saying? Is it foolish of me to rank moments and consider that some are decidedly less memorable? What about a moment like now? There are moments like the present where my fingers flex and groan across the keys of this laptop and I toss back football commentary to my brother and listen to my sister sigh as she reads eternal words and sips her tea. Moments like this are not to be sold for any price.

A Moment of Music

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She sits at the window looking out over the courtyard in all its wintry glory and wonders why the vista before her looks so grey in a way it never quite has before. The cobblestones shine in the remnants of the afternoon rain and though it looks like there could be a rainbow, as hard as she tries she cannot quite make one out. Rainbows are fickle creatures, really. So the view before her dazzles in shades of brown and grey and even some dirty white here and there where some of the whitewash applied last fall still sticks to the fence around the square. Why did they even make an attempt at that, she wonders. A solid black wrought iron fence looks much more dignified after all, a white coat atop simply an unnecessary fanciful gilding, really. But her thoughts wander. She usually liked the dreary days, the days when the fog shimmered in front of her face and her hand disappeared when she held it before her. Those foggy days all seemed hushed and still and her thoughts belonged to her alone. It was glorious. But this day her friend the fog had fled and she sees the wet and dirty square for what it is, a faded dream of a once proud city. Perhaps that was why she feels so sad. Her own dreams dance before her eyes and she is not too proud to deny the tears that swim up to meet them. And so the girl looks out over the square and tries to see the beauty that had once met her there every day. Those were beautiful days really, those when she sat underneath the springtime blossoms and written poetry in her little notebook. Those days would come again they would say. She knows that of course. But right now she doesn’t quite feel it. Feelings are fickle creatures, really. Perhaps someday her heart would ring again in a resounding symphony of colour. Perhaps someday she would write again of summer and waterfalls and green grassy cliffs looking out over a far ocean. But for now she sits at the window and can do naught but pray.

Unveiled

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the noise deafens and the ground shakes
the eighteen-wheelers rumble past
and the smoke billows upwards without ceasing
where is the fire she says do you see the smoke?
i just want a moment to myself a moment please
nothing more
but a silent night is not to be had or
so it seems for the chaos swirls
and the darkness of the void looms
and the babble rises yet i can’t hear
a single word
or at least none that i can understand
so she puts her hand over her ears and looks
pleadingly waiting for the wave to crest
then a voice sounds out piercingly
be still and rest
calm and glory
and in the story live
and be filled
come to me and know thy salvation
wonder of wonders
i understand
the word has come
the bells sound and the incense rises
o holy night

Light in the Darkness

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How good it is to be still and rest and sit and meditate the beauties of my God this merry day. What a joy it is to be with the family and hear all their voices chatting about this and that and the other, my stomach very pleasantly stuffed, a pot of stock bubbling on the stove and a book at my side about to be opened. Oh my heart is full to bursting as I consider how much my God has blessed me this day, all the days in my past and all the days in my future still to come! I sometimes tilt my head in awe and wonder that I should be given so much, I whom deserve so little.

So though I could write lines and lines and books and books and I feel the words simply must be written so that all might know what is in my heart, I shall cease now in fear that any words I could write would be insufficient to convey the beauties of the glory of the Lord. But hark – just a few more. Have you ever thought how marvelous it is that the God that created the universe and even now holds it all together, this very same God was born a baby on this earth in order to bring us close to him in full and forever communion with Him? I do not serve a cold and distant being who looks upon me in scorn. No, I serve a God who has saved me from my sins and has brought me into perfect fellowship with him. I deserved nothing but wrath and I have been given nothing but love. Jesus Christ came to this earth and was born in one of the most shockingly beautiful moments in history. My soul trembles as I think that God knows my name and smiles upon my frame. My heart breaks as I consider that I will be with my God forever through the blood of my Jesus who was born and died for me. Shocking, this.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends.

Manifesto

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quiet reigns over the city this morning
and i think i’m ok with that
sometimes it is better to be still
and with palms upward call to the one
who redeems
that one day we might have rest
and now in faithful abiding
let us be diligent
let us hold fast
let us draw near
so that we might with open hands
receive mercy and grace
through the blood of the one
who redeems
and in awe and wonder i sit in silence
underneath the shadow of the ancient tree

Sometimes Yes

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Sometimes I wonder why it is that fiction should so easily slip in the cracks whereas a well-written and solidly supported work of nonfiction can not find even the smallest purchase in my mind. I know everyone’s mind is different – at least I’m assured of such – which comforts me because I know then that the plethora of nonfiction educative works out in the world are of use to many many souls. Even for me, I can say with confidence I have been helped and encouraged and perhaps even edified by some of the nonfiction works floating out and about in the world. Yet there is something about a good story that will do things to me that no other form of writing can do, no matter how skillfully penned. This is not an original topic of course. I’m aware that much has been written about the human craving for pattern and is not story just another word for pattern? We seek to make sense of the chaos about us and if we can just make it all fit in a story that has a beginning and a middle and possibly even an end, would not that make life meaningful in a way that our souls long for? We cry for meaning and desperately grab on to whatever may give us such, if only that we can avoid slipping back into the existential void that we are all too afraid is the source from which we sprang. So is this desire for story simply a reaction of a mind half blind with fear and anxiety? Or do we desire to hear a great tale because that mirrors something in us that may perhaps have been put there a purpose, a reflection of the reality which is greater than we can now fully grasp? Hence to dart back to my original point (which perhaps has fled from me at this juncture), a true story simply told is something that will disarm all my defenses and leave me quivering on the floorboards, aware that I am both less than and greater than all at the same time. And if the story is true, well…at what point does this truth leave the pages in which I find it and enter my soul to provide an answer for that which my soul longs? I love to ask questions for too often I feel I do not know the answers. Yet, are there answers? Is there an answer? I dare not think otherwise. It stares me in the face and I tremble.

Lifeline

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she danced across the sands of time
and without pausing in her routine
reached across the bay
and handed me a book
unopened but from it
a cinnamon melody wafted
in my dreams i opened it
and eagerly devoured
all that i found within
was it story, poem or treatise
some philosophical tangent?
i will never say for now
i cannot remember
isn’t that the thing?
silly isn’t it, to consider
that a life might be changed
by words so small
in a book so cheaply bound
but then you know how the old saying goes
the best things come in the most unlikely
of packages
if i could find truth in a back alley
and know for certain
i’d not be shy about admitting the fact

Beginnings

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The last party I attended, I lasted twenty minutes before I started reciting poetry at the top of my lungs. That was admittedly a low point but I argue that I was baited into such. Every time Rachel shares the memory, her inability to keep a straight face testifies to her guilt. That poetry incident is unrelated to the present tale, but I thought it would set the stage nicely for the relationship between Rachel and I. It’s complicated really. (Aren’t all relationships such, even the ones that are unburdened by any sorts of romantic feelings one for the other?) But like any enduring friendship, ours had its high points and low points. The high points include in their number such efforts as the great Christmas narrative retelling of 2023, the pizza party at the coffeeshop that somehow devolved into a long-winded argument on the merits of Augustinian theology, and the near daily reminders to write something beautiful. The low points? We’ll get there. For what’s a great story without a really, really, bold-italics-underline really, great low point? So to cut to the chase, things have changed. Of course. The drama.

Not that long ago, I promised Rachel that I’d never write again. Obviously I’ve done a great job at keeping that promise. But here my fingers go, darting across the keyboard and providing fodder for scores of psychotherapists in their attempts to disentangle my waking dreams. You may wonder why on earth I would ever make such a foolish promise, me to whom writing comes more easily than breathing (pardon the stale cliche), whyever would I decide it was a good idea to cap my pen and shut my laptop, that the time had come to hang up my cowl? Again, to refer to the low point discussion, we’re getting there.

But let’s reverse a bit. We must retreat to where I can tell you this tale in the peace and quiet and right now my thoughts are screaming at me. I’m honestly unsure whether this is a good idea, but I dare not stop now that the dam has been breached. I suppose we could make this a participation game. Maybe that would make this feel more of a real relationship, even though I am fully aware I am imprisoned in my own head and that these words exiting into cyberspace and manifesting themselves in front of your eyes and being interpreted by your own psychosocial persona will communicate a story to you quite a bit different from the looping tale that is taunting me in my dreams even now. So any relationship between me (narrator, possibly lunatic, author of sorts) and you (a reader or perhaps listener, someone who exists but other than that of unknown quality and character) will of necessity feel a bit forced and mercenary even. Still now, friend? Can I call you friend? Would you like to hear a bit more about the friendship between Rachel and I that led to such a cataclysmic end? I promise you it is not a romantic tale (as much as the suspicion may rise) and I assure you that there’s nothing fantastical about what I’m about to spill. You could call this a theological journey of sorts, and if that word scares you, I will not attempt to urge you to stay with me. Stay or go, it’s all the same for me. I’ll keep writing. The question is – will you keep reading?

Dwelling Place

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How beautiful it is to sit here in this coffeeshop this Saturday, Dani and I. It’s a bit sticky outside, alas, and not the best walking weather, but a walk was nonetheless enjoyed (with several stops at pop-up Christmas markets along the way!). Now it is time to sit a bit and rest and perhaps write and read a bit. We shall see. How are you all this fine day? It is indeed nice to let my thoughts slow down a bit and ponder the simple lovely things that so wonderfully surround me. Why oh why do we insist on rushing around all the time and keeping our schedules so ridiculously full? Obviously we were not made to laze around all the time, of course. But we were made for rest. A piece of that rest is mine now, even now! I think on the fact that I am an heir of the riches of the kingdom of heaven through the work of Jesus Christ, who was born on this earth that he might someday die that multitudes of lost little sheep like I might be redeemed and reconciled to the God whom I now call Father. Oh glory and bliss! I am a child of God and I am one for whom Jesus died. The light of life has been granted me and I tremble in anticipation for the fuller joy which just now whispers past the crack in the open door. I feel the wind blow past my neck now. It heralds a story which has been building since before the dawn of time.