The canopy of
maple, oak and ash
shadows my path.
I cannot hold
a withering hope – I’m lost!
Now at every wooded rise
it’s the same scene still;
each idle step, it seems, will
take me out no farther,
but no closer
to home.
The hours I walk alone
plod on without a hint,
a hope, or a home
of man or beast.
My hips and knees and feet:
they throb and beg for rest,
but now, how can I stop,
knowing the dreary, dappled sky
will soon turn dark?
I swallow hard and raise
my eyes to trace a hidden line.
Miles later, still fixing the line my mind had strung
from tree to tree, though it tangles now and then;
eventually, I spot a man a-way out ahead,
his head and eye level, walking the path alone.
Then I spy another, then many, many others,
(I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed them before),
their steps all track the very same line.
The graying woods turn black, but now I hear
an organic march and distant calls; dreaded branches
snap, but their scratches don’t much matter now –
I’m sure we all will finally make it back home.
December 20, 2007 at 12:14 pm
· Filed under Poetry
The evening sounds of porcelain and glass:
the dishes echo their tinklings off the kitchen walls,
the murmur of muffled voices drift
from other rooms and down the hall.
I recline under afghan and feel the evening settle in.
A candle wick subdues its glow and shivers to stay warm;
even fainter, I hear the door knob turn – my son is home.
My eyelids droop, the ticking clock asserts itself,
then quickly melts away amid the other voices in the room.
The still warmth of evening melts itself within me;
too late I start to hear and feel and see
the little wonders all around me:
the hiss of the fire, the thick of stillness,
my children laughing – without me again.
Outside the window, summer’s stretch of shadows fade,
the crimson swirls of sky have blended gray.
How quickly now the blaze of beauty passes.
And grieved, I look away, away at vacant nothings,
I cannot bring myself to say a last good-bye.
In bed, I lie here drowsy, sleepless
again. I turn and reshape my pillow to cradle my neck –
my head – for the twelfth time now – signals its slight discomfort such
as not to wake itself too much.
The warm, familiar space I’ve made for cushy comfort,
springs up, protesting every tiny unease.
And like a little boy who can’t stop tapping on my shoulder –
I try in vain to ignore me.
My silky shroud of silence enfolds, entombs me,
then mocks me, taunting, ‘comfy yet?’
I feel the warmth of my self-spun cocoon begin
to slowly numb me.
Sleep, shadowy sleep – it beckons, and scares me
too. Yet, breath by breath, I yield to the hours of my mini-death –
what other choice do I really have? Can I just roll over and forget?
Can I dream away its sovereign power?
In faith, I sink into the softness of sleep,
my head is finally cradled all around,
my other pillow ’cross my bony knees.
I’m deflating now . . . going limp, the intermittent
fidgets winding slowly down.
Ah, comfort complete . . .
at rest . . .
peace . . . at last.
See you in the morning.
Summary of a message spoken at Nora Christian Fellowship on Nov 25, 2007.
Taken from Luke 22-23
I’m honestly not sure why Luke told the story of the cross in a “series of threes.” It may have been a reference to Jesus’ statement that he would be ‘raised the third day,’ or it could have been an indication of His death, burial and resurrection. Or telling it this way could simply help us better remember the greatest story ever told.
Here’s the Story told in threes:
On the road to the cross, Jesus . . .
reminded Peter, with a solemn look, that he would deny Him three times, late, before the rooster crowed.
suffered the false testimony, hatred, and bitter accusations of three trials and three judges: the Sanhedrin, Herod, and Pilate.
stood by quietly while an unlikely Pilate tried to defend Him – unsuccessfully – three times (Luke 23:22).
On the cross, Jesus . . .
agonized between two other crucified men, one bitter and desperate, the other repentant but hopeful.
stretched out His hands to all the world as King of the Jews. The sign, posted over his head and intended to mock Him, ended up praising him to all the world in three languages: Greek, Latin and Hebrew.
uttered three things that showed the cross was deeply rooted in His heart: these three words expressed His forgiveness, His steadfast love for individuals, and His undying commitment to the Father. His cross was not just for show; it was not something He only felt obligated to do – it simply revealed who He was . . . and still is!
Still on the cross, Jesus . . .
endured the sneers from three strata of society: the religiously self-righteous, the merciless soldiers, and a crucified criminal.
mourned with creation for three hours, when the sun refused to show its face.
died, and all three sneering strata began – in reverse order – to grieve when they finally saw the truth of what they had done, and the Truth of who this Man really was.