Adventures in the Word

Noah’s rainbow arced across the sky
against the darkened east horizon,
receding from the setting sun – golden
and bowing low to the higher sign –
the fragile arch waves triumphantly.

The red to violet spectrum dares
us reach and touch its colors,
now suspended, embedded in air,
surely such stunning splendors
need not dazzle long, they’re quickly gone.

And in among its folds –
if you could get up close to see
the colors deep between the hues
of red and orange, what a sight you’d
see of umbers and ochres and blends of gold.

Without warning colors fall in line,
they know their place, then just as quickly
break their ranks of fellowship,
not waiting long for us to see
the bridge that spans the heavenlies.

How can the rainbow stand so still
when built on a million falling drops,
each one a tiny crafted lens
that beams a thread of light
to form the Master’s exquisite bend.

Can you drink this iridescent wine?
it offers up its rarest vintage,
and invites us up to sit
at her atmospheric table and sip
what cannot yet be felt by hand.

To what end do giant arcs of color serve
anyway? Do they guide or warn or inform
us, or do anything to help or harm
us? or do they simply stand as silent
signs of an otherworldly generosity?

– David Herin

At lunch I sit alone surrounded by four
other tables also taken by one –
the only other one has two, and though
face to face, they too are absent and alone.

The air of afternoon hangs over
and around us, a clouded atmosphere
of crowded thoughts and fears that stare
us down and will not leave us be.

The chair across from me sits vacant,
not reserved for any person,
yet phantom eyes are somehow blankly
staring back at me and beckon.

Even when I’m by myself
I can’t stop searching other faces –
people walking, laughing, talking,
nothing draws my eye as well.

Why can’t we peer above our papers
long enough to look around –
to spot a human being near,
who’d like a cup of coffee, right here?

But when I finally sit and sup
with someone so our words
embrace and intermingle . . . hmm . . .
Someone else is seated at our table.

– David Herin

I wrote the poem below the day before my mother was buried in December of 2002. I thought about reading it at her funeral, but decided against it. I thought it was too depressing at the time and I really wanted it to be just between the Lord, my mother and myself, (although I let my sister read it). But I printed it out and rolled it up and put it secretly in her casket.

Until now I thought the poem was too much of an intimate window into my mother’s life. But now I want her life to continue to speak to me and to anyone who will listen. And for the record, I want both the good and the bad of my life to be spoken of at my funeral. I don’t believe we honor someone by whitewashing over their life.

But this poem does not really speak badly of my mother – only to her fragility.

   Dear mom,
Why did your rose not bloom?
Your stems were grown, complete with thorns.
The blooms of spring were poised,
but your reds and pinks and scents,
we could hardly see – they still were closed.

   why mom?
Did the hemlock cast a shadow?
Did the ground grow still and fallow?
Did the rains not come
and grace your leaves and petals well enough?

   O mom . . .
I wish I’d cut the hemlock down,
and loosened the root-bound soil around,
I wish I’d cleared the ground,
to coax your fragile flowers bloom.

I’m sure the colors would be bright and bold
and heavenly to hold
under our noses.
and I’m told your special kind,
though hard to grow,
would well be worth the extra time.

   but mom,
at least now, let your flowers open wide,
with praise and love to Christ.
Never, ever again to close;
forever now, give the beauty of a rose.

–David Herin

I thought I knew what love must be
and so I put it in an envelope
and affixed its label carefully,
assigned its taxonomy along
with faith and hope and dignity.

But love wouldn’t stay holed up for long;
it had a way of eating away
at its chains, so subtly, secretly
until it kindly returned the favor and
shackled me, yet I really didn’t mind.

Love. There. But now that I’ve said it
any other flowery words are
plainly way too small and unworthy
of it at all. We barely touch this love
and then it hides – it’s unpossessable.

Like Jesus, a guest in Emmaus
breaking bread, their eyes together
saw him risen – shocked they couldn’t
hold him, but once he’d gone his words
lit their hearts and made them smolder.

For generations now the world
has cut and carved their wood and stone
trying to congeal a god of love for all
but all they got were caricatures –
loony ’toons that made us joke and moan.

But little did we know that love
was working all the time
behind the stage, then briefly came
on the scene and stretched himself
for love – finally nailed, on a beam.

Oh, if life itself could be a walk of love
and every stride, that much closer to its shrine,
if I could lay myself upon its altar
and refuse to wiggle off its flame,
then my life would be a fitting, but unfinished frame
    for the One who is this Love.

– David Herin

Here I am –
a new man!
Now I can bodily
belong to you Lord.
        This is your place.

Here’s my eyes –
extend my sight
beyond myself
to see the light
        patina on your face.

Now my ears –
tune them to hear
your healing words
clearly spoken.
        Turn me from the silent spaces.

Then my mouth –
open it to sow
my words without
the spoil of bitter thoughts,
        but with love and grace.

Here’s my hands –
arm them to tend
my own piece of land
content to want no more,
        through all my hours and days.

Here’s my feet –
turn them to seek
the paths that lead
us to your peace,
        through all my winding ways.

And last, my mind –
let my thoughts entwine
around your words.
We’ll sit and dine
        where our talks will mix with praise.

— David Herin

In the quiet spaces of talks with my son
the air hangs still while I wait for his answer,
I’ve spent all the words I can muster
and my gaze falls on the floor – fumbling,
trying to hide my want for just one word.

The still air – fragile, breaks
with a welcome single sound, asserting itself,
so simple – and not even a word –
but an ‘uhm’ that awkwardly stakes
its claim and pledges more of himself.

With words we carve the course
of our conversation’s flow.
Most times we glide the waters slowly,
at times, we portage ’cross the shallows,
and now and then we’re shot like a gun through the foam.

Endless tangles of trees line
our way, while bluffs and sandbars witness
and bridges stand and guard our progress.
But the Unseen Word flows beneath us;
these are the Waters that move and hold and turn us.

My words, his words, flow freely now,
but these trees and bluffs and sands
have seen centuries of currents pass.
The waters move us faithfully on,
but one day he’ll be further along,
and farther down Stream than I’ve ever gone.

–David Herin

I remember we took a long walk at low tide,
you and I, barefooted on the sands, our pants
rolled up to our calves, and you didn’t seem to mind your
hair swept in your eyes by the warm breezes.

At first we chatted on about the kids and cares
of life, all the while the sun was golden on your hair,
and I looked down at our feet, while we strolled, sometimes
in step, but at times my longer strides tugged us along.

Then, for the longest time, your hand in mine,
we walked on contented, even borne along,
beside the wordless sky, and watched the sun
paint its own wild waves above the tide.

Our silent conversation continued on, our fingers
met – curling, entwining, holding, then parting again.
We looked mostly ahead, but I often glanced across your
browned shoulders and watched the mirrored suns kiss.

Silvery shadows gray your cheek as
the last lip of rounded red now sinks below the world and
leaves a wake of reds and golds, a gaudy show on any other screen,
but somehow it speaks the words we find it hard to say.

The ocean waters dim, white-crested still, and it suddenly comes to mind –
a little late – we should have turned around by now.
Looking back, long strands of pearls re-light our footprints on the sand.
Our eyes briefly meet – then, we turn and walk on, your hand still in mine.

– David Herin

In parts 1 through 3 I’ve been talking about human conversation, but there’s another mode of conversation too – the human/divine kind. We usually talk about this by using the term prayer, which is a perfectly fine term, but too often it’s loaded with baggage that warps our view of it.

Can we really have a conversation . . . with God?

If so – and I think most would answer yes, at least to some degree – does our human conversations, or lack thereof, have any bearing at all on our conversations with God? If so, how?

When I think of conversation, I normally imagine sitting in a comfy chair, maybe with a cup of coffee, relaxing, sipping and casually chatting. But can we really picture ourselves doing that with God (of all people)? Can we really do that with the Lord of Lords and King of Kings? Shouldn’t we sit up a little straighter, suck in our gut, be quiet and just listen?

That question makes me think of a friend of mine who somehow got the opportunity to meet and talk to President Bush. The thing that struck me as I heard his story was just how comfortable that George W Bush made him feel. At first my friend was nervous and justifiably in awe of the man. But shortly after sitting down with him, the President had a way of putting my friend at ease. At the end of their conversation, my friend John told me that all of them – John, his friend, the President, and First Lady Laura Bush – they all literally ended up on their knees praying, at the suggestion of the President himself.

I think that may give us a window into how the Lord can be in our conversations with Him – if we let Him. Yes, He’s the God of the Universe, and like the President, He has a lot on his mind. But somehow He finds the time to shut out everything else and is completely ‘present’ with us. Being who He is, He doesn’t have to ‘put on any airs.’ He’s ‘comfortable’ with Himself and can easily condescend to us without being condescending.

My friend was completely blown away by the fact that President Bush appeared to be genuinely interested in him and apparently didn’t see their conversation as an imposition OR a photo opportunity. His meeting lasted about 20 minutes and was completely behind closed doors without one camera.

Hearing about President Bush in this light surprised me and I found myself drawn to the man, George Bush. But then I also found myself admiring and respecting him even more. But why? Shouldn’t his ‘self-humbling’ have brought him down a little closer to my level? No. Actually it’s just the opposite.

I hope this helps us see the paradox that God is both transcendent and imminent. Somehow He’s able to oversee the movements of the entire universe while at the same time, sit down with us and have a cup of coffee.

Awesome.

I don’t know about you, but I’m turning the snooze off this time. That aroma from the kitchen tells me that Someone’s in there making a fresh pot.

One way that love is expressed is through the sincere simplicity of our words. If I could have added one line to Paul’s masterpiece, it would be, “Love . . . doesn’t have to be dramatic.” It’s in the everyday averageness of our day with others that love is shared (or not shared).

So I wanted to pair some common conversational phrases to Paul’s characteristics onagape. See if you can hear yourself in these lines. Some may sound a little sappy or superficial – I don’t know, maybe they really are – but I don’t think they have to be. If we can’t imagine ourselves saying these words, maybe we just need a little deeper agape.

Love Agape . . .
is patient makrothumei

“It’s okay, I’ll wait for you.”

is kind chrasteuetai

“Here, let me do that for you.”

isn’t envious ou zaloi

“It wasn’t just me.”
“No. He did it.”

isn’t conceited ou phusioutai

“Oh thanks, I hadn’t noticed.”

isn’t rude ouk aschamonei

“Please be quiet.” [not: ‘Will you shut up!’ ]

isn’t just looking out for his own things ouk zutei ta eautas

“I’ll wait up for her.”
“I’ll make the time for it.”
“It’s all right; you go ahead first.”

isn’t reactionary ou paroxuvetai

[silence]

doesn’t automatically assume the worst ou logizetai to kakon

“Oh – I never imagined that it could be that bad.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Honestly, I could be tempted, but, I’m just not going there.”

doesn’t celebrate the wrongs done to others ou chairei epita adikia

“Oh, how terrible.”
“[weeping] Oh no!”

smiles when truth wins out sugchairei detzolytheia

“Wow! That’s great!”
“Wonderful!”
“I was hoping you’d win.”

keeps all confidences panta stegei

“You can trust me.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“I won’t say anything.”

isn’t naïve or cynical panta pisteuei

“I still think it’ll work out.”

perseveres panta elpizei

“Don’t give up!”
“It’s not as bad as you think.”
“You can still make it!”

puts up with everything panta hupomenei

“Hey, don’t worry about it.”
“I forgive you.”
“Oh, it used to bother me, but not any more.”

never withers oudepote ekpiptei

“I’m still here.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Call me anytime.”
“I’m ready to listen when you’re ready to talk.”
“ . . . whenever you’re ready.”
“I still love you.”

In the last post I confessed that I disliked talking on the phone.

I procrastinate.
Sometimes I actually dread it.

I do everything except call ‘Bill,’ who’s been on my list to call for the last two weeks. (I’ll use the name Bill since I actually don’t know a Bill other than my Dad, and I never have any angst about calling him.)

And I know why I don’t call him too; and it’s not because I dislike talking to him and it’s not because I’m afraid of being rejected or hurt. I don’t want to talk to him ON THE PHONE!
I’ve pondered this for a while and I’m absolutely certain that THIS is why I don’t call – Ready?
Here ’tis:

I don’t like to call Bill because I hate the idea that I’m calling simply because I ‘need’ something:
• to borrow something
• to see if he can do something
• to remind him to do that something
• to [your ‘need’ here ]

I realize that all these are legitimate reasons to call, but I just feel really guilty that it happens to be the only time I will have talked to Bill in a long time. And for that reason the call feels like I’M JUST USING HIM.

One piece of evidence that I’m afraid of appearing to use Bill is, when I do call, I feel the sudden urge to ‘catch-up,’ or at least to say, “Hi, how are you?” – before I start plowing into what I need.

But no matter how sincere or attentive I may be at the beginning of our conversation it seems completely spoiled as soon as I bring up my need: “So . . . yeah, umm . . but, I guess the reason I called was . . . ”

UGH!

Then all that apparent sincerity over Bill’s well-being vanishes and I feel like a cad.

I don’t see any way to avoid the fragility of these disembodied conversations – I think we simply have trouble discerning sincerity without our bodies getting into the conversation too. All the communications experts say that our non-verbal body language, facial expressions, and gestures play a huge role in conversation. And since our voice has to do all of the heavy lifting in the phone conversation, we wonder how we’re being perceived. And the attendant anxiety over our potentially apparent caddishness doesn’t help us come off so smooth either.

Maybe all this just reveals my own insecurities; maybe all my words here are just a tempest in a teapot.

But I still don’t think I’m alone in this.

And we can’t use emoticons on the phone either.

Maybe I just need a little love.

Anybody want to give me a call?