Dogged

I rarely used to wonder
where you are
what you're doing

The thought follows now
like a faithful dog
quiet, steady, hungry
curls up with me at night
only to wake me at 3 a.m.
scratching at the door
wanting to run amok.



Picture: accessed online

He Gives

He gives

not contentment

but presence

nothing to consume

pursue or attain

all to receive and embrace

He gives only (!) himself

holds who I am

who I am not

the whole and the hole

within the I Am

enveloped in Love

Virtual Reality

I wake slow and easy on a Saturday. Love on the dog, choose bits and bytes before brekkie, dig through the web to surf, sit around the net warming my open hands to stories, to life.

Stand beside my niece on her first trip to the ocean. Drink satisfaction in the recording studio with my son. Witness jellyfish and whales with Dale. Sing "In the Jungle" with Billy and Jimmy. Mock Alberta Spring with Marcia. Weep with two widows, dancing together on our ashes.

David shows why otherness is worth the hazard and John reminds me there's no transformation without brokenness. Serena shares a cup of grace, that faith isn't about perfecting a behavioral combination - it's about trust. Period.

And I pray gratitude for

• an office in a spacious place
• enlarged borders
• forgiveness found and forwarded

This isn't social networking
This is the net working like a Body
All parts a part
A living breathing
Virtual. Virtuous. Vibrant. Reality
of love, loss, beauty and truth

Good morning friends.
God's got this -
holding us all in wide open
grace-scarred hands
and we get to be here
holding each other
and this dear reality.

Identity Tree

Deep bitter roots
anchor a furrowed trunk knotted
gnarled and split from growing round
old rusty lies and barbed words

entwined below and above
dying bloodlines slowly pulse, choke
from grafted resentment
anger and exposed wounds

but Hope breathes life
shines light into hidden spaces
where Faith gets on its knees
to reclaim this territory, inch by broken inch

Truth digs deep through hard-packed soil
trampled under years of neglect
makes a channel for Love to soak
loosen resentment's tight grasp

Prayer waters the earth with tears
whispers in petition, thy kingdom come
weeps release, thy will be done
and finally Forgiveness breaks free

The trees of the field clap their hands
in every rising branch, buds burst into blossom
begin to thrum the Tree's true name -
Beloved.

Truth in Strange Places

I find truth in the strangest places.

The back of the newspaper buried in an obit. In middle of a medieval movie cloaked in the king's last-ditch pre-battle speech. From late night Facebook posts by renegades and rebels with long hair and deep roots. From celebrities getting awards for depicting horrible things. And in the stark, screaming silence of an unanswered email.

And though more rare, I still hear truth in tradition: sung from the choir, whispered in flickering voice by candlelight contemplatives. When long-haired music rises like a wave on the North Shore, dashes against the volcanic rock of my soul, formed when the world was born.

I see truth in the sweat of horses over fresh plowed earth. And I stand mouth agape, split open at the selfless setting sun, the clouds all gathered round in glowing admiration.

You leak truth out your pores, give it graciously in thumbs ups and likes, in coffee dates and broken bread, the way you bring the shards of your heart in your unwrapped shoebox and we put that let-go puzzle together again, sometimes with the help of the King's horses and men.

Truth makes its own path. Walks hand in hand with wisdom. It's spoken by old bald men and tall blonde women, bounces happy in a child's eyes and pulses in the laments of colleagues new and old. The next generations, from a troubadour father, pen it in videos, stage and song. It cheers in the come-from-behind win and weeps healing in crushing defeat.

Let the one who has ears to hear, listen. And never, ever, be afraid to let us see you sweat. You are tilling the earth in truth and we will feast together on the harvest.

Soldier On

 

Well-fitted armor

the shield of faith

helmet of salvation

and all the rest

not heavy 

Most days it buoys

helps me stand

protects in battle

makes progress 

possible

But there are days

when from behind

an arrow of sadness

released 

long past

flies

from a comrade's bow

strikes soft flesh

an unarmored part

a chink exposed

A strike

in defence or offence

I do not know 

for I thought we battled

the same enemy

The pain is theirs

the wound is mine

but a prize awaits

for those who overcome

so I press on