What I knew in Grand Rapids

I used to think that events were discrete:

the picnic, the talk in the chapel,

hiking in the Chagrin Reservation.

And then, maybe, I saw one linked to another:

they asked and I went;

she left and I am sad;

the rain falls and the peonies grow.

Then, with age or mercy,

I could see them all strewn out like chess moves,

one linked to another:

the post, the email, the quick, the yes, the longing, the love.

I could trace my life back choice by choice,

retrospectingly connected.

But now, right now, I see it all,

just maybe for today, as a bridge.

One thing taking me to the next,

moving from one side to the other.

And there are only two sides of my life:

what was and what is better.

Even the darkness, the doubt, the desert wandering.

All of it before: one form of glorious goodness.

All of it to come: a wider form of more glorious goodness.

Some miracles are small

No one will know but the three of us,

you and me and her in that room.

It could have teetered either way

(aren't so many things one nudge away from disaster?)

She could have said that one last thing you could not bear.

You could have said nothing at all.

You could have left in a huff,

her pride shredding behind you.

But you stayed and she stayed

and word by word you worked your way to truth.

After the sharp eyes, the serrated consonants,

then softening, the heart's voice in each of us

finally brave enough to stand up on wobbly legs,

and say, I feel. I ache. I feel. I never meant.

To feel. To you. Sorry. So sorry.

No bread multiplied into loaves,

no water turned to wine.

No one walked on water or calmed the sea.

We were not draped in holy vestments.

A cancer did not suddenly disappear,

the chain of lottery numbers did not reveal a winner.

No one named Saint Somebody was within miles.

It was just you and me and her

letting the goodness steam up through the boiling,

cleaning the pores of the skin between us.

A miracle metastasized from cells run amok

because we lasted through the pain.

Until the words that were fists

became fists that were hands,

and the hands turned to palms,

until our love lines and life lines were exposed,

belly up to healing.

Lay 'em down

it's not the bridge

When I took this picture in Columbus, Indiana,

I thought it was about the bridge,

the stoic past still present in this post-modern town.

But this picture is not about the bridge,

the circular pond,

the amphitheater over my shoulder as I focused the lens.

This picture is not about my trip to Columbus,

the boutique hotel I stowed away in,

the organic chicken I ate in Bistro 310.

Nor is it about the place I fled,

where the ghost of Christmas past

seems to whistle and smirk in dusty corners.

This picture is not about the reliable bridge,

the men who built it, the people or their dogs

who pass through it everyday.

This picture is not about the dormant trees,

nor is it about the need to rest,

to take a season off in this harried world.

This picture is about the red oak.

The one in the foreground that I did not even see until today.

This picture is about leaves that refuse to fall,

the ones who cling with their last ounce of will,

the leaves that spit on their hands and grab the rope,

determined to ride out the winter.

This picture is about the mighty,

the ones we do not see until we see,

the people out there, battling in their dry red skins.

This picture is about that. The holding on,

the absolute no within us all

that shouts its absolute yes.

That's what this picture is about.

waiting

How good to have this time of year

designated for waiting in eager anticipation.

We know how it all will end -- the barn, the baby, the guiding light.

But for now, I want to pretend that I do not know,

that nothing is definite or predictable.

Let's pretend that I am on the advent of something new.

That my life is coming, arriving, about to begin.

Because, really, that's what is happening. For me. For you.

Here I sit, a fat, weary 47 year old,

with some inclination that I know how it will all turn out.

And there you are too. Alone. Not alone.

Prepared. Stocks bonded and bonds stacked.

With a baby on your hip. A father in ICU.

Cells dividing toward life or death. Who knows.

Tomorrow, I will talk to someone I have never met.

Tomorrow, I will see something I have never seen.

Tomorrow, I will feel something I have never felt,

reminiscent, perhaps, all of it, but still new.

This is advent. A time of waiting,

a time of watchful preparation.

I know what I want and need, but

I do not know what is coming,

I do not know when it will arrive.

And for that, this night, I give

my restless and hopeful thanks.

when the bread runs out

I could tell you why I have taken communion

three times in 6 days (how un-presbyterian),

but it does not really matter.

Nor does it matter that the first time

a man named Paul held my elbow,

and looked me smiling,

knowing that between 10 and 10:43,

some kind of spirit scraper had entered me

and ground the black tar off my heart.

He knew it, I knew it, and communion

was a celebration of sorts.

Nor does it matter that the second time

the bread and wine came with an

optional anointing of oil.

That I had no idea that the holy cross

would smell so fresh, better than any

Aveda shampoo and that I wanted

to rub the oil into my hair and then

my very brain, making my mind

more sacred than what it has been,

scared or scarred.

What matters is this last time,

the third time. At the Covenant Network,

a gathering of people working to make ordination

possible for all of God's children.

Nearly everyone in the large church

had already taken the cup,

but the instant I approached,

the server ran out of small strips of pita.

Ten years ago I would

have taken it as a sign:

see I do not belong.

But what happened was this,

the elder ran to the communion table,

and picked up the whole loaf of bread,

the one that the minister had raised above his head,

and blessed saying, "On the night of His death,

Jesus took this bread and said,

'This is my body broken for you,

eat this and remember me.'"

She picked up the loaf of bread that was passed

2000 years ago, the loaf that sat on the table,

the loaf that the disciples shared,

the loaf that Jesus ate.

And she ran back down the aisle,

as I stood there, more than 300 people watching,

and tore a hunk off of that loaf,

then gave it to me.

The real loaf.

The Jesus loaf, the loaf that was lifted up.

That's the piece of bread I got.

And, yes, I know I might be reading too much into it,

but, I know that that bread was meant for me.

On that day, in that place.

That piece shouted at me,

that piece ordain me,

consecrated me worthy.

Absolutely, completely,

someone who belongs.

starving

I am 52 pounds heavier than I was 52 weeks ago,

and I wonder what that weight is.

Beyond the Hot Tamales and pounds of cheese, of course,

beyond the discovery of "Mad Men" and "Bones,"

all of those new hours laying on the couch.

On this Sunday, a year ago, I was in the Houston airport,

flying back from a seminary visit in Austin.

I had on an "I vote for Obama" t-shirt

that received more than a few Bushian glares

in that hot Texan hub.

I had a new curve to my heart,

a tilt toward some green path,

and I really wish, tonight, I had listened

to the twenty people who said yes,

instead of the one man who

so adamantly warned no.

These November streets are gray,

and my heart has a flat thrum.

The only new thing in my life has caused

me great strain and burden,

and I am, once again, pressing myself

into the mold I built of my life:

prove your worth, show how smart you are,

be the best among the many good.

I am not smarter about God, one year later.

I still wonder who the mother-in-law is:

Naomi or Ruth. Perhaps, if I were in Austin tonight,

I would know how to spell Isaiah

without having to think so hard about the vowels.

But I do believe, seminary or not,

that what matters

about the Naomi and Ruth story

is that one pledged this: "where you go,

I will follow, your people will be my people,

your God will be my God."

And that, perhaps is what I have been eating up,

the words: you, go, I, follow,

your, people, my, people,

not knowing where to focus my love,

as it wanders, searching,

so hungry from day to day.