Month: February 2018

A smear of ashes, not pink paper hearts,
is my valentine for you:

my death I give you,
and everything in between,

my fragile, feeble flesh,
soon to decay again to dust,

made alive not by my will
but by your breath.

May I be good dust for you,
clay made holy as the jar of your light,

this paper heart, torn and beautiful,
my mortal whole, given wholly,

these ashes saved from my urn
I give to you: my valentine,

my life, returning, always returning
to you.

—February 14, 2018

         Then the priest shall turn these into smoke
         on the altar as a food offering by fire
         for a pleasing odor.
         All fat is the Lord’s.
               —Leviticus 3.16

God, is the fat and my love of the fat.
Here is my chocolate.
Here is my too much party (here, look!),
my I want to have fun,
my this one’s for me.
Here is my hunger and my greed.
And here is a little toast to you,
in passing recollection that all this is yours.
(And by the way thank you for all of this.)
Here is my self as the center of the world,
my entitlement as assumed normal,
my appetite as Universal Constant.
Here is my want, my therefore I must need,
and, yes, here is my not what you want.
Here it is. See it? Watch it in action
as I feast, as I have at it.
Take it, all of it. I’m piling it up here for you.
Have it, hold it, and climb into it
the way you do.

In forty days you can give it back to me,
changed, fixed on a different abundance,
and finally really alive.

   —February 13, 2018

Over the great plain of the snowy yard
the sun rises warm and orange
like salmon on a porcelain plate
as if to say “Feast upon this day.”

Mid day, each tree prayerfully stilled,
the sun leans over the frozen marsh,
touches every crystal
with tiny, sparkling fingers
as if to say, “You make beauty
with your eyes.”

Evening, at the far end of the field
the sun rolls over on one side
on its white pillow of snow,
pulls the great orange cloud over its head
and is silent, as if to say,
“You will be given rest.”

Midnight, only the moon is awake,
watching over you,
smiling its famous half smile
is if to say, “Splendor unfolds
without your knowing.”

   —February 12, 2018

         God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,”
         has shone in our hearts.
               —2 Corinthians 4.6

I am a rusty lantern,
with its little corroded cap,
its bad latch,
its smudged, cracked glass,
its mottled handle bent to one side—
a plain old busted lantern.

None of this matters,
but the light that burns in it,
the candle of God.
I don’t put the light there,
it’s already there,
shining since the beginning of time.
I only marvel,
and walk around with that light in me,
silent, calm, reaching farther than I can know.
It shines,
and I wonder.
 

   —February 8, 2018

A couple days ago I was splashing
in the Pacific ocean.
Now I’m shoveling snow.

I talked with a woman who had lost a husband,
another who had lost a son.
And a couple renewing their 40 year old vows.

My friends in Australia have the opposite time of day,
the opposite season from me.
We are all on the same little island.

Every life has its seasons. Live the one you’re in.
You can’t live another person’s story,
but you can listen, and find them in it.

And in every story, every season, every life,
like water in the sea and in the snow,
there’s God in it. Listen.
 

   —February 8, 2018

         He was transfigured before them, and…
         they were terrified.
               —Mark 9.3, 6

Don’t be fooled by the neon friendliness,
like a “burgers and shakes” sign.
Don’t fall for the allure of great figures,
Moses and Elijah and Elvis assuring you
you’re on the road to the stars.
Don’t be waylaid by your cleverness
to have brought a box,
a very theological box, to put this all in.
Let’s be honest: it’s terrifying
to stand too close to a speeding train,
to get near to the power of God,
the light that can change you
into your own unknown,
the mystery that will surely consume you,
the love that will crack your life open
till the light all spills out
and you’re drawn to the cross,
kicking and screaming and grateful.
Maybe Jesus himself was a little freaked
at first to be turned into pure light.
As with any great force, if you’re not scared
you’re not paying attention.
Pay attention. Bow down, and listen.

   —February 7, 2018

Sometimes you feel like you’ve overslept,
waking up to life late,
that you’ve missed out on something all these years.

But God has no “late.” Only “now.”

This is the day God chooses
to give you a sense of urgency about today.

Regret is the sleep, the not being here.
Come back. Wake up again.

Do it again, every day.

________________________

Weather Report

Immediacy
today, like no other.
A large mass of dense, rotating regret
has formed off the coast,
driven by a front of fear,
but it will never make landfall.
No forecast will hold, only
eyes, wide open and ready.
 

   —February 6, 2018

Morning walk by the ocean.
These waves have been singing their praise
all night long without me.
They have been praising thus
for millions of years.
All earth has been praising you.
I join them with my song of silence.
What else am I called to do,
a spindly two-legged on this wide beach,
but join the chorus,
wave after wave of my life
throwing up hands in joy,
falling down in praise?

   —February 5, 2018

Beloved, enter the pilgrimage
         of stillness.

Seek only
         what cannot be taken from you.

Release
         what is already not yours.  

Hold on
         to what will not let you go.

Give yourself
         where there is no return.

Vanish continually
         to behold what eternally appears.

Die
         and become who you already are.

   —February 2, 2018

Merciful One,
give me grace to be mindful today
of your constant, loving presence.
Give me wisdom to listen for your voice.
Open my heart to your glory in everything,
your light in everyone,
even those who do not see it.
Remind me everyone I meet is struggling.
Help me to see with clear eyes,
without judging or reacting.
Help me to be patient with weakness
and forgiving of myself and others.
Nudge me to learn from every mistake,
to be courageous in the face of fear,
to seize every chance to show love.
Ever-present Love, keep me mindful this day
of your mysterious grace,
your goodness and mercy that shadow me
all of my day and through the night.
Amen.

   —February 1, 2018