Words, syllables, inflections,
breathed and yelled, soft and loud,
mouthed and thought, heard and not,
written and spoken,
valued and ignored, but so weighty for the one who owns them, for that one desperate to be treasured.
When we begin, words tumble out in disjointed digraphs and stutters,
cheered and encouraged by proud parents who imagine brilliance with each blurb; but
with time and teaching, the excitement diminishes, and like with any drug, the content needs to be more potent to illicit the same reaction, from spelling bees to grad speeches to wedding toasts and dissertations.
The audiences change, and the stories get retold; successful soliloquies get notched on the belt of significance as the words ebb and flow with the rhythms of life. But then
those who are really listening grow fewer, and more and more voices fill the air, diluting, refuting, and polluting
the pulsing megabytes,
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. . . coming on strong. My roses are looking beautiful, but heat is nearing! Oh, no.
Shaken deeper than deep, hiding in the shadows from authorities and creeping fears—named and unnamed,
no light, no hopeful horizon even with the bending rays of first light.
But morning breaks the mourning in thunderous quiet within an unblocked tomb, in a soft step in the garden, and on dusty Jerusalem roads.
and from the inside out a cry of liquid joy flows like a stream—He’s alive.
Just as He said, but we missed it, were blind to it—to Him.
But possibility and promise have rocked the dark kingdoms, and God’s Own has broken through, leading a parade of captives.
I was one. Praise Him.
Is it just another day, another ritual performed,
a chance to wear new clothes and serve festive meals,
a celebration to mark our days and orient ourselves in a new year?
Is it just another obligation,
a compartment to fit in all the praiseworthy things
we ought to feel,
hope to feel,
about One so distant, so long ascended?
Has the burning in our hearts been quenched by familiar practices
Has the finger-in-the-side-faith lost its exclamations,
replaced by programs, distractions, and holy soundtracks?
Has our communion in the garden become commonplace
rather than ablaze with revelation and intimacy?
Oh, God of the resurrection,
God of the unruly and easily sidetracked,
burn within my heart this day.
Renew this shabby faith, these tattered shreds of almost belief,
with an obsession,
and an urgency to love the faltering, the lost.
To be the Kingdom person you…
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Do you hear the silence in the tomb—hard and lifeless—vacuous hopes of my heart buried in a borrowed grave with one who would save us?
Do you hear the silence in the streets where palms, faded and brittle, blow to the wadis by dry desert winds—blow along with our visions of an overcoming respite?
And the pain of that black moment has dissolved in my tears and loss, and we mourn for him, but probably more for ourselves—myself.
And in the weeping and the regularity of another’s day, a great silence fills and empties me of will and belief. Behind my eyes, inside my head, the palpable quiet pushes out hope and in my hands where once we held his bread and wine, I hold despair, pressed down, dark, and bloody.
I guess all the rain is an added measure to make sure folks keep to the quarantine protocols.
When you are stuck at home, you find things to do to keep occupied, entertained, and diverted from the apocalyptic world outside your door. Beside overeating and overreacting 🙂 I got my flower press out and did a pressed picture. Fun stuff.