The Shadow Boxer.

He changed his mind like he changed his clothes for the day.
He changed his character like he changed the channel.
He changed his loves like he changed his mind.
But this time the change comes in the form of planting his feet.

This time he will set his stance and his feet wide
and his chin low.
He will continue to throw punches until the inside of his elbows hurt
from throwing so hard at nothing 
like a shadow boxer.

Even if it means he will lose it all.
Even if it means he will fail.
Even if he is shadow boxing in an empty gym
with no soundtrack...
It is better for him to fail and lose
at boxing shadows than to 
throw in the towel before the bell rings.

When the shadows outwit him,
When the shadows get the jump on him,
he will push up from the ground
And He will set his chin low.
And plant his feet wide again.

...and again...

On this he will build his empire.
Like a carpenter with no work and no wood.
He will gather anything he can 
and cast out the doubters and mockers
to make room for the ark.

With this he will stand and fight
that which is unseen.
Instead of the Rambo headband
He will tie a blindfold and fight like a Jedi.

For this he will defend
and lay down his life.
Willingly.

For this is the Redeemer,
And this is Love.


They will mock.
They will condemn.
They will undermine.

They will out step.
They will dodge and weave.

Some will forsake their own blessings
for self gratification.

But he will box shadows.
Even if the shadows are of himself.

The River.

He was never good at rolling tobacco but he considers it a repetitious sacrifice. 
Like his prayers in the morning. 
Awkward and sometimes ugly. 
Rolled and folded with rips and tears and tobacco leaves poking out 
where they shouldn't.  
Squeezed too hard in some places and too wet in others.
Regardless of cosmetics he lights it up and lets the smoke rise to the heavens
in no particular straightforward path, 
figuring God likes repetition as well. 

This morning he is down by the river.  
Fishing for lunch and dinner.  
Talking, and telling the river his stories and ambitions.
Remembering all the other times he sat there expecting to pull a fish from the water. Regardless of whether he could see the fish or not, 
knowing it was there for him to harvest.  

Telling his son about all the monster fish he had caught in the past.
With his son asking if they were going to catch anything that day or not.
"Maybe next time son." he would say 
as they packed up their fishing poles and tackle. 
Knowing full well that it may not be next time or even the time after.
It will be God's timing. 
His son noticed his father’s  jaw unconsciously clenching, 
but didn’t say anything.   
Looking down to make sure not to trip on the bare roots in the trail 
and looking back to his father to see when it stops.  
Wondering to himself why they keep coming back to the same river.
His father knew it will be when the river is ready to give up the fish 
that  they will eat fish for dinner. 
His father knew they needed the river
more than they need lunch for today.

The Eyes of Mathew.

I am Mathew now,
for I have seen the outside world 
without the hand of my mother.
I see differently now into the eyes of my father.
Like a hawk with new feathers, 
looking back at the nest after his first flight.
And he looks differently at me.

I know now what it means to be away 
from my home and my room and toys.
I know now what it means to yearn for home and family 
and to be too tired to play once I get there.
I know now what it means to look into the eyes 
of the energetic and the brokenhearted.
Like a pirate coming home from his first voyage.
Stronger, less timid but happy to see land.

My father can see the difference in my eyes.
He can see the hope
that maybe someday, 
I will be battle-ready.
and his throat closes
and his breath quickens
and his heart lightens.
He knows now, that someday, 
we can be battle weary,
together.