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.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Whispers of God and Man.
Face down and reluctant.
Pridefully humble.
Talking and talking like whispers.
Your words truly are whispers,
if I could listen I would hear them.
My whispers are like demands.
Your whispers are like diamonds.
Praying through my teeth,
Demanding my inheritance before its due
is like wishing your Father is dead
is like envy.
Envy is like sin
...is like death.
Death is like...
SEPARATION.
Your whispers are like...
REDEMPTION.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
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.
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.
The Matador
Like music entering the room low and slow,
like a thief in the night.
Turning abruptly and announcing its presence with a shout!
Like The Matador to a bull.
Dirt still falling in slow motion,
Anticipating returning to dirt.
The Matador could stand there forever, chest out,
confident and beautiful.
Holding out His cape like a gift.
Frustrated the bull can only react finitely,
with anger and confusion.
The bull, like your heart,
sees the gift of The Matador as a threat.
The bull charges.
Kicking up dirt and dust, bouncing off hooves and dirt and legs.
The Matador waits patiently to pierce the heart.
The bull kicking up more and more dirt with growing frustration and speed.
A fight that has gone on and on and on...
Only this time the heart of the soul is pierced
and the gift of The Good Matador is no trick.
The pierced heart brings life.
The bull no longer seeks to kick the dirt.
like a thief in the night.
Turning abruptly and announcing its presence with a shout!
Like The Matador to a bull.
Dirt still falling in slow motion,
Anticipating returning to dirt.
The Matador could stand there forever, chest out,
confident and beautiful.
Holding out His cape like a gift.
Frustrated the bull can only react finitely,
with anger and confusion.
The bull, like your heart,
sees the gift of The Matador as a threat.
The bull charges.
Kicking up dirt and dust, bouncing off hooves and dirt and legs.
The Matador waits patiently to pierce the heart.
The bull kicking up more and more dirt with growing frustration and speed.
A fight that has gone on and on and on...
Only this time the heart of the soul is pierced
and the gift of The Good Matador is no trick.
The pierced heart brings life.
The bull no longer seeks to kick the dirt.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The Young Woman, Melinda and an Old Man.
The young mother wiped the counter for the third time this morning and they haven’t even opened the doors yet. She just needed something to do in hopes that Melinda, her co-worker, would not notice her blood-shot eyes welling up again. She has grown weary of speculating why he left her. Why he didn’t want the dreams anymore. Why he didn’t want them anymore. She had grown weary of wondering what she could have said or what book she could have suggested that might make him love her again. A book that might snap him out of his slumber and remember why he loved her so much. She had given up hoping for the miracle of him waking up from the dead and walking out of the tomb to look for her.
She stood up from wiping the lower level behind the counter and rested both her hands on the counter. Not sure if she was holding herself up or if the counter was the only thing keeping her from falling.
She jumped when she felt something touch her back, “Who touched me?”
“Who touched me?! Are you doing okay?” Melinda turned her and saw her eyes. “Oh, honey. Not again. You have to just get over him and move on. Don’t let him effect you anymore, he wins every time you get upset.”
She turned away. Not ready to move on and not ready to keep fighting.
Melinda paused and said, “Are you gonna be okay if I open these doors? It’s five after six and Larry is already waiting for his morning coffee. Can’t keep him waiting.” Melinda tried to lighten the mood shaking her keys as she walked to the front door. Larry was pretending to not be impatiently waiting for his morning coffee.
“Good morning!” Larry said, “Nice day out there!”
“Don’t start with me Larry. You and I both know it is cold and windy out there!” Melinda enjoyed the banter.
“Alright, just give me some coffee then.” Larry conceded.
“That’s more like it, Larry. That’s the spirit.” Melinda happy with the results.
Larry did his best, which wasn’t that great, not to watch her as she walked back to the counter and pour his coffee. “Where’s your little buddy?” Larry tried to pretend he wasn’t paying attention to Melinda’s sophisticated beauty.
“She’s probably beating herself senseless in the back.”
“Is she still hung up on that loser? He better not come around here, I’ll tear him up!”
Melinda looked back at him over her glasses, handing him his coffee.
“I may be 78, but I still got it!” Larry said, showing her his karate hands.
“Why do men over in their 70’s always have to talk about how old they are?”
“Huh?!” Larry said, thoroughly confused by the change in topic.
She stood up from wiping the lower level behind the counter and rested both her hands on the counter. Not sure if she was holding herself up or if the counter was the only thing keeping her from falling.
She jumped when she felt something touch her back, “Who touched me?”
“Who touched me?! Are you doing okay?” Melinda turned her and saw her eyes. “Oh, honey. Not again. You have to just get over him and move on. Don’t let him effect you anymore, he wins every time you get upset.”
She turned away. Not ready to move on and not ready to keep fighting.
Melinda paused and said, “Are you gonna be okay if I open these doors? It’s five after six and Larry is already waiting for his morning coffee. Can’t keep him waiting.” Melinda tried to lighten the mood shaking her keys as she walked to the front door. Larry was pretending to not be impatiently waiting for his morning coffee.
“Good morning!” Larry said, “Nice day out there!”
“Don’t start with me Larry. You and I both know it is cold and windy out there!” Melinda enjoyed the banter.
“Alright, just give me some coffee then.” Larry conceded.
“That’s more like it, Larry. That’s the spirit.” Melinda happy with the results.
Larry did his best, which wasn’t that great, not to watch her as she walked back to the counter and pour his coffee. “Where’s your little buddy?” Larry tried to pretend he wasn’t paying attention to Melinda’s sophisticated beauty.
“She’s probably beating herself senseless in the back.”
“Is she still hung up on that loser? He better not come around here, I’ll tear him up!”
Melinda looked back at him over her glasses, handing him his coffee.
“I may be 78, but I still got it!” Larry said, showing her his karate hands.
“Why do men over in their 70’s always have to talk about how old they are?”
“Huh?!” Larry said, thoroughly confused by the change in topic.
Friday, August 30, 2013
The Man in the Red Hat.
He sat on the edge of the fountain without looking at the occasional commuter walking by. The morning air blew cold spray from the fountain on his back, like it was trying to make him shiver to the bone. He shrugged as he pulled the fresh bought pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. The same pocket that he used to keep them in. He pulled on the tab and unwrapped the cellophane like he had thousands of times before. Pulled out the center cigarette out and rolled it between his fingers. Remembering the paper will separate if he rolls it too much, he put it in his mouth and opened the new book of matches. Instinctively tore out the match on the far right and lit it. The burnt sulfur billowed around his head as he remembered liking the smell. Brought the match to the cigarette and inhaled.
He remembered his covenant with God about smoking.
He inhaled the smoke into his lungs.
He remembered his family who God had given him..
He inhaled bitterness and anger.
He stood up abruptly. A bus roared by exposing his own reflection to himself and he let the cigarette fall from between his fingers.
The red hat.
Explosions of memories jolted him back into his walk.
~
"Daddy, you're not the man in the yellow hat! You're The man in the RED hat!" his son laughed and grabbed his hat from his head and threw it across the living room. He knew that was going to happen as soon as his son started laughing and looking at his hat. He had been doing this for two years now. Before he even know how to talk.
“What the heck! You can’t throw my hat! Who do you think you are Curious George or somethin?!” He said while pretending to struggle to his feet and go after his hat.
His son giggled and ran to grab the red hat before his father could get there, snatched up the hat and went running down the hall.
~
‘I should have followed him down the hall. I should have chased after my hat. I should’ve played with him more that day.’ Instead of playing with his son more he got in a fight with his son's mother. Not the typical fight that everyone goes huffing and puffing into opposite rooms but the kind where he said everything he knew would cut to the bone. He knew her well enough to know exactly what to say.
The Man in the Red Hat began to slow his pace and run out of breath. Why would God snatch his family from him without so much as a warning? He racked his brain for the millionth time, trying to figure out how God needed them more than he did. What the Man in the Red Hat did not remember is that it wasn’t God who took them away. It is not good for a man to be alone.
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