Thursday, June 2, 2011
Sixty-two years is a long time. Did you always hold her hand the way you are right now? I wish I could see her with your eyes. When I look at her I see a frail, fragile woman, with wrinkles and sagging skin. I see an old woman confused, who doesn’t even remember that she’s in the hospital and still thinks it’s 1972. What do you see, when you look at her? Do you see the girl you married? The mother of your children? Your lover? I guess you think she’s still beautiful.
Did you know you’re making me cry?
The little fairy fingers in the little fairy grove are full of winsome mischief so it’s best to be careful. Don’t speak too loudly for they don’t like clamor. Don’t speak too softly either, for they don’t like being surprised. It’s best to come confident and calm, assured and aware. Don’t frighten them for the fairies are marvelous jokesters but it’s very hard for them when the joke’s on them. However, if you speak kindly and carefully, they may just peek out and giggle with you. It might help, as well, if you bring gifts.
Remember, they delight in avocados.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Show your colours. Show your bravery or cowardice. Show your mercy or judgment. Show grace or anger.
Raise up the flag on the mast. Define your allegiance. Tell me, stranger, who you are. Identify your side. It’s a war, soldier, and you can’t sit on the sidelines. Run up the white flag if those are your colours. Just remember, it’s hard to change sides in the middle of the battle, brother.
Hear the trumpet call and take up your arms. Because they’ll wrap you in those colours and ship you back to Eden when your number is called.
Twinkling lights, like a diamonds on the earth’s surface, sparkle up at me. The blues and the yellows shine forth against the darkness. They sparkle, wink. My heart sings with them, breaking in the midst of so much beauty.
It’s almost enough to make me forget that each house, just barely a pinprick from this height, represents a family. Each car, with their headlights illuminating just the tiniest bit in front of them, is at least one human life. Hello, all you people down there, with your diamond lights shining up at me. Do you know how beautiful you are?
No more the music plays. No more the audience laughs and weeps. No more the actors act. Empty is the auditorium, everyone is gone. And alone I sit upon the empty stage. Reliving and replaying the play that’s said and done. Stand I now, upon the stage, where the actors once did. And take I a gracious bow, with not but space to see. The clapping crowds and cheering multitude now have all gone home. But here I am upon the stage, bowing all alone. I spring off the stage, and run through the door.
The thick red curtain on the stage has fallen, once more.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"You know it's buggy when you can slap your arm and kill 3 mosquitoes"
"Ah!! There's an ant on my napkin!!"
"You have a spider on you!"
"It's hot, the middle of the day and breezy and there are STILL mosquitoes!"
"I was just pulling a couple weeds and there was a tick crawling up my arm"
During the winter I always forget how itchy mosquito bites are, how annoying it is to walk through a spider web and how surprising it is when an ant appears on your napkin.
This is a New England summer.
"Where are you?????" *where are you where are you where are you* she shouts again.
"Sssshhh, sweetheart, it's only 6:30, you'll wake everybody up!" her mother gently scolds.
"But mommy," the little girl pleads, "someone said 'good morning' back, she said it over and over again until I couldn't hear her anymore. And she asked where I was. I think it's a lost princess. She might need our help."
"Oh, my darling. It's only your echo."
I feel the power of my horse through his saddle. I feel the thrill of the ride through his feet. I feel his excitement in the rhythm of his movements. His power makes me bold; his thrill makes me exhilarated; his excitement gives me the urge to go faster.
His mane and tail fly with the wind and the steady thrump of his hoof pounds into the ground. We gallop across the open field, free as the breeze rolling over the distant hills. I feel the power of my horse through his feet. And some say creation was an accident!
With my feet dangling in the ice cold pool, I wait for my victim. The pool is so calm, so smooth. I swish my feet back and forth, causing ripples and little waves to run from my feet. The velvet of the water cools my legs as I sit on the deck. With a flick of my feet water spays over my body. At the sound of the creaking door, I fill my squirt gun with the freezing water. I aim and fire the cold water at my sister, who just walked out of our basement door.
Don’t you just love summer?
The hands which worked, the body that was baptized, the back that was whipped, the face that was spit upon, the feet that burned when they walked across the stone path which led to the hill, the hands that were pierced, the back which held the weight of sin, the body that was resurrected, the face that was glorified by the father. Christ, who despite the fact that he loved his father, felt the merciless pain of nails in his hands and feet, the wrath of the father, and the crown of thorns.
The body of Christ that was broken for the world.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Memories of the field in which they had fought, side-by-side, through the long hours of the day.
Memories of the gunshots, the screams, of the hard gun pressed against his back, forcing him to go into the cell.
Memories of the cold floor, where he sat, alone, waiting for any sign of life, of a rescuer.
Those were hard, cold, awful memories, but he pushed them aside.
It was Memorial Day, a time to celebrate.
He had survived.
Sunday, May 29, 2011