Pass Through the Midst of It

We ran down that dry creek all together,
Never slowing, never looking back,
The lawman on our heels.
The woods were still at war –
Blood spilt everywhere
And wildfire rising on both our sides.
When my sister screamed from terror,
I sang a psalm of David.
The Red Sea he divided;
The children of Israel made
To pass through the midst of it.
His kindness endures forever.

_______________________________
Psalm 136

I've Been Hurting

When I was younger

I turned my face away

From God’s sweet children

When they called my name

And I, yes, it was I

That left them crying

In a world that made them so afraid.

Oh, who could live with such shame?

But the Lord is mercy

And He showed me grace.

I am not perfect, I am not the One,

And I've got no excuse, not a single one

Yes, it’s true. I was hiding, lost; on the run. 

Yes, it’s true. I've been hurting; now I’m done.

I knew a young girl

That learned my face well;

From her sweet memory

She sketched my laugh lines.

But I, yes, it was I

That just left her falling

On a worried dead-end lifeline.

Oh, who could live with such shame?

But the Lord is mercy

And He showed me grace.

No, I ain’t perfect, I am not the One,

And I’ve got no excuse, not a single one.

Yes, it’s true. I was hiding, lost; on the run.

Yes, it’s true. I’ve been hurting; now I’m done.

I've earned the fate

That’s meant for hard ones -

Album without a photo,

A book without my name.

For I, yes, it was I

That left His love standing

Alone in the darkness, cold and rain.

Oh, how can I live with this shame?

But the Lord is mercy

And He showed me grace.

I am not perfect, I am not the One.

Yes, it’s true. I was hiding, lost; on the run

Yes, it’s true. I've been hurting; now I’m done.

No, I ain't perfect, I am not the One.

Yes, it’s true. I've been hurting, but now I am done.

________________________________________

November 8, 2014

Not Getting Any Younger

I’m going to take the pickup;
Go for a drive by your old place.
I been sitting here waiting up,
And it’s starting to look like a waste of time.
I can’t wait forever - don’t expect me to-
You know I ain’t getting any younger.

When are you coming home?
I been watching out the window
For your lights to shine down the road
But it sure is dark right now.
Now there has been some hope, it’s true.
A neighbor here and there drove by
And your mailbox shined.
But I can tell so early –
when they’ve barely made the turn-
That it ain’t you.
And I give up again.
I give up again.

When are you coming home?
I can’t wait forever - don’t expect me to-
You know I ain’t getting any younger.

I’m not getting any younger.
Not getting younger-
Getting older every day.
And I’m tired of waiting by the window
For you to show up.

I’m going to get in the old pickup
And go for a drive.

_________________________________________

How long, O LORD? Will you hide yourself forever? How long will your wrath burn like fire? Remember how short my time is! For what vanity you have created all the children of man! What man can live and never see death? Who can deliver his soul from the power of Sheol? Selah Lord, where is your steadfast love of old, which by your faithfulness you swore to David? (Psalm 89:46-49 ESV)

Bless You

May the Spirit lift your soul;
 Turn your face to the heavens.
May the Lord tilt his head,
 Turn his face to yours,
And smile.

Bless you.
Oh, bless you.
God bless you.

May the Christ raise himself
 And call you to your cross.
May the Lord tilt his head,
 Turn his face to you,
And smile.

Bless you.
Oh, bless you.
God bless you.

Bless you.
Bless you.
Bless you.

_________________________________________
Numbers 6:24-26, Psalm 86; Romans,

Quiet Earth

I slept late. I flip the tent fly back and look out.  The sun is cresting the lower hills and the meadow below us is already glistening with a light frost.  The stream and the sky are blue and clear. I see the water flowing shallow at the crossing.

The earth is quiet now and the heavens are hushed.  The world is waiting its turn.

They are too far away for my poor hearing. I can see that the kids are laughing and talking as they lower the bear bag. Our food is hung on the outstretched limb of a tall gray-black tree that stands on a little rise overlooking the creek bank. That big dead tree is a widow-maker. It’s the best we could do before the darkness overtook us.

In the distance, the mountain’s shadow is carefully working its way back down to the trailhead. A light wind starts at the lake and heads back the other direction. It’s fluttering through the upper valley, gently brushing the tall grasses here and there on its way to the ridge that marks the divide above. A breeze touches the canopy directly over my head. There is barely a whisper from the forest.  Leaves are starting to fall around the edges of our campsite.

The mountain is breathing soft and slow.  The high country is waiting its turn.

The young folks return to camp by different paths. That’s how they were taught.  In just a little while, the morning dew will burn away and the grass will lift its head again. Then there will be no trace that the children ever waded knee-deep through these pastures.

Now I can hear their voices. Each is distinct.  The oldest is telling a story. The one carrying the food is singing.  And they are being so loud!  Praise God.

_____________________________________________

As he was drawing near—already on the way down the Mount of Olives—the whole multitude of his disciples began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works that they had seen, saying, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!” And some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” (Luke 19:37-40 ESV)

Broken Pieces

I remember when you sat with us. We laughed some at your stories. I know we will need them on our way, those little stories. God bless these little stories.

God bless these little stories.

Bless them, Lord, every one.

God bless these little stories.

Lord, bless them, the simplest ones.

Thank you for the bread you shared with us. We left some broken pieces. I hope they can feed some other folks, these broken pieces.  God bless these broken pieces.

God bless these broken pieces.

Bless them, Lord, every one.

God bless these broken pieces.

Lord, bless them, the smallest ones.

*******************

And when David had finished offering the burnt offerings and the peace offerings, he blessed the people in the name of the LORD of hosts and distributed among all the people, the whole multitude of Israel, both men and women, a cake of bread, a portion of meat, and a cake of raisins to each one. Then all the people departed, each to his house. (2 Samuel 6:18-19 ESV)

And taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven and said a blessing over them. Then he broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples to set before the crowd. And they all ate and were satisfied. And what was left over was picked up, twelve baskets of broken pieces. (Luke 9:16-17 ESV)

Vinyl Interlude

The moonlight, it carries me

Along a walk, once beside a stranded sea
To a lovers’ park and a lonely oak and wrought iron bench
That waits so patiently
Beneath love’s sheltering tree
For this very evening – these trembling two -
To freely share a single moment of their life
And so briefly join the passing silhouette
Of a summer evening

I am listening, tonight, all alone,
To a song written so long ago
A song of moonlight and timid stars that hide;
A song of passersby that laugh aloud and dance
And lark about - all to mislead trailing love,
And cheat romance of their broken hearts;
A song of tiny tears of joy that find their way
Beneath dry masks
And fall softly in the stillness

I am listening, for a pause-
A vinyl interlude, a kind, subtle kiss that I know
Will not empty, for even now it is being filled with meaning;
Like the rustling of fresh sheets, the shuffling of a few notes,
This sound is just a whisper, a simple temporal susurration
That will not be missed in a world where the needle
Is forbid to touch
Time’s dusty record in that tiny interval, so very brief,
That separates the words of love spoken
In the moonlight

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Inspired by the poetry of Paul Verlaine and the music of Claude Debussy 

and a special evening with the beauty who is now my wife

I recommend you listen to this while reading:
Clair de Lune