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Hot air balloons hovering over the city.
I wonder where they land. Somewhere. And I don’t understand How they do that. But they do. I am like a balloon Now that I think about it.
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It's private property, they say.
That’s right for now. For now, It’s in your power to endlessly seek gain Without a thought of those who have no place. But the tables are about to turn everlastingly In the favor of those whose home Is not of this world. I always thought, when people said “work harder”
That they meant to work faster, To be more busy, More rushed. Hustle is the word that comes to mind. And I’ve never been good at that. I struggle to sustain it Since it so often comes with a kind of anxiety As if I am making up for an inherent deficit. But I have found a new meaning for “work harder”: Work more consistently, without stopping, overthinking, or getting distracted As long as it takes, until the project is completed. I find this definition to be far more useful. It is extremely effective for getting things done And much more peaceful than what I thought they meant. I once heard that strangers who wandered into Sodom
Were robbed, beaten, sometimes raped, and then cast out. I'm not sure if that's completely true, but if so, No wonder such a city met with fire from the skies. I once heard from a homeless person That the hardest city to survive in Was the second-largest city In the state that makes its living From gambling and prostitution. Lure them in, take their virtue and their money, Leave them broken, then spit them out, Chase them away, from the sight of those Who make their living on the process. And I can't help but think that fire waits To pour itself down on such a place. There seems to be power in quietly continuing
After others have retired from the game. It is not the kind of power that will save your soul. But it is good for getting ahead when you’ve fallen behind So long as you have shed unnecessary incumbrances And embraced simplicity and frugality. They are coming to me
From the far reaches of heaven. So that I needn’t seek or reach. This old house, weathered and gray,
Sits hunched around us, With its windmill That no longer spins, And its fallow fields surrounding. And we sit, retired, in the porch swing, Rocking ever after, Grateful for the ruin of that Which once we thought was so important. And the children watch with wide eyes From the parlor window, And wonder at the love That once they thought had died But that now they plainly see To their amazement Has only begun. Perhaps the reason that He feeds us day by day
Meal by meal, moment by moment, Is that he wants to see us more often. He wants to have the interaction, To rejoice in the exchange. Me too. I like to serve out tidbits day by day, Meal by meal, morsel by morsel. I like to see you here, To feel the warmth of your embrace. But the world seems to have the attitude of “Let’s take care of the needy in large waves Let’s stock them up and streamline the process. Let’s have less contact, less interaction, But give them more stuff in the exchange. That’s good if the goal is to move more stuff. But I think I like His way the better. Can you walk with me in the lonely way?
I hope so, becuase I miss you. The circle turns round and round.
The soul of man is drawn toward God Then falls into decay. And round and round, And up and down it turns, but not quite. It is more like the orbit of planets around a sun, Not a perfect circle, but an imperfect eliptical pattern. Out it flys away from the souce of life And into the cold unfeeling void. Then at it’s outward limit It turns back toward The source of life Hurdled by the need for warmth And draws as close as it can get without Being burned in the brightness of the sun’s glory. And for a season they rejoice in each other. Until the planet, once again, feels the need To wander far from home And gain experience. And round and round it goes. And such is the journey of the soul. We like to think that it is an all an upward path to glory. But we forget that even He who rose to be On the right hand of The Eternal First had to wander far Into the depths Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmth Before He was able to make his way back home. The tortoise and the hare,
It’s a story that I heard From a child. And I have tried both. I have raced for the finish line. And I have done my best to be steady In the endless pursuit of more. But the race itself seems to imply That what I have is not enough, That I must rely upon my wits, My inward tortoise or my hare. But what if I am already rich And do not need the prize? What if it’s enough To be rich inside my mind? And what if every little thing I need An unseen hand, had promised to supply. Well, then that would be a different story, wouldn’t it. It’s strange to see how people gather.
Just a few miles away, Homelessness is everywhere. And every store has a security guard. And here, in the suburb, there aren’t any, Homeless people that is, or security guards. And I don’t know what to say about that. It’s just an observation. And yet, it’s also a comfort that if I choose I can put some space between myself and the world Where I have to constantly think about things being stolen Or where to park because they patrol the parking lots at night. But it also means that I must venture out If I desire to be touched by those Who are different than myself. You reached out to me today in a song,
Though you didn’t know you did. And I heard the sound And answered, Though you couldn’t hear it, Or perhaps you did, And answered on the wind. And perhaps I will hear the sound of your reply One day, in a song, or in the way a leaf blows in the wind. And round and round we call, round and round, Until finally we come back home To the very sound Of each other’s voices. Won’t that be well? Yes. That will be well with us both. God give me patience for the day. I saw you where the sky meets the horizon,
A flash of unexpected perfect light. And it colored my morning In the beauty that is only you. And I realized to my delight That we were not so far away From each other as we thought. And now I sit as patiently as I can Awaiting the rising of your essence Into the middle of my sky. How I long For your face to shine down upon me, Sweet child of my delight, estranged, But ever in my heart. It’s you for whom I have been waiting. And I can barely breath For anticipation. But take your time. Rise, rise, Slowly, and only by your own intent. For I have been up waiting, Waiting when the storm clouds gathered, And the terrors gave you fright. Yes I have kept my vigil Through the darkness of the night. And finally, after all these years, it’s time. Reformation doesn’t come by complaining
About a perceived misallocation of means. True reformation begins in the heart. It is an inward motion, a conviction That ones way of being needs to change, Which inevitably results in a reallocation of means, The means of the individual. Looking forward, I see family, the family of God
Knit together with the chords of love and sacrifice, And the hope of what we were before we fell. And the One who knows sheds the sacred comfort Through grace upon all those who turn to Him, And through knowledge to some few Who sacrifice in similitude Of Him. The idea of the “right way” often causes us to miss the movement
And in the movement we have life, the life that moves At the breath of that silent voice that speaks In whispers, out of the unseen place. So that, the right way is the way That hears and moves And changes, Humbling bending, blowing, finding life In the most unexpected places. John 3:7-8 Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit. When I was young, I used to pray the way I wish,
But I no longer care to play games I cannot win. Instead, I skip ahead to the final thing I hope for. I imagine the end result clearly as if It has already happened And give thanks. And if There swells within my bosom That unmistakable joy of confirmation, I simply believe that it will be so. If it does not, I let it go. It is a way to stop trifling with God And begin the work of aligning our will with His. Keep your eyes forward.
Don’t look back. Some are lost in a cause. And others can’t forgive. But you will not help them By pretending that darkness is light. All the same, be kind. Kindness is part of the way. And toward what, toward what? Toward the light that shines out of the Holy Place. If the veil that covers our minds with darkness were rent
We would see eye to eye. And we would not think That we were better than another. It is only this earth That makes it appear so. Up there, we are all the same. And there is a mystery in it. But we can believe it if we try. We can imagine how it might be. And such imagining brings humility, And love, I think. At least it does for me. This world hides a multitude of truths that make for heaven,
It makes it look like the only kin we have are the ones Whose DNA most closely resemble ours, When in reality we are all one. And so the only way to love the ones Who do not look like us is to imagine That the foreign ones are ours. It is not a natural thing to do. But if we try, we can find ourselves loving all sorts of people In the way we love our own. Another thing that the world hides is the love that falls. There is the love that loves. That one we know. But there is also the love of the one that condescends To fall from heaven. Sometimes I wonder if it is the greater love. This world makes it look like the ones that cause us pain, The ones who hate us or persecute us Or cause us the most trouble Are our enemies. But it is possible to imagine that they are our greatest friends, our nearest kin. And doesn’t that make sense? Is it not those who test and try us That cause us to grow more close to heaven. So that through imagination, We can even feel love flowing from those the world calls our enemies. I know that these ideas are antithetical to the thing we call reality. They may even be considered evil by those who can’t imagine That their enemies could have, through love, Made a conscious choice to fall In that eternal world from which we came. But since the practice of imagining these things has caused me to love more And to feel more love, even to feel at times that I am in the midst of heaven, I am persuaded that it is the world's reality that’s off. A true apologist does not tear down,
His job is to present precious light. And in the presence of that light The lovers of light, of their own accord, Move toward the light, and by doing so, Necessarily, move away from darkness. All else is contention. And contention, in the end, Robs you of even the light you already think you have. We are not on the same path, and that’s ok.
It appears that we are because we can agree To some extent and in some things. And that is an old comfort, But one upon which I no longer rely. All the same, I am grateful that our lives have touched, And I will hold you in my heart to spite that fact, And trust, that both of us are being led To the place we need to be. And in that, we are not separated. Some can see the unseen place afar
And some see the problems of the seen And those that travel toward the unseen place Cannot find reconciliation with those whose eyes are here. Because those who see the seen alone Believe that they must rectify The problems that they see. And those who see the unseen place Renounce their ability to change the seen. They leave Egypt to its own devices. |
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