The Sons Of

Our stories revolve around the sons of…

Of harpy and of Jacob

From which fathers are they?

Is their devotion to violence in the alley

Merely a skewed reading of scripture

 

They call themselves the sons of…

Of ones whose hearts are all-consuming fire

And disgust in the bedrooms.

Their loyalty unfaltering, unmoved, and solid

Their causes horrifically misplaced

 

These are the sons of…

Broken men following broken men following broken men

But believing in something real.

Enforcing the laws of the land

They forget the good news that made them

Young Pilgrims

Andy, I’ve gotten fat and happy

I wonder if you’d say hey if we passed on the street

I just remember driving down Clearwater together

Young Pilgrims

We kept saying god he’s got a voice

You can’t help but sing like it pulls you

We agreed

Even now as I write this and I think of where you might be

I hum along – Young Pilgrims – you know

God he’s got a voice

***

If you’re interested, this was inspired by The Shins’ song “Young Pilgrims.” Careful: it’s catchy.

 

The Maker of All Things

I was working in the yard

With earth up to my elbows

The dirt was dark and cool

Earthworms performed

Figure eights between my

Fingers. Beetles came to

The surface to inspect. My

Knees were deep in the dirt

I filled my hands with scoops

of land. I washed them with

Cold water. It all brought true

Satisfaction and it occurred to

Me what God must have felt

When he was at work, seeing

Creatures come into being.

Feeling land between his

Fingers and cold water clean.

I’m envious of the Maker

Of all things.

 

Photo credit: “baby grass [mother’s day present]” by Flickr user woodleywonderworks

Two Bibles

Two grandmothers – two Bibles

One, a well-worn testament to a life spent searching

Tears, pencil & pen marks, highlights bright and faded

Dog-eared pages for purposes we’ll never know

Prayers resting inside the back cover

The other, a disregarded vestige from a life lived at garage sales

Rotting in a box next to old rat traps

Buried under Life magazines with more experience

The pages filled with the word of God yet untouched

 
 
Photo credit: “Psalm 71” by Flickr user Carson Coots

My Thanks

My God, how I can see your marvelous gifts

Your unending love and care for what you make

You give us life and help us grow, even though

We go astray and spit in your face

 

You promise us a mighty victory when

The end of days does finally come

You’ll pick us up and hold us as your children

As the old world is swallowed and left to soak in sin

 

I continually rub the sleep from my eyes

Too blind to see your powerful work,

To sense your subtle nudges in the right direction

I don’t take the time to remember that you are here, you are working

 

Thank you, God. Thank you for caring.

Thank you for thinking up redemption.

Thank you for sacrificing yourself for the weak.

Thank you for mending the broken. Thank you for love.