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
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
We kept saying god he’s got a voice
You can’t help but sing like it pulls you
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.
And I’m spiteful
And I’m so angry
And my heart is rotten
And I fall short every day
But you love me. All is well.
I was working in the yard
With earth up to my elbows
The dirt was dark and cool
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 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 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.
As I lie here, tired and unenthused
I think about Calvary
How a true understanding brings fervor
Are these few words enough?