Run.

They're just sitting there. Just sitting. Why are the police just sitting there? They are not leaving. They're not even moving. What the hell? They are just sitting, not moving, just talking. I have to go. Like, now. I mean, I have to leave because if I don't they are going to come looking for me. Shit. Why are they still there? I have to go. I have to go now. I have to leave. Damn this bag. Damn. Damn. I can run. I can run right past them to the house. I can run through the alley. I can run in the shadows. God. These damn cops. So abrasive. I have to go. I have to. If I don't they're going to come for me. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He and She.

The effervescent beauty with which she filled the room took the breathe directly from the peoples lunges.

If they had been standing in a fairy tale forest, which in their minds they were, this was the moment when the blue birds and furry little animals would have come along side of her. For this would have been the image of the fullness of creation bowing to the most beautiful woman in all of time. For in his eyes he could see her as nothing less.

Sadly enough, the human language has not one single word with enough grandeur or splendor to express to the world the love that they felt in that moment.

In that forest the trees did part and the clouds did burn away allowing their brother sun to shine upon the sister of love.

And there, in the thicket, calling through to the clearing he was standing. The one in which was placed all of the Unspeakable ones favor. The one who had been given the grace and the pardon and the courage necessary to love this sister of light.

And there, in the clearing, they strode hand in hand, heart in heart forever more

#7

He unlocked the door and walked in, stomping off the left over snow that was caked onto the sides of his shoes. Tossing his keys into the bowl he slipped off his shoes and hung his damp coat on the hook behind the door. His loose change tinged and clanged in the coin dish as he opened the refrigerator and grabbed a cold beer.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was one of those nights when every song and street sign and car turn signal and gust of wind made him think of them.

He carried his un-opened beer and grabbed his pipe and the book with the broken spine and sat down in his father’s leather chair near the big window. But the book just lay lifeless on his knee while the pipe sat smoldering between his lips as he sat there in the dark. The quiet and the darkness and the snow made his mind slow. His beer sat opened on the wood table, sweating rings.

She would have asked him to put a coaster under it, but she wasn’t here now. She wasn’t there to tell him to smoke outside or to not waste money on beer or to not stomp off his shoes in the house. But now only his footsteps filled the halls and dirtied the floors. Only his breathe stole life from the house that once was theirs.

That night, a year ago now, he had thought it would be best for them to leave the recital early that night. It had been snowing lightly that evening and he wanted them to get home before it got any worse. He was a member of the parents committee and had volunteered to stay and clean up the gymnasium. So he walked them out to the truck and buckled up Jenny in the back and kissed Elizabeth on the mouth and waved as they drove away.

He was just about to lock up the storage closet at the middle school when his friend Will ran up to him and said that he needed to come quickly.

When Will was driving him to the hospital he wasn’t shaking or talking or a mess. He just sat there and watched the city lights pass by wondered what he should get his brother for Christmas. Then they got to the hospital.

It was not supposed to happen. And I mean that in a very literal way. You see the truck driver had gotten lost and was having to make a u-turn back onto the interstate. That truck was not even supposed to be near there. But it was. And so were they. And that is why it was not supposed to happen. That is why he should still be singing songs to his little girl and holding his brides face in his hands and kissing her mouth.

He got up slowly from his father’s chair and walked down the hall to the bedroom. He undressed slowly and lay all of her pillows along her side of the bed and then climbed in. For a while he just lay there with his eyes wide open, thinking, wishing.

David and Goliath. (1 Samual 17:38-51)

The sun was edging into the west and the desert was beginning to cool. The young man stood, draped in armor and exotic metals and chains and weapons. His legs quivering under the weight, a spear in his right hand. Tall men in with beards and robes and tunics and rings standing all around him.

"This is too heavy, I cannot face him like this."

So piece by piece, with brothers mocking him, he stripped away the armor and the spear and the sword. The shining pile lay in the sand with no warrior to claim them. No sword or spear could save this boys skin. No metal could protect this youths soul.

Clouds were forming in strips on the horizon and were hiding the sun. The sky was orange and red and yellow and pink. Of brilliance was this display.

The boy, with armor stripped, picked up his staff and walked slowly to the stream. Kneeling slowly he dipped his hand into the cool water and reached for five stones. Of the most perfect smoothness were they required to be.

Tunic. Staff. Stones. Sling.

These were the tools of the shepherd. Who was this boy to gallivant around as a soldier? No, not today nor maybe ever. For he was called to be the quiet one, the one whom was after a mighty heart. So with the items he possessed he strode up to a high rock and looked out onto a sea of men. Ahead of them a mammoth. One for whom all were to fear. But not this boy, not this faith.

"A boy? Am I not to be offended?" yelled the giant, "Oh with what ravenous anger shall I bring this slaughter upon your head!"

The boy stood silent and still upon the rock. In his veins and in his heart a bravery did grow. Like an overflowing well did assuredness birth inside his heart.

"Poor Philistine! You come to me with swords and spears, arrows and bows. The offense I have been dealt! May my God have mercy upon your soul and the souls of your family. For I do not come against you with weapons of steel, but rather with the armies of the Lord Almighty. How dare you defile His holy name. Today the Lord will hand you over to me Philistine. For it is on this day that the birds and the crawling things and all the beasts of the earth will feast upon your flesh."

Just then the mammoth man lurched forward with armor clanking and sword waving. But the boy was light and quick and uninhibited. He moved straight towards the man. Into his pouch he reached and found the smoothest of stones and placed it in his sling and began to swing it 'round above his head.

Then, with one fluid motion the stone flew from the sling, scorched the desert air and sailed away from that bravest of boys.

The dust rose from underneath the giants body and filled the air as he slumped to the ground. The stone had struck. It had been placed. It had been ordained by the Lord. It had finished its purpose. The mammoth was dead.

And so the boy walked over to the man and, with all Philistine eyes fixed upon him, cut through the neck of this greatest of warriors. To God the mammoths head was raised.

A boy to save a nation. A boy to save his people. A boy to slay the beast.

The day my earth stood still/A moment in an auditorium/That guy is looking at me in an awkward manner.

I was twelve? Or maybe thirteen. I can't remember exactly. But this is what I do know. I know that I was at some Baptist summer youth camp with a lot of other kids. Kids that I didn't know and that I didn't exactly care to know. I remember feeling awkward and alone. I remember wondering how it was that I had gotten there and why my parents, who were Catholic, had let me come.

This particular night me and all the other kids sat in a university auditorium. The space was too large for the number of kids that were in attendance so a huge black tarp cut the room in half. I am not sure why they did this. The lights were dim and there was a low rustling of words and chatter among the kids. The chairs seemed old. The walls seemed old. Everything seemed old. But I liked it. I liked the fact that this room was old and that it had been worn in. "Maybe some other interesting things have happened in this room," I remember thinking. Then a guy with a guitar came out onto the stage. He was wearing cool sneakers and a shirt with a 7-up logo on it. He asked us to bow our heads and to pray with him. We did. I did.

Then, with our heads still bowed he began to play. At first it was real quiet and I could barely hear him. I didn't recognize the song or the lyrics, but everyone else seemed to. I felt awkward. I felt out of place. I felt like leaving.

They...I mean the pastor guy had been talking about Jesus and God all week long. He talked about "saving" and "grace" and "sin". These things, to me, really didn't mean to much. I just liked playing football with the other guys during free-time. During that week I had made a really great pass and all of the older college leaders made me feel really good about it after. I liked that part. But this heaven/God/Jesus thing was not like making a good pass during football and I was not sure that I liked it.

I sat low in my chair while the 7-up guy kept playing. My friend John was standing up next to me with his hands in air. Why were his hands in the air? Why were anybody's hands in the air? It was awkward. I felt out of place still.

After a couple of songs about Jesus the 7-up guy stopped singing. He kept strumming his guitar but now he was talking about the spirit. I am guessing this was the spirit of God or Jesus. Was it a ghost? Did he float around the room? I was unsure at the time. But what he was talking about sounded good. It sounded comforting. Then he started talking about Jesus and that sounded even more comforting. When he talked about Jesus it was like he was telling a story about one of my friends. I liked that.

Then he said we were going to sing a few more songs.

This time I stood up. John looked over to me and smiled and kinda let out a half-laugh. But I hadn't done anything funny. I hadn't told a joke or made a funny face. Why was he so happy? It almost frustrated me because I felt like I was missing out on something fun and good. But then he just looked forward and held up his hands again. Again, awkward. One or two songs went by and I was still standing and still not sure why. But then there was a moment in that auditorium that my whole earth stood still.

To someone else it may not have seemed so grand. But to me it was. It was great. It was freedom from...something. I was not sure what yet. But I started singing and rocking back and forth and I even think one of my hands was up in the air. It's a blur of sorts. But the next thing I knew I was on the ground crying. And I don't mean just soft "I'm sorry for breaking moms favorite dish" crying but deep stomach hurting, fist pounding weeps. I don't even remember what it was in the song that triggered it. Who cares I suppose.

The thing that got me was something that I experienced when I was on the old, cold auditorium floor. As I lie weeping, snot and tears taking up their rightful real-estate, I looked to my right to see one of the older men who was a pastor or a youth teacher or something. He was looking at me as though I was the most pathetic thing he had ever seen. It was, in a whole new way, awkward. But I didn't feel awkward and I didn't care. I just knew that what I was experiencing was real and good and perfect and genuine and grand. I liked it. I loved it.

After we were all done with the singing and the "hands up in the air" thing we went and played some more football. I think I made another good pass or did something well because everyone was very proud of me and happy and they smiled when they saw me. Now I know why.

Waiting outside of an abortion clinic.

He sat in the car. It wasn't running. His hands, folded, were squeezed in between his thighs. His fingertips were cold. He wore a beanie. It sat low on his neck and it covered his ears.

Outside the snow fell softly. As time passed it began to cover the hood and build up along the bottoms of the windows. His breath was deep and slow. When exhaling he would watch his breath slowly fog up the windshield. He tapped his feet and moved his legs up and down rapidly. Maybe for warmth. Maybe for something else.

He stared at the tops of his knees. He stared at the store signs across the street. He stared at the church sign that read, " Got Jesus? Pot luck dinner 6:00pm."

It was time to start the car.

Psalm 7

Oh Father! I cry to you now.
Create in this bag of bones a man.
A man who, like David, is after your heart.
My soul cries out for this in the night.
My heart cries out for this in the day.
My wholeness cries out for eternity long.

Lord my God. Bring out of me goodness.
Birth from this weary heart a life of strength.
A sly whore lurches around me in the night.
He comes to be with lies and false promises.
Kill him Father. Take him form me.

In me produce steadfastness.
In me find love. Find purity.
My heart knows your faithfulness.
My soul bathes in our love.

Amen. Selah.

The Brilliance.

There is something quite brilliant about all of this. What do I mean? Well, I guess I must say that I am not quite sure yet. And for this I am thankful. What are the brilliant things? What is all of this? Can you name all of the things that make you cry or, at the least, well up with emotion by simply looking at them?

I think for me these are the brilliant things. The moments and words and feelings that make you realize that, in actuality, it is not all about and that, really, it's much more simple. There is far less to it than we have come to expect. It's the beautiful things that make the endless reservoirs in my face flow with ease.

It's the woman on horseback with hair flowing and hands free. Her eyes closed as the horse gallops gracefully through the open grassy field with hooves pounding and main streaming. All the while, some brilliant artist creates a sunset behind her that makes her into an angel. An angel that will ride away, down into the valley near the town, through the forest of willows and straight on into the sun.

It's the hand of a wife that has never let go after sixty-two years. The wife that, after all of your failings and short comings, still sits in beautifully peaceful silence on the front porch with you just so you can watch the fire-flies like you did when you were young. And with feeble joints and crooked legs the two of you walk slowly and somberly down to the valley and you lay low in the grass and watch the wind blow in and out and over and through every blade of grass. Hearts rummaging.

It's the son that grows up to be older than his years; who is named Noble early on. It's the daughter that learns to find herself in the arms of the oak trees and the bends of the river. It's the children that know they were, are and forever will be loved.

These are the brilliant things. These are the things that make me smile and then cry and then smile again. These are the moments and things and words and acts that create in all of us brilliance. Whether that be watching an angel or holding the hand of one, these are the brilliant things.

The brilliant things don't come wrapped in paper with bows. They don't sit on mantels or on top of bookshelves. And they don't really cost anything. Except for our love and time and lives. But in the end I suppose that is truly the brilliant thing about it. It's the loss of ones life to find it again. That is the beauty. That is the brilliance.

Psalm 6

Oh God. My heart sings to you.
My Lord, I givith myself up to you.
Use me Oh heavenly artist.
My life is unto you as the grain
is unto the baker.
Create with me what you will.

Amen.

Psalm 5

Oh God, you are the mist in the valley that wraps around me.
You are the vapor in my lungs, you are the breathe I take
every morning. How I am filled with you O' Lord.
How amazing and awesome is Your love?
How great and perfect is your power?
If all of time was given to me, still I should
not ever understand. Still, the fullness of you
would be too much for me.

But, O' the grace that you have shown.
O' the love that you lay upon us.
Like flowers of the field you shower down upon us
with great care and knowledge.
Selah.

Amen, Amen, Amen to the king.
Unto Him who saves us be all praise and Glory.

Psalm 4

Father, if I were any less of a men, I would be nothing;
nothing would I be. My being would be the dust that
your people would walk upon. But great art thou in
your love of this child. Thankful am I for your
lifting grace that shows me how to stand. Oh God,
how great thou art.

You are the ladder upon which I climb and tree
on whose roots I step and walk. Holy, holy, holy
are you my everlasting God. Hallelujah unto the
one who brings rising hope to the fallen. Unworthy
of such grace are we.

Hallelujah unto the King.
Hallelujah unto our Lord.
Amen, amen, amen I say!
Praise the Father.

Psalm 3

Highest of Priests. I sing a new song unto you everyday.
Unto you I give my finest of gifts.
The gifts upon which I was blessed by your own word.
How plentiful is your abundant provision.
My fields are overflowing with the greatness of
your bounty and my grain houses are filled to their brim.
Each has their portion and each has their fill.

Your provision is never ending. For, in every way, you know your
peoples needs. You know our needs to their utter
limits and give no less than is required.
How good are you Father? It is so great, I do not understand.
Through my utter belief
I am given grace and portion?
This is to great for me. I am not worthy.

Let me have a worthy response. Let my hands and feet
go out and till the soil of the unbroken ground.
Let me wield the sickle of the gospel.
Allow it's edge to reap the harvest that you have so
perfectly provided. Your hands are working always.
Your love is never ending.

My life is unto You and You alone. You are the caller of my actions.
Oh God, you are the compass in which my journey is guided.
My paths are lit by your simplest of blessings.
Unto you I give my all. Unto You is given my life.

Psalm 2

Oh God, my soul is downtrodden within me.
Oh Father, my heart is blackening now.
Do you hear me there on the distant star?
Do you recognize the voice of this lost sheep?
Can you see my brokenness and trifled mind?

Watch over this wandering lamb, for on my own
I shall wonder without end.
But in the arms of my Lord shall I ever be satisfied.
You are the fullness in which this soul longs to rest.
How wonderful is your grace? I tell you the truth, it is
to great for I. This simple man knows nothing of your vast
perfections and absolute power.

Oh God, my soul is downtrodden within me.
Oh Father, my heart is blackening now.
I know that you hear me from every corner of the universe.
I know you recognize every wondering ewe in your flock.
My brokenness is at the front of your sight all the days of my life.

Oh sweetest of Loves. Oh most tender of passions.

You are the highest point in which I escape the floods.
You are the most faithful of lovers.
You are the most caring of friends.
You are my Lord, my God and my King.

Psalm 1

How great are you my Lord and guide!
How perfect is your grace and love in my time of strife.
You are the shepherd that leads me from the thicket.
You are the light that brings forth the day.
In you I am made whole through thine perfection.
How great are you my Lord!

My feet fail time and time again.
My hands grow feeble in my working hours.
My mouth is dry and I swallow often.
My eyes tire and fall shut at the sight of strife.
But onto the rock does my sight fall.
How great are you my Lord!

My family unknowingly cries to you.
My brothers require your filling word.
My sisters call out for your provision.
The family groans in longing for the
perfection of the tree of life.
How great are you my Lord!

As I walk among the thicket and throughout
that desert place my resolve is this: My strength and life,
my heart and sight, my soul and my love sit
quietly in the hands of my Father.
The Great and Mighty one!
The one whom all call to in the dark of the night.
How great are you my Lord!

By morning you are my rising
and by night you are my rest.
By day you are my portion and
my holding hand in the weariest of times.
You are the rock onto which this poorest
of children cling.
How great are you my Lord!

Perfection is thine own creation.
Love was a thought upon your brow.
Grace is the throne on which you dwell.
Kindness is your right hand and forgiveness your left.
Your feet tread upon my heart and in their wake
is left the sweetest of life giving drink.
How great are you my Lord!

Unto you are my endless praise.
Amen unto you my King.
Amen unto the mother of rescue.
Amen unto the helper who has come.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah!
Amen to you my Father, my peace, my resting place.

Sell Everything.

He locked the door and put the key under the mat. The truck was running in the field and walking towards it he remembered her and her hair and how much he hated remembering.

The house sat quietly on the banks of a small creek that ran through Magnolia County in northern West Virginia. It has white washed walls and dark blue shutters and windowsills and handrails and pillars. The front porch ran from end to end and creaked when people were waiting to be greeted at the front screen door or when filled rocking chairs moved back and forth. The dark blue screen door stood before a very large,heavy, dark oak door that would sing when the wind blew in form the east. The house rested in front of the creek which was lined by large trees of various variety and width and height and in the evenings the trees would shield the house form the sun. The field that the house sat in was pure and unplowed and rested and capable. They could have planted, but they never did. They used it as a resting place on warm summer afternoons and a romping ground in the spring after swimming in the creek.

The house was theirs as a gift after they had wed the winter before. His parents owned it as a summer home and when they had died they left it to him. When they were married his parents had already been dead for three years, so it seemed fitting to revive the house once again. It seemed right to want to fill it with life and to graciously reintroduce warmth back to its walls. And for a time it was wonderful. For a time it was right and good and it worked. But then she got sick.

Four months after she died he and some family buried her in the south corner of the field near the creeks edge. He couldn't take staring at her grave anymore and decided it was time to go. He found that it was the proper time to leave this place and to go out and reach for new adventures and a new life. So he took the furniture and some things from the house and sold them in town. The house wives and plantation servants came and paid for everything and carried it all away on open bed wagons. Then he began letting family come and pick up the things that they wanted to keep. He didn't want any of it.

He only needed the memory of her in his mind and that was enough. The memory of her swinging back and forth on the rope swing in late April over the swelling creek. Wearing her cotton nightgown with her head flung back and her hair waving and flowing and sweeping in the air. That was how he wanted to remember her. That's how she wanted him to remember her.

So he took the next few weeks and cleared the house of everything and swept the floors and dusted away the few cobwebs that still remained in the corners. He sold the land and the house off to a man from the south that wanted a northern home for vacations. This suited him fine and the gentleman paid more than he was asking. So that next Sunday he packed his final bag and set it in his truck and then walked down to the creeks edge. He thought one more time about all the hours and heart and love and peace spent at that place and then left; locking the door behind him he placed the key under the mat and walked to the truck.

As he drove away from the house he wept for so many things. He cried for the house and for her and for the children that they never had. But most of all he cried for the fact that he was, once again, alone. So he locked and closed the gate behind him and then left the one that loved him as no other could.

December for me.

I want to live on a window sill soaked in sunlight.
I want to be a set of steps that welcomes everyone.
I want to be the diner that warms the christmas shopper.
I want to the lamp lighting the book.

I want to know the lamp post at the end of the street.
I want to make friends with the wreath hung on the door.
I want to spy on the dog sleeping under the tree.
I want to learn about the cookies on the counter.

These things.
Simple and quiet and perfect.
Perfect in pictures and perfect in person.
So mellowing to the summer ridden soul.

John.

And the men paddled down the mighty river in their boats. In their minds and in their hearts feeling as small as the sparrow on the branch of the shore. As they continued on slithering through the waters anew they came to a fall where the waters met the ground. One of the captains ahead gave the call to shore the boats and that they would be resting here for the night. They quietly brought the boats up onto the shore and turned them over onto their chests to rest that eve. John was a tracker and farmer back in his home land of New England. But here, even with all of his knowledge and experience, he felt once again like a boy lost in the woods. His heart beat with passion in his chest as his eyes did gaze out upon the creation before him.

As a boy John's father would take him out into the forest on crisp mornings and they would watch the sun beams stream through the tree tops. His father would explain to him the mysteries of the forest and tell him stories of great trackers and hunters that came before them. John listened to these stories with great attention and care. Listening carefully to each word and paying close attention to each detail and trail mentioned. John loved his father, this was not the question. But most of all John knew, even with a young heart, that his father was preparing him for his own personal journeys into the forest.

The men unpacked the boats and began planning the next days travel with their Indian guides. They were nearing the coast that had been foretold to them existed. They all sat around fires resting against the rocks of the shore talking about trails and rivers and mountains high. The guides told tales of great Indian chiefs and their most grand hunting adventures. Of the great kill and the pride and joy that comes from sharing the kill with the gods. But John thought of other things. Greater things than he. As the sun set John looked to the west and sought after it. In his mind he cursed that the moon had chased away the day. But then found himself embracing that same moon as it's brother and sister stars came into view. He thought of God and the great power that carved the mountains and the finger that placed the rivers into being. He stood up slowly and walked quietly to the river bank just as the sun was setting and thought fondly of his Mother.

John's Mother was an ever watchful servant of God. When he was still quite young she would prepare his bed for him as he readied for sleep. When he was ready he would come to bed and his mother would cover him in blankets and even bear pelts in the winter. Then, with blessed candle flickering, she would read to him the Bible. Tales of a savior and of those who loved him. She told of a God whose power was never ending and who, with a word, could move the mountains.

As he remembered these things the sun fell beneath the mountain peaks and waved goodbye to the land below.

John washed his hands and face in the cold water of the river and stood, walking slowly back to his bedroll in his tent near the other men. He crawled inside his tent and lay down to rest with firelight still glowing and illuminating the trees around him. As he fell asleep he remembered his father and mother and their love for him. And then he spoke up towards the sky speaking quietly, saying, "Father. O'Lord, Guide me now and forevermore. Let not my path wonder and make my heart steadfast. You are my light and my Strength. Amen."

And John fell asleep under the stars that held within them the light that created the universe.

Growth measured in experiences: Part 1 (Intro and youth)

Who were we?

Were we big time heroes on horse back and princesses? Or were we, in all actuality, the small children that our God created us to be?

We find ourselves longing for things from youth that we don't even remember completely or at all for that matter.

We sit with friends and talk about running through open fields and along sunny beaches and through sprinkler ridden back yards. We long so desperately for the simplicity of these times and the emotions that they bred from our souls and hearts. But then the reality sets in that rent needs to be paid in two days and that you are sixty-dollars short.

The reality that you are twenty-six and you still don't have your shit together.

The reality that your parents are becoming the age that grandparents are supposed to be.

The reality that, in reality, reality sucks.

But is the recalling of a youth experienced in full such a bed thing? Is it a negative upon ones heart to look back on things that were, in the simplest of terms, perfect?

Perfect on this occasion clearly being seen through the eyes of the beholder.

But when the eyes of the beholder are capable of seeing a dripping strawberry sno-cone as perfection, shouldn't we ever so diligently try to recall these times? Shouldn't we desire these memories over the majority of others?

Childhood is so fleeting.

When we are engulfed in it we dress up like our Mommies and Daddies and pray at night that we grow up to be just like them. Then we get a bit older and we find that we want to grow up faster, not to be more like Mom and Dad, but so that we can set our own curfews and drive our own cars and make our own rules. Then we get a bit older and we have the self-set curfew and the car and the self-made rules and these things are the epitome of greatness. And then, when we are sitting alone in our apartment on the edge of our bed with our self-made rules and freedoms, we find ourselves longing for Mommy and Daddy and the comfort they provided. The comfort of the rules and the regulations and the curfews.

And we drive the road home.

Children are a silly thing. They will spend hours contemplating a plan on how to get their skateboard out of the storm drain but could care less about whether or not they would eat that night.

They...

We.

We would run around for hours, not noticing that the sun had set, sweat drenched having the time of our lives. Little did we know...

Little did those tiny beings know, those innocent little babies, that a day was coming when rent would be due in two days and that they would be sixty dollars short with no help coming. That Mom would not respond to the chemo and that Dad would never fully recover. That, when you did turn twenty-six, you wouldn't have all your shit together.

Those who are profiled by Lunacy.

They met.

They read.

They sang and danced and moved in such a way that it made all others around them uncomfortable and awkward.

They rang bells and hit gongs and banged on symbols until their fingers bled and then they taped them up and kept on going.

Collectively they looked like a ratty old train barreling down the tracks at light speed with whistles blowin' and lights flashing.

They raved over their dead and celebrated over their leaving.

They gave.

They sold.

They passed on to others what had been passed on to them so that, even if only by the smallest of fractions, the story that was told to them could also be told to others.

They ate and drank and were merry and they yelled in loud voices over one another at the setting of the sun.

And when morning came they rose from their sleep and cried and wept aloud at the rising sun.

They gnashed their teeth at it in disgust of it's robbing them of a true home coming.

"How dare you rise once more!" They said.

They listened.

They cried.

They imbedded into themselves parts of one another so that their experiences, whether good or bad, would not be shared alone.

And this was it.

This was what they had been called for.

This is what had been requested and required and longed for and desired.

It is what had been dreamt up.

It was the thing they knew had been created by the madness in the sky.

A plan, an architectural blueprint that, when looked at through the right heart, bred within it perfection.

And so they trucked forward in a fashion that made the Blitzkrieg seem feeble. And in their wake they left absolute destruction. Killing in their path death, hate, fear, lust, depravity, depression, sadness, and madness.

Hear me now.

Their steps approach and they have work that needs to be done.

And they will not stop.

Their call is from the highest of powers.

Watch.

You'll see.

A story about the man I met on a street corner in San Miguel.

Walked into Austin, no shoes on my feet
Asked the old man if there's a girl I could meet
he said, " Yep, I shall greet."

#6

Once upon a time...

Television didn't sway thoughts. It didn't make you want to go out and do crazy things.

Once upon that time boys ran clear of girls.

Their pictures, guarded by rippled white, birthed in sepia. Greens and blues and yellows.

Once upon that time...

Stone.

He stood near the old granite stone and could not for the life of him remember anything.

Not a word or a phrase or a smile; not anything. He just stood there resting the lower part of his thigh against that stone wondering who this man was.

Who did he claim to be?

Who did he tell the barflies that he was?

Who was he when no one was watching?

Did he stand on the French shores and cower; or did he lead men to their glorious ends?

Was he a farmer of the land?

Did he love a woman?

Was earth found under his nails?

Was he a man whom others were drawn to in such a way that women fell for him and men wanted to be him?

He didn't know and he never would.

This man that others told him to call father was a blank space in his mind of memories. He was a game of catch that was never thrown. He was a fixed flat tire that never got fixed. He was the advice that he so desperately needed on that cold night. He was the man of whom he had only dreamed.

As he reached his car and opened the passenger side door a small boy climbed into the seat asking, "Who was John Cavenaugh Daddy?"

"He was someone that I wish I knew William."

And as they passed through the steel gates the rain began to fall and he flicked the wipers on. And then, in his mind, he told himself that he would fix those flats and play those games of catch and give the advice that young men need. He would be the man who upholds young ones dreams and hopes.

Our Fathers.

We are not our fathers.

But we could be.

We may grow to be.

We are the pieces that they were bred from. But we are not the whole of them.

Our fathers come from stale bread and warm milk and rusted gears. They come form places like farms and mills and workshops. Places that we do not know. Places that remind us of far off lands vast with foliage and hungry lions.

We expect them to know us when they barely know themselves. We expect them to help us grow into men when they are still only little boys themselves; lost in their mothers aprons.

They are married, or divorced, but continue to sit in worn out front porch chairs day dreaming of the siren that lured them in the days of their youth.

They think back to when, in the corner of a college bar, they saw their wives for the first time. How her hair fell on her tan shoulders and how no other girl in the room existed at that very moment.

Our fathers minds are clouded with these things and yet, we still expect and call upon them to lead and be mature and to rally us together in times of need and strife. But they are just men. They are just boys.

Boys hiding under the pale flowered patterns of their mothers aprons.

Waiting

He had waited through Jeff and Jim. Kent and Riley. The local news-print boy and the store owners son. He had waited through three harsh winters, four summers and now, what he hoped to be his last fall.

Finally he could wait no more.

Katherine J. Williams caught his reluctant eye and off he went.

Turns turned.
Places switched.
Hearts revolted in agony.

Now she realized.
Now she sat.
Now she waited.

She waited through Katherine and Cathy. Sam and Emma. The bar girl from the pub and the pastors daughter. She waited through three harsh winters, four summers and now, what she hoped to be her last fall.

But for one another they had been molded.
For one another they had been set apart.
For one another their paths had been worn.

It didn't matter how passionately they pulled in contradictory directions for they were not the makers of North or South nor the compass upon which they followed.

Then in the field between the peach orchard and the creek they met. They spoke of expectations and how they were not good enough and how they were better off alone. He stalked her heart and she warred for his.

She had waited through Katherine and bar maids. He had waited through Jeff and store hands. And now, together, they would wait for death.

For, this was all that could separate them.

#5

Her legs collapsed beneath her as the whole of her weight fell upon the edge of the bed.

It was raining.
Lightly.
Tapping on windows.
Tapping.
Saying, "hello little girl."

Her back to the window; tears falling on her toes.
Her dress lying gently on her thighs; soaking up the wretchedness of dark corners in dimly lit hearts.

She pressed her elbows into knees and her face into her hands and her tears into her palms and her thoughts into heaven.

The room was filled with the grayness of the clouds and the scarlet of a broken heart.

I don't know why she was crying.

Maybe for a boy. Maybe for a man. Maybe for love or death or the death of love.

But I suppose it doesn't matter here.

I must be going now. I will help her answer the rain.

Song

You share a cool beer in the back of a bus. And she is sitting there, looking at you and you have no idea what to do. So you take another sip and soak in the summer heat along with her hair and her eyes.

And this is summer.

This is when you remember that one song that takes you back to your most triumphant summer. The one moment where you did that one thing that everyone will still be talking about when school starts again. The thing that got you that one kiss with that one girl who made all the other girls seem plane.

And now we listen to this song on repeat because it reminds us of our Dad's as they were when they still wore capes. It reminds us when sidewalk chalk was the only form of communication and the alias for sprinklers was Heaven.

It takes you to that time when everything was better and when 'simple' defined the majority of who we were.

And it brings back the smell of cookies and sunscreen that our mother's smothered on us at public pools. And how at the end of the day, all greasy and covered in summer filth, our mom's would still run their fingers through our hair. And we would fall asleep on top of our sheets because the heat was too much.

And this is summer.

It's that bubble of time that encapsulates that one home run that made your dad stand up and yell and cheer. And that one sno-cone after that game and how it was the best of your life solely because you ate it atop your dad's shoulders. It's the song that was playing in the car on the ride home and the open windows and the look in your dad's eye. That look that made you feel like he was twelve again and that it wasn't you who hit the home run, but him.

It's humidity so thick that you choke. So thick that you can grab the air. It makes you look as though you just got out of a pool without ever having actually taken the plunge. And it is the warm, moist hug that she gives you on her parents doorstep when you were expecting so much more.

But it's also seeing her look out of her top story window at you as you walk home, down the street, through your yard. And you realizing that this; this one summer, these few fleeting months will change who you are. They will become a memorial of summer history unto which you will worship with envy every summer form there on.

And this is summer.

This is life.

This is fleeting.

And this is...us.

Whatev.

Black guys, skatin’ in the streets
killin boards, slaughtering beats.
rollin’ on down to the OK mart
got twenty billy and I’m gonna play it smart.

Miss at home with a baby on seat
wishin' all time that she didn't get beat
sittin', waitn and given it up
livin' it tight cuz she know it gets rough.

#4

Hair grows out and nails grow long and people change.

We grow up and it is seen as this exceptionally horrific happening. This event that has been foretold my Peter Pan and Captain Hook and it scares us when we are in our beds alone. Alone with the thoughts that carry us like infants away from our sweat drenched summers and our wonderings about sex and marriage.

Our wonderings about life and how we should live. About what kids names we like for our infinitely distant children and how when we are parents that things will be different. That we won't hit and we won't yell and how there will be no way that our kids could ever dislike us. Because you know...we're hip.

But the reality sits in the back of our jello ridden minds and It tells us that they will dislike us because, well, that is just how life goes. And that things will, in some way, resemble how our home lives were. They will mirror how our parents packed our lunches and how they made sure that we were tended too in such a manner that we would, undoubtedly, become productive members of this society.

Growing up takes us away from the freedoms of certain things; true. But it also brings us closer and closer to the truth of who we are and who we were tilled to become.

Yes, midnight beach runs and noon day naps may begin to lack in frequency. But other things that fulfill gapped hearts will introduce themselves. And when they do, let's greet them with a genuine handshake.

#3

So many ideas and thoughts.

So many wants and desires and longings.

I come here to regurgitate synapse based thoughts into the binary goo of this tangled web.

But usually nothing meets me when I come here.

On the platform.
Bags at my side.
peering down alleys.
waiting.

#2

It's not a place. At least I don't think so.

I think it is more of a mindset or a thought. You know, like utopia or unicorns. This perfect place where worship and prayer and love all come together perfectly. Again, I am not sure that this place is obtainable here on earth.

But do I still long for it?

A: Yes.

Should we all?

A: Yes.

But for now I will just have to settle for pine groves set in the grooves and crooks of this place. Where twig filled choirs the soil ridden orchestras sing harmonies to he who sits on high.

The one who strips bark off of trunks.
The one who creates life from a lonely timber on the edge of the forest.
The one who breathes into the soil and creates hammer swingers.

For now I will sit across from these filth buckets and listen.
Listen to them breathe the name of the one who first breathed.

I want to believe that this sanctuary will appear out of the pink and orange sky. That the crystal spirit in my minds-eye will make it hover over the waters face. And that there we will all have the chance to pour this bile from our bellies.

But for now I will take this book given me and beat in the face of Beelzebub. And I'll do so until blood drenched cloaks come riding in from the east. O' the joy.

Then that angry lover will return.
The scornful groom with tattoo on thigh and sword in mouth.

O' the minions that will appear.

And how rotten the stench will be. But OH! how sweet as well.

And then after our bones have been scorched with the fires of Fatherly eyes we will rise again.
We will stand under that great mushroom cloud of legionnaires.
And then off in the distance we will see it.

That simple white image where worship and prayer and love all come together.

Aside: Watchful and omnipotent parent.

I walk on the morning and I sleep in the sunset.
I watch you.
I see you.

You little mouse.

Running among the reeds and grasses.
Picking at seeds.

I watch.

I play with stars and rest on mountains.
I catch you.
I hold you.

You little rabbit.

Rustling among the vine and weeds.
chewing on things.

I catch.

I sit atop the sun and stretch out galaxies.
I love you.
I want you.

You little lamb.

Wondering away to fields unknown.
Hiding among rock walls.

I love you.

When i am old...

I have come to hope that I would grow old in light provided. That my skin would loosen and toughen and read out like the farmers almanac. I pray that my bride and I will sit quietly on porch swings reading each others faces, searching for the history that we had created. I long for the times when third born generations will fill the halls and fields with laughter and hope and wrestling and love.

I have come to hope that I would grow old along side the sparrows that dwell around me. That my eyes would never forget the grace of a woman's smile or the smell of wet concrete in the summer. I pray that my bible would fall apart and that verse would flow from my mouth like honey from the comb. I long for the day when my bride and I will lie under cotton sheets on spring evenings and bring honor to the term 'heavenly love.'

I pray that when I am old and torn and a leathery mess that Father would come to me and say, "Come home young man, O sweetest son of mine. I have much so show you."

I have come to hope that when I am old...

Her straw hat.

The sun was bright in the noon sky as she worked. Her skin tanning from a tan base. I walked outside in my suit and watched her from the porch; I knelt behind a cedar pillar. She had not known that I would be coming home for a quick lunch. I watched her closely as though under a microscope. She was my experiment, she was my slide. I watched every pore and wrinkle and patch of her body move as she tilled the soil and planted the flowers.

She did all of this naked. She wore nothing but her straw hat.

I loved her then as I had in my youth. Not that I did not love her currently, but it was a youthful love. This youthful love was full of passion and desire and want. Forgiveness, anger, lust, bonding, gripping, friendship, hate, grace and peace. All of the things that verify love as love. These were the things that made me want to never leave her. They made me want to be near her always. They made me want to shackle my heart to hers. Forever.

She stayed near the earth, planting and digging and scratching away at the dirt. She was lovely.

Extravagant in the most simple of terms.

She was the Mother Earth.
She was my bride.

I watched her quietly for a few more moments and then slipped away back into the house through the french doors.

I grabbed my lunch and went back to the office. All the while thinking in my minds eye of the canvas that was her body; that was her skin.

That tan, golden siren that beckoned me to her.

My love. My all. Me.

And there in between the lilies that stood along the wall and the roses blooming near the fountain she waited. She waited for things to change. For things to get better. For him to show up. For wishes to come true and for love to pass by closer than ever.

She sat quietly in her dress. It was thin, white, beautiful and had a small hole near her knee where she had fallen the summer before. As she looked at it it reminded her of how he had chased her through town and how it was then that she knew. She had finally found him.

And now she sat alone.

On the edge of the fountain, near the flowers, under the oak, in front of the pines, to the left of the willow, behind the orchids, to the right of the ivy, inside of the garden.

Here, even though he would not come, she was happy. Because she knew that her heart was already taken. Taken by a man who already called her bride. A man who already knew the taste of her lips and the smell of her hair. Who knew the thoughts of her depth and who asked the questions that even her conscious was afraid to ask.

Anxiety the bitch and Pride the bastard.

Our anxiousness stems from deep longings and worldly desires. Desires to be accepted, to be praised for doing good, and to be found worthy and or full of worth.

But, when we fail to meet the expectations that either we set for ourselves or that other set for us, we become anxious that our pride will be hurt or diminished.

Thus, the compromising of ones pride brings on great anxiousness. Or, anxiousness brings on a filthy protection of ones pride.

You are such a bitch anxiety.
You are such a bastard Pride.

Lord, pillage these twins of sin from our bodies.

#1

There are dances that i cannot dance.
There are songs that i cannot sing.
There are roads that i can't travel.
There are thoughts that i am scared to think.

So i will do all of these things.

And this will make joy.

Generational longing.

Our generation holds onto the things of our parents generation because when we are their age everything will be digital and high definition.

We do it because we long for those simpler times. For a time when an unlocked front door brought with it no suspicion or doubt; fear, angst, anxiety.

For a time when pictures were naturally sepia and when the 4th of July meant something to a neighborhood.

We live in a place where we cut ourselves off from the world with tiny white ear-buds and personal playlists. A place where a screen has replaced a face and where icons replace rope swings.

I want to go back to that time when people living four doors down would know my last name. I want the reality of ten television channels and stories on the radio. I long for that time when dresses were mother made.

Let's go to that place where apple pies sit on unlocked window sills and where the term 'predator' refers to a sahara hardened Lion.

When can we leave?

When can we stop living through the photographs that we find in our parents closets; tucked away in shoe boxes?

When is that time? When does that come?

A letter from a wolf.

I drank until my cheek met the floor. As I laid there on the floor I could see the bourbon spilling slowly from the bottle. The brown liquid ran down the leg of the table and puddled at the foot.

The letter from you lying on the floor face down. All the letters pouring their pain out in tiny drops.

And those drops still dripping through the canyons and gorges in my brain.

I think I will lie here a bit longer.

The rabbit and the lamb.

There was a rabbit whom had many pleasures in life. He loved the hill in which he lived and the grass upon which he fed. But it was his loneliness that kept him close to his burrow and away from others.

Day to day rabbit would wake from his slumber and find his way from his grass and straw bedding. There he found peace and solitude in the damp, cool darkness. He would poke his little whiskery nose from his burrow and sense the depth of the day. He would sense as deeply as a small rabbit could sense something.

Rabbit lived in a valley between fields of grain and a old town that held memories of the great depression. From that place came few life stirring interruptions which was just fine with him. But sometimes, in a longingly desperate kind of way, rabbit wished something might happen. That a large black dog might come and chase him and flush into his life some form of excitement. But no. No dogs would ever chase him and no apron laden women would run him out of their gardens. He was alone.

When he would leave his burrow rabbit had few places to go. Only to find food and maybe bask in the afternoon sun on the hillside would he venture forth into his world. He had no one to spend these days with though. The badger, the fox, the crow; all of these animals had no time for rabbit. They all had too many other things to do.

They had too many trees to explore, too many thickets to wander and too many mice to feed on. And as the days did stretch, rabbit found that in nothing could he find joy. In nothing could he find love. His daily naps in the sun were failing his heart even with the consistency of the suns sweetening warmth. His burrows sheltering walls could no longer bring any protection against the loneliness in which he now basked in. And one day, he sparked out from his home. Or whatever it was that he called home.

The skies brought days of open sunlight and a blueness upon which few eyes have seen; even a rabbits. Rabbit had to set out for something in which he knew nothing about. But in his small mind, he knew there had to be something else. There had to be someone who could see him and hear him as he was meant to be. So, as the sun rose that next morn rabbit found his way to the sunlit rim of his burrow and peered out. The grass seemed new and the trees blew in a way that he had never seen before. They seemed this way because today was going to be different, today was going to be life changing.

He was to set out on an adventure. Not one of safety or one of known paths. But rather, one of dark passages, lonely paths and cold nights. But for rabbit, if this meant happiness and freedom from his damp home and lonely hill then so be it.

So on his journey he began. With his sadness left behind like a whithered vine, he set out to find what he sought. A friend, a love, a warmth in which he would never have to wonder if it be true.

Through thickets of thorn and fields of dust rabbit did go. Sleeping in fallen willow trunks and feeding on the seeds of the pine cone. Little did he sleep with fears of the unknown dancing through his mind. But rabbit felt in his tiny bones that something was near. That somewhere close, in a field not so far off a friend lie in wait.

As that next morning rose like a flower from the grave rabbit found his footing on a hillside and made his way skyward. When reaching the top his black, marble eyes fell upon something that rabbit had never seen. There, in front of him stood towers of stone, pillars of rock. they are pointed crags upon which blankets of white did lay. Rabbit had never been in the presence of something so grand and he was instantly in love.

At their base lay the greenest of fields with stone walls running through them as snakes through the grass. Winding there way in and out of great clusters of oak. The wind blew gently and with it the grass of the land shone with glory and pride. Rabbit had found his new home, but what of a love, a friend?

He wandered through the last bit of thicket laden hillside and then, all at once found himself in a heaven which he never knew. A heaven in which even his dreams failed to completely grasp or picture. But now, here in this place and in this time, rabbit knew that it was real. And even if he were to only be able to experience it for a brief time, it was enough. It was enough for his small life to know that things greater than himself shown the depth of his thoughts. That somewhere on the tops of those pillars of stone sat a being that knew all things and that placed all things together.

And for him, this was by far the most comforting thing that his little heart had ever felt.

As rabbit made his way down to the valley his paws felt a sensation in which was unfamiliar. He felt a lightness in his step and a warmth from the ground that made him feel safe and good and loved. And then rabbit saw him.

He was flawless; the definition of perfection. He walked out from behind a stone wall into the openness of the field and then stood still staring at rabbit. There was a glow shining from his wool and everything around him was perfectly still. A quiet came across the land and all things were clear and rabbits eyes opened wide. His ears were perked but he needed them not. For all that he needed to hear he had already heard and all that he needed see he had already seen. All things were shown to him and yet, in the lambs perfect light he could see nothing.

And there, in that moment his legs gave way and his body lie soundly on the grass of the field. The lamb then came close and laid down by rabbits side. Rabbit had found his love, he had found his joy and he had found a warmth that made his heart burst within himself. And the rabbit thought that this, here in the field with the lamb, was the perfection that rabbit longed so desperately for.

An awkward lover.

Simplicity has come to my doorstep.

She knocks with tender fist and beckons me near to her side.

She has the voice of a beautiful woman.
Her touch is all consuming.
And her means are all of the most gentle.

O simplicity why do you come now?
What shall you have me do?

O simplicity you fickle whore, give me answers of clarity.
Leave me not here in this desert place.

Father, is she my courtship as of now?
If this be her, let my hands and feet work to pursue.
Simplicity will be my lover.

Simplicity has come to my doorstep, and I am answering.

Be near sweet Shepherd.

Come near my sweet Shepherd.
let not your feet wander away.
Let my ears hear ever so often the stillness of your voice.
i shall return my Lord.

Lend me your peace, for i am without.
Show me your love, for i am lacking.
Render me helpless, thus turning me to you.
Call my name, you know me.

Steal me away form this thicket of thorn.
Rescue me from this fence of wire and protrusion.
Lead me away form the darkness of the waters edge.
I am lost in the wood, and am now crying your name.

Come near my sweet Shepherd.
Let not your word be far from me.
Let my eyes fall ever so often upon the bella of your face.
i shall return my Lord.

Sheer this coat for your own use.
Cut this rib so as to feed others.
Lead me to the slaughter.
For from it comes my joy.

So, be near my sweet Shepherd.
i am the one wanderer for which you seek.
And with my eyes i now see.
And i am returning.

Oh the sweetness and joy of my Shepherd.

Music.

There just is something about a note.

a chord.

a 5th.

a 7th.

Men find themselves burried in the filth of life and of war and it is music that carries them away. Away to some far off place where blood is replaced by the lillies of the field and steel is replaced by a womans touch.

Music is a plce in our minds where people are not wrong and circumstances always play in our favor.

It's that chord that rings to the tune of our hearts and leads us to who we were and are supposed to be.

Tale: Leaving an old way.

...and he ran,

and ran,

and ran until he met the fence on the far side of the land.

His breath was tight.

His legs burned.

And only after he was able to open his eyes did he realize that his hands were bleeding.

He released his grip form around the barbed wire.

As he stood there on the cool, dark soil he stared deeply into the crimson streams running down the sides of his hands.

Drop after drop fell.

Falling.

Meeting.

He knew he could not go back.

And for him, this thought was comforting.

The soil on which I work and live.

I will lie here in this field and I will know myself.

I will sit here in this chair on this soil and I will let him know me.

I will rest on this plow of salvation.

I will sleep on the reapers of the angels.

I will sleep here on this mattress of grace.

And here, with dirt under my nails and deep aches in my joints, I will let work be done upon this old soul.

For in no other do I find rest or repair so frequently.

Summertime.

Summertime is when you fall deeply in love with things that you wouldn't otherwise.

You run barefoot everywhere and the park and field become your new first home and it is a very good thing. It is when you lay in ankle high grass and watch the stars walk from horizon to horizon and then they fall off into the great morning flood. And you fall in love with fast melting sno-cones and sandal tanned feet. And the heat doesn't seem to bother us like it did when it first come on. But we still rush from car to house, house to car taking refuge in the sweet feel of the air conditioning.

Summertime is this almost unrealistic part of our lives in which we are able to run and swim without inhibitions.

Summertime brings a love of heat and humidity that saves our frail bodies from the winter chill.

Our shirts stick to our backs as beads of sweat bleed down our tanned temples and soak into them. It becomes just right to sit in the park at night and watch the consolations change into the things that we see in our dreams. And in those parks and fields the scent of grass and humidity merge and rush from person to person.

We covet the idea of summer freedom and hold it tightly to our breast as we rush around with our life's loves.

Those loves who we know deeply in a way that only God himself could have orchestrated.

And we cling to them, we cling to the idea of them because we know that being alone in the summertime is no way to be. Because we know that being alone is horrible and, even though we hate our weakness, we still want to be with them.

And tangled within these loves, in that park, you see her.

She is wearing that summer dress and she has bare feet and a flower in her soft hair. And it is then and there that your summertime love starts. You read Gibran to her and whisper into her ear when no one is looking, and you both love the feelings it brings. And together, you run and swim and talk and rest with one another and you learn one another. And this is good, and you thank Him for it and He is glad.

He gives love and joy to those who seek him. In the summertime is when He moves through the warm breeze and hot summer nights when summertime girls will chase summertime boys through the July rain. And it is here that we can see the physical smile of God. When His children bond and play and love and explore His creation together.

Yes, it is in the summertime when we take true ownership of the freedom we are given. When we can read the books that have long eluded us and that make our hearts long for something that it never had before. And we start thinking about changing things and making things better and we do it, we actually do it!

We move and shake and toss things into the sun filled air and we love it. And then, a cool crisp wind blows through the park, down the street, through the alley and onto your front porch and it is then that you know. Autumn is coming.

So, you run through the fields of gold one last time and you kiss her on the mouth under the full oak tree and it is right and it is good. And then it is over and you wait once again. You wait for the love of a melting sno-cone and the feel of a sweat filled shirt clinging to your back.

And you wait once again for the summertime.

A machinist and a farmer and a son.

He sat there at the diner with that old stale sun resting it's face behind tired mountain tops. He wondered if he and this man would have anything to speak on.

Those simple questions began to run through his mind. The type of questions that can plague a man until he is placed in the ground.

Finally an old, weathered man walked in through the door seeming as though he were looking for a pair of lost keys.

"Over here old man."

Now was the time.

A time of reconciliation and peace.
A time for men to sit and be men.

And at the same time, there as no room for thoughts like this.

The old leather bag of a man sat down at the counter next to him and just looked straight at the tiled wall.

"Thanks for coming dad."

"Least I coulda' done I'd supposed."

"Thanks."

The two of them sat there on those worn out stools as if they were two distant strangers who were meeting for the first time.

He was the son of a farmer and machinist.

His father worked his fingers to the bone and then some. In 54' he had to pull the machinist job at the parts factory when the drought hit. For about two years those rains failed us and that's about when mama left us.

"You want some coffee pop?"

"Nah, don't touch the stuff no more."

His father was a man who believed that the fewer the words used the better. He had been that way ever since his children could remember.

"I ain't got much time, I gotta get back to the mill."

"OK dad."

"But son, I do have one thing I been needing to say to ya."

His father was a man of the land, a man or dirt and soil and earth. Not of words.

And now that his dad had something worth while to speak about he was unsure how to prepare himself.
He moved uncomfortably on his stool until he just stopped and tried hard to listen.

"I know I'm not a man of words, but I'ma try."

"I've been hard to live with I know, your mother could have told ya that. But I need you to know that I love ya."

The two men sat there for a while longer not saying much.

Then they simply just got up together and walked out to there old trucks and went on to their farms that stretched from county to county.

And that was that.

And he knew that now he and his father had nothing else to think over.
Nothing more to say.
There were no more secret words that needed to be unearthed.

And the son sat on his porch with his beautiful wife and two young boys and watched the southern stars climb in the night sky.

While his father sat perfectly still, without breathe, perfectly quiet.

The Ballad of a man named Jeremiah Foreseth.

He drove an old pick-up that looked like a farmers history book.

One head light dimmer than the other and a long barbed-wire scratch down to the tail of the truck. It carried memories of William and how they became men together. He would most likely never get it fixed.

He sat low in the bench seat with his red wings pressin' the petal to the floor. Movin' on to somewhere that he didn't know.

Patched, earth ridden wranglers sat unwillingly on his boney hips as his bill fold shown from his back pocket.

A pearl snap hung on his shoulders like a draped flag does on a flagpole. He'd lost some weight since that past winter.

He had just finished a seven week job on a threshing crew stretchin' from Amarillo to Bartlesville. His hands shown freshly with the signs of labor. He loved his scars and scratches and wore them as if medals from a distant war. He found honor in knowing that his work fed America.

He loved that his lunch breaks were spent looking out over the fields of gold.

Simplicity was his lover.

He was still a younger man, not yet in his late thirties.

His love left him back in '57 when he had gone for a job in northern Oklahoma. He got back to Texas and found a note on his icebox. Said something about needing more from life and then she apologized for having to take his truck. He never did get mad about it, he just went and bought an old Ford and started the process of forgetting.

We never did hear him talk about her again. It was like she was a ghost and a spring breeze had blown her away somewhere to the east.

Then one day he drank himself into a stooper and fell asleep on the old freight tracks and the Lord took him home.

No one ever said anything about that.

But if you ask anyone they will tell ya that he was a good man. A man who gave his life to the earth and to the men who he shared it with.

A man who was inspired by the reflections of God off the grain.

A man who knew that his time was not his own.

A man who knew he was only a man.

His name was Jeremiah.

Watch TV with sleepy eyes.

Sit low in thickly armchairs.

Engulf slothfully decadent mattresses.

Foretell often the secrets of couches.

Drown in the partiality of a luke warm bath.

Listen in quiet contempt for the stories of carpet.

And then go out to the ledge on the bridge connected to the road by the lake on the edge of town near the old oak.

There, we will find none of the things that keep us indoors.

Because we were meant for so much more.

A figuring out of sorts.

Don't try to explain it.

You just can't.

Don't attempt to wrap this thing in human confines.

It is pain and joy all in one and then neither.

It is that feeling that you get when you are standing alone in the doorway or when you find yourself face to face with the one who holds the fullness of your attention.
It is when the words that are attempting to escape your mind and heart get trapped in the depths of your stomach.
It is the reason that you find yourself alone and crying in your room with thoughts of great depth plaguing your fickle mind.
It's the feeling of hope that invades your confines in the presence of death.
And it is the reality of the life ending moments that we so strongly try to waver from.

But it is also the reason for bravery and for strength.
It is the reason for rain and waves.
It is the reason for sun and wind.
It is the reason for life and death.

So let love fill all things, near and far.
Let it be that which we cling to in all situations and landscapes.
Let us reach out to it as though it was our last hope.

And then, when all else has fallen, let us realize that it is our only hope.

Love. Love. Love.

A revolution that was still.

The soil is being tilled beneath us.
Within us.
Among us.

In that soil lies a seed of the purest revolution.
A revolution not of protests.
A revolution not of picketing.
A revolution not of raised voices.

One day this seed grew into a seedling.
It endured the harsh winds of northern lands.
It endured the flooding rains from above.
It endured the scorching of the sun.

And still, quietly, this seedling of revolution continued to grow and stretch out into the world.
And now this seedling has hardened its branches and trunk and is standing firmly as what it was created to be.

And now stands an Oak of revolution amongst us here in this day.
An Oak that supports the children of the land.
An Oak that helps the elderly to stand straight.
An Oak that shades the workers of the harvest.

And now the revolution takes on new definitions.
A revolution of quiet love.
A revolution of still waters.
A revolution of blessed conversations.

A revolution that is held by the great Oak that stands firmly by the cool waters of the brook.

This was a revolution that was still.

Toward Sunlit Treetops

Who am I?

I am Thomas.

I am Judas.

I speak with the forked tongue of a serpent about the greatness of God and pretend like he doesn't know.
I use a mouth full of filth to gain acceptance from others and then use it again to profess the gospel.
I use my doubt as an excuse for my weakness and that as an excuse for my fear.

But even with all of these things wrapping up this frail body, the helper still comes to me at night.
When all have gone and my heart is at the door I find myself prostrate once again.
And it is here that I go once again to the forest of full wells and fruit laden trees.

And so on and so on does this twisted fern grow. Growing on grace it would seem. Toward sunlit treetops.

Who am I?

I am forgiven.

I am a child of Grace.

I am the fern that grows up from a great vine. Up toward the sunlit treetops.