Rise and Shine

The percolator

bubbling and puffing,

the clink of dishes,

feet thumping overhead,

the hiss of butter or bacon

on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,

like sprites,

hovered around my head,

until I was drawn from sleep

by their spell.

But it was the laughter,

the voices

spry with conversation,

that finally got me out of bed

and bounding up the stairs

from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?

What stories or discussions?

Had an aunt or uncle stopped by

with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,

but now I can see

the face of God

behind the smiles of relatives,

the shadow of communion

in the buttered toast and jam,

the resurrection and the life

as I woke from sleep

and found the arms of grandma

or grandpa

open

and waiting.

Waking & Sleeping (for Dad)

It was like so many other times

I’d seen you sleeping—

on the couch after dinner;

with a baby on your chest;

on a lawnchair in the back yard.

Of course, you weren’t so thin then.

Your body wasn’t gnawed away by cancer.

Still, it wasn’t so different

with your head slightly cocked

and your hands resting on your chest.

The real difference

will be in the waking.

You won’t yawn and reach for the remote;

you won’t stretch and scratch;

you won’t roll out of your chair

to grab a cold one.

This time,

you will wake

where no eye has seen;

you will wake suddenly from troubled dreams

only to find yourself safe

in the secret dark,

arms enfolding you.

Once More (for Dad)

I learn that a friend had twins yesterday,

a year after her mother died.

As I go my way, I smile.

My mind drifts

to a scene

of grass and flowers growing back

at time-lapse speed

over a grave site.

What is mortal

is swallowed up by life.

My own father’s death

is just a few weeks past.

The ground by his headstone

is still broken and churning,

hard clods lay on top

like fists,

and though the dirt was replaced

the hole remains,

a scar in the grass.

But the spring rains will come.

With the whispered hush of their falling

they will wash and settle

the churning ground.

Even the clods will soften

and open.

Underneath,

roots will mend

their torn fabric;

shoots will find their way up

through the broken places,

and flowers will lift their faces to the sun

once more.

Crying in the Wilderness

“Are you the one who was to come,
or should we expect someone else?”

That day by the river—
in front of God and everyone—
I pointed at him
like I was leading the cavalry
and cried out,
“Look!! The Lamb of God
who takes away the sin of the world!”

Later,
as my disciples were leaving by droves
to follow him,
I braced myself,
and explained to one of the few remaining,
“He must increase, and I must decrease.”

I believed it…I believed it…
I believed it so much
it was my undoing.
And because I believed it,
everyone else started believing it.

But now,
the dead air grips my bones
with both hands
and shakes the cage of my ribs.
Now,
the stench of wasting humanity
makes my head spin
like a busted compass.
Now,
in the twilight of my heart,
it’s either him
or me,

and I need to be sure.

Rise and Shine

The percolator
bubbling and puffing,
the clink of dishes,
feet thumping overhead,
the hiss of butter or bacon
on a hot pan…

Morning sounds,
like sprites,
hovered around my head,
until I was drawn from sleep
by their spell.

But it was the laughter,
the voices
spry with conversation,
that finally got me out of bed
and bounding up the stairs
from my grandparents’ basement.

What jokes had I missed?
What stories or discussions?
Had an aunt or uncle stopped by
with cousins in tow?

I didn’t know it then,
but now I can see
the face of God
behind the smiles of relatives,
the shadow of communion
in the buttered toast and jam,
the resurrection and the life
as I woke from sleep
and found the arms of grandma
or grandpa
open
and waiting.

Frame of Reference

My grandma used to paint.

Of all her paintings, my favorite
depicts a dirt road in an autumn wood.

The road stretches out straight ahead
from the foreground
and leads to a weathered gate
in the center of the painting.
Beyond the gate,
the road curves off to the right
and disappears into
orange, green, and gold foliage.

For years I’ve looked at this painting
and wondered:
Is the viewer arriving somewhere
or leaving?
If arriving or leaving, where?

I could ask my grandma these things
but she’s dying.

Once
I was drawing a picture,
and one of the trees
wouldn’t entirely fit
on the page.
Grandma said
I shouldn’t try to make it fit.
She said the picture you’re painting
is always bigger
than the canvas,
and you have to let things go
beyond
the field of view.

As I look
at the road in the wood again,
grandma’s words return to me.

The answers to my questions
can’t be found within
the frame
but lie outside it
where the road leads.

Arise Beautiful One

My lover spoke and said to me,
“I tell you the truth, a time is coming and has now come
when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God
and those who hear will live.
Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.
For as the Father has life in himself,
so he has granted the Son to have life in himself.
Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.

I am the resurrection and the life.
He who believes in me will live.
Arise, come my darling;my beautiful one, come with me.”

(SOS 2:10-13; John 5:25, 26; 11:25)