Jesus Asleep-- A Poem

Jesus Asleep

That Source whose Light 

is the light of creation,

Slept, a baby, on a bed of hay.

That King whose Hope 

is a stream of salvation,

Slumbered, a Man, through the rising waves.

He, who approached with perfection His purpose

of being mankind's one Light and one Hope,
Got tired, laid down, and slept.

Natural (thought I) -- a poem.

Natural (thought I)

As I walked,

My breath a frozen stream,

A plastic bag rushed

Past in the north wind.

Its limp surface rustled

In the frigid breeze as it

Hopeless surrendered

To the frigid breeze.

Natural (thought I)

In consequence of nature,
To let it pass me by.

A plastic bag rushed

Past in the north wind.

I stretched my protesting fingers,

Shivering in resistance, and

Snatched it,

Shivering in resistance, away

From the grasp of the wind.

The east wind howled in hunger.

Who are you, it growled,

To interfere with nature?

I shoved the bag into my pocket,

And walked on.

If I see the future, I change the future.

I am not talking "seeing the future" in some esoteric or mystical sense. Rid yourself of the image of a gypsy with a crystal ball. We can use our imagination, self-awareness, logic and reason to project how life will be given our selves in our circumstances

And once we know how our life will be given our circumstances, we can change our selves, or our circumstances, and thereby change that "will be" into something else.

I have always believed that humans have the capability to morph the physical space and time through which they pass. Space and time as expressions of existence are, to use the science term, fabric. They can be ripped, rewoven, twisted, rippled, stretched and draped, if the laws on which they operate can be utilized appropriately.

Human history and destiny are, to extend the fabric metaphor, tapestries, similar to the long ones that were used in medieval times to record important events (think the Bayeux Tapestry.)

God is not a God of determinism. He does not tell us what to do and then expect us to do it. He does not determine the times and season. He is the grand Fashion Designer. He shows us the principles of weaving and design, and helps us figure out how to apply those principles as we weave the fabrics of our own existance. He not only grants us power to determine whether or not we accept His guidance, He grants us power as to how. And, in one of the most peculiar aspects of the laws governing the arts, what we do and become appears fundamentally different than anything even He would create on His own; individuality is an eternal characteristic.

As we find our place in the tapestry of human existance, we will find we can choose our lives and what we'll become. The effects of those choices do not confine themselves. They ripple out through the fabric of space and time, represented physically by the affect on others through our relationship to them and how it influences the way they weave the tapestries of their own lives. The greater our effect on others, the greater our impact on the fabric of human existance. The greater our impact on the fabric of human existance, the greater role we have on the events woven into its fibers. If the tapestry of history is a manifestation of the laws governing space and time, then indeed, time itself is fundamentally changed by our choices.

Think of the experiences you have had that have wielded the most profound influence on you. Maybe reading the writings of a favorite philosopher or thinker. Maybe a profound musical experience by favorite musicians that changed your life. Maybe the ministry of an inspired religious leader, or the love and caring guidance of a parent, a spouse, or a close friend. Perhaps you were rescued from suicide by the loving words of a stranger. Perhaps a mentor lovingly and patiently taught you profound truths that became foundational to your life and actions, in spite of the fact that you did not want them at the time they chose to teach you. And imagine to yourself: what would have happened had those people not chosen to give you those experiences?

The world's greatest, for good or ill, knew that they had the power to change even time itself by the way they impacted those around them. The  events characterizing the destinies of individuals and entire societies occur dependent upon the choices they make in relation to God, to truth, and to each other. An individual and a society built upon choices of love will have events manifest in response to their chosen lives of love.

So now I ask myself, and anyone else kind enough to read my ramblings: where can I see yourself in twenty years? Will I be a person of love? How can I utilize my personality to alter space and time, aka my agency, on behalf of those in my sphere of influence?

Satan's success rests upon whether or not he can influence us to do one of two things with the powers of our agency: misuse, or not use. The only tragedy greater than a man who knows and does evil, is a man who knows and does nothing.

So i invite myself, and by extension all of you, to begin to see how your choices (or lack thereof) affect those around you. Imagine how life is within your sphere of influence. Use objectivity and reason. Once you know, tweak a circumstance, and see what changes as a result.

If I see the future, I change the future.

i embraced Death--a poem

i embraced Death

A gaunt principal has won my respect.

He lurks in the schoolroom of Life,

Over the shoulders of each test

Watching with cold misted breath

As nervous students peer fearfully

From the corners of their eyes.

I have watched him on occasion,

Calling one student or another

To his office. Some never come back.

Only once has he ever looked at me,

With a curious expression, as if of love.

We made eye contact. I blinked. He nodded.

I looked away.

But after class, I came up to him (I can't believe

My nerve) and tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned and gazed down at me,

His blank white eyes and stretched visage

Sent shivers down my spine, but,

I took a deep breath,

and said,

Thank you for teaching me to live.

I now know each moment is precious, since

You will call me, as you must, as we all will be.

I will not resign my standing as a student here.

I will learn to love it here instead.

But, when you call,
I promise I will come willing, in surrender.

And his lips pursed and drew back, almost a smile,

Though he said nothing. Those blank eyes

seemed cruel. Then, of a sudden, I found myself

Tucked into a warm embrace, his firm arms

Tightening about my rib cage. I feel loved.

An awkward pause.

Then, he releases me, and without a word,

Floats down the hallway to his office.

And I think,

perhaps,

he is misunderstood

On a trampoline, feeling warm and cold: a short story.

I clamber onto the trampoline and lie down. It is early November. The sun glints warmly through a veil of cirrus.

I have on a jacket and exercise shorts. The cold breeze rubs down my legs while the sunlight warms my dark hair and clothes. I shiver.

Above me, endless the autumn sky stretches its touchless expanse. Blue, mottled with vague clouds gleaming faint gold in the fall sunlight. It invites me to gaze up into the eternities. I feel trapped, smothered beneath its chilled beauty, its vastness, its apparent emptiness.

I close my eyes. The breeze whispers to me. It is cold. The sunlight kisses my face. Shivering, I turn myself over, willing my back and calves to receive its share of warm and cold.

I press my glasses against the trampoline. My eyes focus on the ground through the rubber mesh. Beneath me, blue and faint red gravel together with sickly weeds scatter across the dirt, just a few feet from my eyes. The mess of colors and textures invites my scrutiny. The snaking stems of the dying plants capture more of the faint gold light, casting complex shadows across the chipped rocks. The amazing detail of each unique shape impresses and awes me. And I know the moment I step off the trampoline, my foot will hit solid ground that I can support myself with. I smile and feel empowered.

Heaven, or earth?

The veil of cirrus passes from over the sun. The light intensifies. The back of my legs and arms warms pleasantly. I smile again. Life is beautiful.

I hear my father approach in his 'gator. He stops nearby, unnoticing of my presence. I sit still, listening to the idling of the engine as he dismounts to collect tools.

Minutes go by.

Soon I hear the sound of feet stepping onto the floor of the gator, the settling of a body into the seat. The sound of the engine rises and falls away into the distance, then dies.

I sigh.

Will I ever be whole?

I hear the sound of the pump, the spatter of water on dirt.

I force myself off the trampoline and amble to the edge of the lawn. Close by, the sprinkler pump drains the water from the lines and the water pit. The water gleams as it stumbles across the landscape. Fluid motion has always been so beautiful, I think to myself.

I see my father at the pump, gazing at the water as it jets out of the pipe. I wander over and stand next to him. We talk.

“Did you see me out here and come out to talk?” He asks.

I tell him I was on the trampoline.

“Oh,” he says, looking sheepish. “I didn't even see you. Observant me!”

I would be angry. That dark spot within urges me to be angry. But I don't listen. I choose not to. I smile instead.

We talk for another moment. I hitch a ride back to the house on the gator. He stops in the gravel expanse by his tool shed, several feet from the house. I am barefoot.

“Whoops,” he said, “if I had seen that I would have dropped you off by the house!”

I would be angry. That dark spot within urges me to be angry. But I don't listen. I choose not to. I smile instead, for he is not my father but a mirror within which my own distorted reflection laughs back at me.

I love my father.

I step gingerly back towards the house, the gravel pricking into my feet at the behest of the 200 pounds of weight they support. It is okay. I like the pain. At least it is a pain I can stand.

As I amble back into the house, I hear the words form in my mind:

“...there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.

For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.
And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.”

I sigh. There would be no deliverance today. Was I to take hope in that? How?

“Thy weakness shall be made strong,” threads through my mind.

I sigh once again. I gaze at my phone, noticing a text that says “I love u.”

Perhaps there will be deliverance. But not today.

In the meanwhile, I will gaze at the heavens, and I will gaze at the earth, and be grateful that I am here, now, today.