When I was praying

I had a vision of a young boy running, age 4 or 5, he was swinging his arms around, white skinned arms pumping, and he was smiling, dashing around that yard, chasing and playing 

then I saw another boy, similarly running, similar age but with brown skinned arms, jetting off here and there, parents calling in the background, siblings flying all around, and all the jumbled mess that makes a family.

And I thought

this vision could be the child who will become Derek Chauvin, that shining son, that running one, before every lie implanted, every falsehood redacted another’s humanity.

Here’s the boy who would become George Floyd, before every care he carried was laid on his shoulders, the yokes he bore: addiction, racism, trauma, rejection and on and on, here’s the laughing child of Texas soil playing in the sun. 

Here he is before, the hardening.

Here he is before, the breath-taking.

Here they are before they met and fate intertwined their lives with regret, bills and badges and boots on necks.

And I thought of two brothers, I don’t know their skin color but I’ve heard it’s olive brown, who were working outside a garden, one with sheep one with the ground. Until one in fury struck the other one down, mastered by hate and jealous rage until his brother’s blood cried out from the ground. 

I thought of a God who sees the laughing boys in childhood, knows the sensation of their fingers chasing the breeze, knows their fears, their fragility, who sees the brothers before sin came and crouched at the door,

Who sees with justice and mercy all the circumstances, the circuitous choices that avalanche into lives on trial, to tombstones marking their fallen bodies, to tears and blood and laughter barely echoing in a far off memory of running, feet pounding, joy surrounding their cries from running in the yard.....

I take comfort in the Eternal Presence, The God who sees it all and knows it all and loves, oh how He loves. 

Rhyme for a Friday

Hey Death where you been?

Whatchu been up to?

 You’re home late and I’m salty 

Oh you were busy, were you?

Taking Pa with his pants down 

You left him pinned between the toilet and the ground

And all his fam around 

But he didn’t make a sound 

Am I trippin? You just snuck in 

This is a bad play

A lame day

Reverse course,

Rewind to a new game with a different referee 

Whose gonna actually call it fairly

I want to erase the sounds of Ma crying out as the chasm opened all around her 

As the first born son swore and bit the cuticles of his ring finger 

Death you laid down your cards 

It made a helluva hand, the cackling laughter resounds as you smile boasting in your win 

Yeah that’s happened before on a Friday when the sky went dark and that curtain tore in two and He was heard to remark “it is finished” 

So this story?

Is not over 

There’s gonna be redemption 

Cause your a servant not The Master

Fuck You, Death 

And all your compatriots 

I hate you and your lot 

You know in the final reckoning you’re gonna loose your spot

No more wins, no more plays 

You’ll be mocked forever when the judge comes to stay 

And He will, cause that stones been rolled away, and it’s written, He’s soon on His way 

Holy Week Cries

Entering Holy Week and opening proceedings the day after we raised the palms and sang 'Hosanna'- Savior.

We see crocuses and tulip leafs, piles of wind blown leaves and sand. We meditate on the incomprehensible, God in flesh, dying. 

We remember the knee on his neck, him crying 'mama' and 'I can't breathe'.

We remember the nails driven through his flesh, him caring for his mother, him crying 'have you forsaken me' and 'forgive them, they know not what they do.' 

Cries heard around the world, the man on the ground of 38th and Chicago, the man on the tree.  

Cries echoing now, for justice.

Lines

Cross-hatched lines 

intersecting 

slanting lines 

collapsing 

diagonal lines 

reaching rivulets

anchored silhouettes 

these shadow lines of birch and balsam echo and undulate 

like the wind

like the waves on the lake, 

these lines 

Opening proceedings

Skin as dark as coal

As black as ash

Extinguished from burning

Skin as light as bone

As white as stone

A heart unfleshed, entombed

This constricting whiteness, the word we give that heavy power, laden with guilt and silence 

Such a subjective, particular species of evil 

White skin on trial; opening proceedings and throats constrict,

“I can’t breathe”

Can you?

At this rendering of justice 

Chosing out

Cradled in a nest, a force hiding beneath blankets
and guilt. 

Fragile, failing wing,
punishing myself with shame.

I was
echoing memories of

waterlilies
with need

but gradually came to own
my pain

shedding the blame
and offering you

your best,
to let you go. 

 

Two wells

Still,
I catch myself
Huddled over next to the stones, knees sore from long bending
Hands scuffed from reaching,
Reaching for the puddle at the bottom of the well.

It has always been empty;
And I have always been wanting.
From the salt-tinged memories of "sloppies" on his bald head
To the self-initiated Institute excursions, the breakfasts, trips and milestones
I have dug, picking up the phone and dialing,
desperately.

Still,
I hold myself
Grieving the empty yet comforted; there is a better well
There is refreshment, restoration, and replenishment
Instead of seeking I am sought out
And the draught satisfies.

It was created for me to drink from
A well of Living Water, never diminished
I was made to drink and now I do
Even when I forget the invitation ensues
Releasing the pain, receiving the peace,
Daughter, I am here for you.