Ring, ring, cold one
with your wind-chapped hands.
Ring with the force
of a shiny brass band.

Ring to the masses
approaching the doors.
Ring for the tired,
the hungry, the poor.

Ring for the loveless,
the lonely, the worn,
Ring for the battered,
the broken, the torn.

Ring for clean water,
for soup, and for bread.
Ring for warm shelter,
and ring for a bed.

Ring, ring, cold one
with your wind-chapped hands.
Stand tall and ring proud
by your red kettle stand.

inspired by Sara Groves singing at Party in the Park

Wrinkled hands
Around a walking cane
Shuffled steps
And a hopeful gaze
Life’s true love
By his side
As Sara sings faithful today

Three young pairs
Trying to make it on their own
Remember the hurt
And their almost broken homes
Now they sit
Side by side
As Sara sings faithful today

     She sings
     “Great is thy faithfulness
     Lord unto me”
     Looking back on my life
     It’s your kindness that I see
     “All I have needed
     Your hand has provided
     You’ve always been faithful to me”

Children play
Among lilac flowers
Unaware
Of the higher power
That keeps them in
His tender care
As Sara sings faithful today

Adapted from the hymn “This Is My Father’s World”

This is my Father’s world.
     Yet how often do I seize control
          and usurp the role
          reserved for sovereign God?
 
O let me n’er forget
      that He is Lord and I am not.
      Why can’t I be taught
           my place as humble creature?

Though the wrong seems oft so strong
     to inflate my pride
     and lead me on a wild ride,

God is the ruler, yet
     I still try to run my life,
         making strife upon strife
         and into a frenzy hurled.

This is my Father’s world.

For the women of Christ Community Church.  Inspired by the sermon series “She Found Him Faithful.”

When the pink ribbon of hope
 turns to the black shroud of mourning,
 the time ends seemingly early
 for her closest friend, nearest kin,
she finds Him faithful
 to bring total healing,
 though not in this life.

When hidden truths meet revelation,
 and visions of happiness implode
 creating that inner ache
 that offers inaudible cries,
she finds Him faithful
 to bring restoration
 to her broken heart and home.

When the nine-to-five becomes non-existent,
 and she tries to find rhythm
 in the vocation of waiting
 and waiting and waiting,
she finds Him faithful
 to provide all of her needs,
 even the ones she does not know.

When another month passes
 without any sign of new life within,
 and the anticipation dies suddenly
 in one moment with one drop,
she finds Him faithful
 to create life in all of the right times and places,
 even now in her weary soul.

When the battle finally ends
 and a new war of grief and remembering begins,
 when the sea of her tears
 waters the soil covering her only love,
she finds Him faithful
 to bring comfort as One
 who has also seen a suffering death.

When the one who was baptized in the lake
 on that August day
 turns away and walks a different road
 and unmentionable deeds become her,
she finds Him faithful
 to wait patiently for her return,
 the prodigal daughter coming home.

On Sunday when we sang
     “Blessed be Your name,”
my words were inaudible
      as Hannah’s prayer.
Raising my hands
      and uttering “Yes, Lord”
was all I was capable of there.
Tasting the salt of my flowing tears,
I stood surrounded
      by the warmth
     of Your lavish care.

Mississippi crossing:
Two lanes too narrow
for one wide-eyed driver,
mesmerized by rolling hills,
autumn-kissed trees, a bridge of steel,
and millions of waters rolling
gently, quietly, lazily down, down, down,
losing their blues and turning brown
just past that gateway town
then tinting red, for Memphis
heading down, down, down.
It is a peaceful pass between
“Show me” and “I’ll show you” –
a picture-perfect scene,
this Mississippi crossing.

For my friend on August 9, 2009

I.
Your love found me out!
O my God, it found me!
In the deepest, darkest, most secret place,
it found me
and brought me to my knees
and made me see
my need for mercy.
But would there be pardon?

II.
For justice demands a penalty –
that a price be paid
and penance made
for my transgressions,
my indiscretion.
But the weight of judgment from Holy God
is too heavy to bear.
If only someone could share
the fate that awaits this ruined soul –
the whole of me
damned for eternity.
Is there any hope of rescue?

III.
Yes! And now I am the fortunate one,
because Holy God sent His sinless Son
to die the death I deserve
every day when I turn away
from the narrow path that leads to life.
His atoning sacrifice!
His dying in my place!
O amazing grace!

IV.
But grace not only to save
but also to change me
and rearrange my affections,
ensuring that each section of my life
is lived God-ward.
Grace upon grace to abound
until at last I am found with my Savior,
awaiting the day
when all is made new,
when all is made new,
when all is made new.

The thunder booms like
   the distant sound of a firecracker
   on the Fourth of July.
Raindrops gently tickle the window
   and then begin to rap, rap, rap,
   as if to say, “Let me in!”
The hail bounces as tiny pebbles
   hitting the concrete
   and rebouding back again.
The lightning, a fleeting strobe,
  engulfs the sky in white hot,
  illuminating the pressing darkness.
Wind blows, bending branches,
  trying to move houses of stone
  yet finding difficulty.
Is it cacophony? Is it symphony?
Is it destruction?  Is it restoration?

For my friend on July 29, 2009.

Were grief the end of this life,
the rivers of our tears
would not be enough
to quench the desert of our souls.

Had death the final answer,
perhaps our questioning would cease –
along with our motivation, and
our pursuit of something better.

Were pain the deepest cutting
of all feeling and emotion,
what could bring relief and healing
for such a wound?

Grief is not the end.
Death does not have the final answer,
and where pain is deep,
there is a love that runs deeper still,
wiping away every tear,
bringing promise of restoration,
and a different sort of end –
a beginning.

Inspired by Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country

For shame, Gertrude,
you left the beloved country
never to return,
staying to earn
a meager living
which only contributed
to your dying
and trouble rising
all around
this concrete ground
silencing the calls of home,
of familiar earth.
Now you forget your worth
selling your all
for two shillings or less –
an unrequited caress
for shame, Gertrude.
For shame!