Resurrection Clothes

The Visit Beached in his lean-back chair   He sits reclin ed and staring into what   I cannot reach .   An introvert at soul , h e comes alive    W hen younger spirits enter , sit   A ttendant after banter in the circle   Discovering their own lives inside   His gift of weaving wings from spiderwebs     Memories of dialogs gone by   Characters like sibling stars   Intermingling until   A laugh erupts and bubbles from the belly up   U ntil it catches fire a round the circle   Fills and lifts o ff high    Into eternal elements.         Inspired by Mary Lou Kowalski's little book of poems and commentary entitled Old Monk, this is the first (and only, so far) in my hoped-for collection: Old Married.    

Lord, I’m tired. I’ve been doing what you said. Now where’s my bread? I’m glad we’re going to a place alone, with you, to rest. And in the boat we do have respite, time at last to listen to the wavelets slap the boat, to see the sky so blue so vast, to smell the air so full of joy, to laugh and then in awe recount what has been done through us, our hands, our oil infused with miracles beyond our grasp. But now (I gasp) the crowd has followed us preceded us in fact, and here we go again. Your face your eyes so full of mercy and of grace and as you speak we all—the crowds and we alike— forget our need and drink and eat your words, refreshment at its best! Yes, we’ll soon feed the thousands with some little loaves of bread, but even now, we’re satisfied, consuming what you said. February 19, 2019 The Gospel for today is Mark 6:30-34, about the twelve disciples’ return from their successful mission: Jesus had sent them out, two...

My boy is not like other boys. He knows, I’ve told him, how he lept within my womb And was the first to recognize his Lord That day his mother came to me, Our sons unborn within. He knew! He danced! I felt his joy! And now when cousin Jesus Comes to see us, John, though larger, Is his willing follower. No jealousy, No childish pranks against the younger boy. And I too, by a grace unbidden, Know no hint of wishing That my boy might be The One. My son, my boy, is training for his role In introducing cousin Jesus to the world. What that will be like we don’t know, of course. For now it is a guarded secret. You’re the first I’ve told. So keep it quiet Till the time arrives, but when it does Remember what I’ve said. Just wait. You’ll see. There’s no denying what is meant to be. And yet, I have a sense of something more— Foreboding almost—Yes, that’s it, but Let’s not talk of that. Just watching These dear boys at play warms my heart s...

Of all the detritus in this drawer (why did I save this stuff?) amid the paperclips, the capless pens and penless caps,  the rubber bands, the scraps of paper with a title of a book  that someone recommended once, the business cards,  addresses from old envelopes, my daddy’s magnifying glass —again I see him reading as he sat in his upholstered chair—   there is a tape… An old cassette... the label says it's “Prince and Leslie playing.” Underneath the names I’d written “12” and “7.”   Then, past the early '80s tunes they had recorded from the radio —and so I’d never played it through, just thinking, “Well, I’ll listen to the rest someday,” and now that I am cleaning out the drawer I let it play on that old tape recorder that I found while cleaning off a shelf the other day— I hear my children’s voices. “I’m thinking pos-tiv-ly,” the younger drawls. “Prince is gonna…” Crack! A cue stick hits a ball and then more cr...

I have seen and testified that this is the Son of God.   ~  John 1:29-34 Here he comes, cousin, kinsman, the one who even as a child gave me breath and hope to see beyond the stones and stars to a deeper, higher way. Playmate of my childhood those times of visitation of our mothers, starting even in the womb. I leapt at his approach. And here he comes again, walking, purposeful, his face, his gaze turned right on me. I rise from where I bend over the newly baptized and look him full in his shining face. I know why he has come. But can it be? Can he, the one who showed me grace now come and bend to these waters to be plunged and have his sins expunged? He knows no sin! I know! I see into his heart at last. How can he come to me to be cleansed? Oh no! But he walks on, says yes, I come to you. It must be so. And so we step together into that waiting pool. I see him sink, then rise. And now! T...

Lord, what were you wearing when you rose? What were your Resurrection clothes? A gardener’s rough attire? A traveler’s robe? The burial cloth aside (no longer suitable attire for one not dead). Aside, the strip of cloth that wound about your head. What did your Father give you then? What Resurrection garb was fitting for a Savior to be clothed in to walk among the not-yet-dead and not-yet-risen? You looked like us, I think. No one could tell the difference at first, but when you spoke, or broke the bread or walked through solid doors or roasted fish or let a loved one thrust his hand into your side— ah, then we saw and said, “My Lord, my God!” What are to be my Resurrection clothes? if I’m to play a part in this event, to share the rising that you’ve done? I’ll look like everyone, won’t I? My graveclothes gone, emerging from my tomb, I’ll walk, enrobed in you, among the not-yet throng. Will tend the garden, break the...