Spiritual Rain


The end of summer
rain soaked my soul
with a spiritual rain.

It was a vibrant rain
that fell straight down
like a comb going

through her long hair.
Years of pain and
suffering washed

away in the downpour.
Peace and joy shone
in the new day sun.

The end of summer
rain soaked my soul
with a spiritual rain.

Waiting for Me


The fever broke midweek, but not the vision
in the front of my mind of a place I’ve never
been. It is in the part of my mind where the

seen and the unseen meet. It always starts
in the same spot down by the bayou. The
water seems still in the summer heat. You

might throw in a stick to see if the water is
really moving at all. There is a flat bottom
boat tied to the dock silently waiting.

Waiting for me? Maybe. But I can sense
that life on the bayou is waiting for the next
rain. As is the big oak on the bank. Its moss

sways from a gust out of nowhere. Rain is
coming again. If I look up the hill, the muddy
bank turns to patches of grass here and

there. I can see two oars and a long pole
hanging on the downhill side of the small
tool shed that sits 
in the shade of a big

oak that covers the back right corner of a
house. A sweet 
porch runs the length of the
back of the house. There are two doors.

One on either side of long bay windows.
I’m guessing the left one goes to the
kitchen; the other to the master bedroom.

A few tables and chairs dot the deck. And
there is a big rocker like you see outside
Cracker Barrel on the other side of town.

For a moment, I thought I saw the hanging
bench move that sits at the left corner of
the house. I can hear a car pass in front

of the house. I can tell that there is a church
down and across the street from the house
because I can see the top of the white steeple

from down here. My eyes return to the swing.
Her skin is dark ebony; smooth and soft,
younger than her years. A few streaks of

white in her beautiful thick hair. And it seems
that she, too, sits waiting filled with God’s
grace and peace.

Waiting for me? Maybe. But I can sense
that life on the bayou is waiting for the next
rain.

My Road


life is pulling me
down a road I
don’t know

or do I

if it is the same
road as before
I believe

I missed my turn

or if it is a new
road I’m too
weary to tell

is that the wind

no it is the sound
of my breathing
my heartbeat

I must trust God

step by step the
road narrows a
single road sign

silhouetted in the
surrounding light
beckons me

the pole bears a
street sign with
a single name

my name

this is my road
a way only I
can go

Light and Shadows


It is the time of day when the sun plays
its game of light and shadows.

Wind is only visible high on the palms.
I remain unseen as a few dog walkers
stroll past as I take an early dinner

and linger over hot tea. Reading about
Bonhoeffer is more profound than
anything I can see from my window or

read in the news. What he missed in the
Barcelona of 1928, I miss here and now,
but I have to let that go.

For it was in 1924 on Palm Sunday as he
sat in church in Rome that a question
formed in the back of his mind.

If he only knew that I have asked the
very same question for at least a decade
on my journey that remains unclear.

“What is the Church?”

Bonhoeffer’s voice still speaks. Oh that
he could have been my dinner companion
then as now!

It is the time of day when the sun plays
its game of light and shadows.

 

But Not Hope


It didn’t bother me that after my return
to hiking I was being passed by men,
women, children, beasts, and insects.

I hadn’t hiked this mountain trail since
summer last year. After I returned there
a few days in a row, it was clear my brain

got ahead of my body. I should have
listened to my body. I’m not really
disappointed. I’m exhausted. Over did it.

Things change.

Age has a way of doing that. Some changes
are harder than others but change we will.
How we respond to or handle the changes

are the real tests! Chronic illness has my
attention which is truly annoying and
has contributed to a great amount of loss.

What happens when you pray for healing
and healing doesn’t come? When you believe
God heals and it still doesn’t come?

Things change. Some things don’t change.

This doesn’t change who God is, what he
has done, the things he can do, or has
promised to do.

God doesn’t change.

To try to stay in faith when my body is
screaming, “Don’t believe, God isn’t true” is
my measured response to these things that

I can’t change but must accept and deal with
the best I can each day. I settled for an easier
walk around my neighborhood yesterday.

Things change.

Today much too much pain to walk either.
I would have preferred to write a romantic
haiku and not address the challenges of pain

and faith at all. What kind of writer would I
be if I only shared my heart on the good days?
You deserve the truth in any case.

Reality has no substitutes.

It is when we are at our worst that faith gives
us the best. God’s grace and blessings still
abound. Maybe not in ways I prayed for.

Things change. But not truth. But not hope.