Memorial Day 2021

the most shocking sense about the death of another is the finality of it. it is total absence, with no scents nor sounds. Once there was a presence, now there is no substance. and like a an old pressed flower, it fades, though the pages against which it has rested may have an imprint, left upon another, even when it is gone.

we know you were here, and our memories do not betray us. though they gray with the age of time, the imprint remains within us, even if it is muddied a bit by a dreary rain. we may even forget the face, until we have to glance at a photograph to bring clarity to that muddied imprint.

we who remain behind grapple with a transition that took no amount of time, as they passed from material to another realm, while we remain gaping at the shell, dumbstruck by the lack of movement…

some may find solace in knowing that there is no warmth remaining.

some may find solace in leaving no expression left inside.

and some may find solace in choosing to remain inconsolable, as if the one who died was solely responsible for leaving those who remained.

they are gone. we are here. how we incorporate that finality into the fabric of our hearts is our journey. it is not really their memorial, they have no need for it. it is ours.

the master of the mirror?

are you living a life to touch the hearts of others, to bring compassion to the downtrodden, or are you living like you are looking in the mirror, in love with the image?

where has selfless love gone? where is kindness?

when I spent my days driving around looking for the lost lamb, strung out, on the edge of death, where were you?

meeting with lattes, loud music, and laughter…while another broken heart weeps bitter tears?

will you walk where the lonely walk? will you be the one you were created to be?

someday, you too will be all alone, no one to hold your hand, lying in wait for the darkness to come cover, blue-black creeping up, from toes to the center of your eyes, until it tingles and every image dissolves, and nothing here remains in your memory. will you know what to say when you wake from that sleep? will you see your reflection in the one who wakes you from that sleep?

you are not the master of time. you are not even master of the mirror.

it is time to give up selfishness. this life is not all about you. wake up…before it is too late.

 

 

 

 

in the void of time

the world is cold, and unafraid,

but that world won’t let you go

the weight of my hands on this clod of dirt

as i stand before your throne

it’s not the Hill of Tara nor a piece of my mind

but a picture of you going home….

warmth, rush over me

hide me in the nothing 

the everything, the all you are

in the void of time………..

finger to tablet, lips to screen

you can kiss it a million times

before these eyes see another flower like this

they will be digging them inside my mind

and as the fierce wind blows, and the fire grows

there’s a silence of a different kind…

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time…………………….

warmth, rush over me-

hide me in the nothing,

the everything, the all you are…

in the void of time

is the practice of burial humane?

why is it that we in the West bury bodies in a tight enclosed tube and shove them underground, as if we did not want them to ascend any higher than a worm? not that it is any more humane than burning every bone, hair, and fingernail and sticking the ashes in a container. The latter seems to suggest that the person was taking up too much space on this planet to begin with. Both suggest that the deceased body is as worthless as a rotten side of Beef, or the contents of a vacuum dust container.

Which brings me to a retro idea. Why not leave the body wrapped in oils and herbs inside a hollowed out tomb? Why not be buried like Jesus was buried? Why not construct catacombs? At least then the body is open to the air, and not suffocatingly hot inside that tube, where it will rot fast regardless of what is shot into the veins.

And that bothers me too. Why does every body that is “enclosed” need to be filled with a lethal liquid? Isn’t that “overkill?” Why does anyone need toxic fluids inserted into their veins to preserve them? What about the ones who wake up in the coffin? Yes, there have been such instances…in countries where they do not drain the body of blood and then stick formaldehyde inside. That, in itself, should tell you that the practice should be abolished, that it is inhumane, and in rare- but factually proven cases- quite possibly, murder.

There was a time when a dead body could be left on a nice hill with a view, a pleasant place should the rapture come early. Or, along a nice, pleasant stream, reminiscent of the 23rd Psalm. Or, maybe not beside calm waters, but on a park bench, along a pleasant trail. With a plaque beside it of course….”Here sits Harold Carmichael, Baron of Williamsted, who enjoyed quiet walks with his dog Teddy on this once pristine trail.” I would whole-heartedly support such a move, as long as there was room for me to sit elsewhere.

….which brings me back to that mound of mud in the cemetery…and that body encased within an absurdly heavy piece of discarded furniture…and the grief that clings to the air…and I wonder, how lacking in honor, how lacking in humanity, how lacking in love…it is…to bury the body of a loved one deep beyond reach…even if they are no longer there.

a tornado comes to Garrett Hill

gray outstretched arms

waving without and within,

a song sent over the ridge

ridge-crest-covering crescendo,

ripping siding from wall-sides

snapping the breath from my dried lips…

face to the ground, face to the ground…….

a glob of bright red acrylic paint

and a whispering, a whispering above my ears

the breath of God came and took her

though the body on the tailgate…

these tears painting are painting her face

why Good Friday is a good day to share the good news

every day is a good day to share the gospel. but in the western world, Good Friday may be more than a good day to share the good news.

it is a day for healing…..Jesus bore our sickness on the cross so we can be healed. all disciples of Jesus, living a life pleasing to God, can pray in faith for anyone to be healed and they can be healed. as radical as that sounds, a vast majority of those who say they are Christians do not honestly believe it. But, it is a fact- like the earth is round, the sky is dark at night (unless you live in certain polar regions or under too many city lights), and woman are women and men are men. 

it is a day for telling history…because all of history depends on His story. what a great day for telling about a great day in history.

it is a day for coming to the end of yourself…Jesus conquered sin and death, you cannot. isn’t it time to die to sin and self and rise again with Christ then in your heart?

it is a day to contemplate love…the greatest act of love ever given to any other.

it is a day to give thanks…for without what happened- that day that changed the world- no one on this earth would have any hope.

May God richly bless you this Good Friday…and every good day of the week.

Slan go foill…

 

watching your seasons change

if i was to sit on this bench and watch your seasons change…would i see you bloom in spring, thrive in summer, celebrate autumn, and weather winter? or, would i see you wither with the falling leaves, to be trampled underfoot too early in the four seasons of your life?

there are too many faces in the newspaper proclaiming life is senseless and not worth living longer than it takes to burn out from the summer sun. when a frost comes, these faces shrink back in fear, loosening their grips on the tree-limb giving them life.

but…i will walk through the seasons around me, seeking a log, a boulder, a rock, or stone bench, to sit for awhile…pondering the richness of the soil, the stiff vigor of the wind, and the eagerness of the resolutions within me. 

the sun rises another day, no matter how sharp the cold seeps into deep wood, and i will keep walking, walking…i keep walking…through fallen leaves…

 

 

flowers dying before their days are done

three people i knew died recently- two younger than me, one a year older. one woman i remember as a teenager, the thin little girl with coal black eyes, a few years behind me in school- vibrant, vivacious, the very picture of youth…yet now dead way before her 50th birthday.

i thought about it, turning one way, then another, wrapping myself like an burrito in the blankets. sleep eventually came, more like an echo of rest than a deep drink of peace…as grey slipped through my kitchen curtains.

…and morning came yet again, and a new day dawned for the living…

but a few days have passed, and in their passing, i am even more steadfast now than ever to live life as deliberately as possible. because it occurs to me that the three people i knew who died did not seem to have that spark about them…and i find myself still slightly amazed that such people could waste so much, so many moments on mundane thinking, mundane loving, and mundane passion.

why think about trivial things that will burn? why concentrate on what does not encourage one who is down, does not save the one who is lost, and does not give life to the heart within you?

why love with a shadow, instead of a whole? why withhold the very essence of what caused God to create us in the first place- a love so beyond understanding in this realm that it still remains a partial mystery?

when i look at living with passion, it is that which comes from selfless love and compassion- viewing life with a mind’s eye that every moment is precious and all are priceless. but – if we do not have this within, what good are we to those around us?

and how could we reflect the glorious love of God, who, going against his own nature, offered a way to have a right relationship forever with His created, living that passionate life here and beyond…the ultimate love?

so it is with a more sober heart i reflect on the recent deaths of three i have known. three, not one. dying like a flower before their time…dying from a lack of nutrients and the water of life….because each of them publicly lived a life that did not reflect the love of God.

another number

burning eyes in the alleyway of pain

can almost feel the sorrow of pelting rain

plastic bags washed up against the broken brick

gnarled hand and coat and walking stick

grasping a rail to break free from crippleness

fallen face the plastic card of hopelessness

groaning steam from ‘neath covered grate,

the old man waking in angel’s arms too late:

another number

in the endless wall of shame

another number

where the ending is the same.

This only part of the poem I originally published on here. It was published, but part of it disappeared.

This poem is simply about having compassion- nothing at all revolutionary. I am not venting about Obama, Islam, fascists, Christianity, or anything else that makes some people censor other people. My hope is that you will read it and dwell on it and remember those in our cities throughout the world- not the USA only- who fall through the cracks because there are too many people only looking to satisfy their selfishness. I trust you will not find this offensive. If you do, please leave me a comment saying so. I do not intende to offend anyone, I intend to perusade others to be more compassionate.

lost control?

Apparently, the news states that Carl- the young man I mentioned- lost control of his motorbike and slammed into the coal truck. That’s the official word…I’m not sure about this, especially since the coal trucks do drive erratically in those mountains.

It is instances like this that we should remind one another that life is too precious to not live it with purpose, wisdom, and a sensitive heart. You never know when your voice, your touch, your presence can bring comfort to someone’s life- be ready, in season and out of season…