There is just something about pure milk

In the morning.

A tall glass

As white as snow.

Untainted by coffee

Or cereal flakes

Or chocolate.

There is just something about the taste

So familiar, yet unfamiliar.

All of it

The same consistency

On my tongue

And in the back of my throat

And in my stomach.

There is just something about His word

In the morning.

A tall glass

As white as snow.

Because when I read the word

I read:

                If someone says,

                “I love God,”

                And hates his brother,

                He is a liar;

                For he who does not love his brother

                Whom he has seen,

                How can he love God

                Whom he has not seen?  —1 John 4:20

And I drew a line in the dust and ashes

With the tip of my blade

Between myself and my brother

And I watched to see to which side

My Lord stepped.

Because when I read the word

I read:

                And the world is passing away,

                And the lust of it;

                But he who does the will of God

                Abides forever.  —1 John 2:17

There is just something about the pure milk

Of the word.

Like a newborn baby

I cry out,

O LORD!

Like Job

I cry out:

                “I have heard of You

                By the hearing of the ear,

                But now my eye sees You.

                Therefore I abhor myself,

                And repent in dust and ashes.”  —Job 42:5-6

He is the way, the truth, and the life.

And you claim to know the truth?

You, a worker of iniquity.

Yet I am also a worker of iniquity.

I have tried to succeed by my own hands,

And at the end of a day’s work

I have not washed them clean;

Yet He has washed all of me.

O Lord, that I may be restored

In the joy of Your salvation;

That I may teach Your ways

And not shout my own opinions.

For I have said, “Dogs are greater than swine,

Having more use alive than dead.”

I have argued evening and morning and at noon,

Until our distance was more than I could bear.

And I cried out to You,

Oh, my Father in heaven,

That I may be perfect like You.

That I may be like You.

For even the shadow of the smallest bird

Closes me in darkness as he passes,

And there I would remain in my agony

If not for the hope of You.

I listen to them argue

About the greatness of the dog,

And the greatness of the swine;

Both are wicked enemies of Yours.

They are wicked enemies of mine,

And I hold my tongue in their presence;

Yet even they do not harass me

Or instill in me this anguish.

But it is you who called yourself my brother,

And walked with me in the house of God;

Oh, you who has tormented me with hatred

Because you love the swine before the dog.

Please, take your swine,

Just as pride goes before destruction;

And my heart will break

At the frailty of your strength.

I pray most earnestly for you

Who judges with great measure,

Not the sin, but the speck;

Not the evil, but the appearance.

For you whose judgment

Will be measured back to you;

For you who I love,

Though you do not love me.

My heart is heavy;

My sorrows have multiplied.

I cast my burden on the Lord,

For I know He will sustain me.

Yet I am torn;

I am heartbroken and I am frail;

I am overcome by my iniquities;

And I am crying out to You, O Lord!

Do not turn Your ears from my voice;

For even my own father has done so.

Do not turn Your eyes from my pain;

For even my own mother has done so.

Do not turn Your back on me;

For even my own brothers and sisters have done so.

And I cry, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove!

I would fly away and be at rest.

“Indeed, I would wander far off,

And remain in the wilderness.

I would hasten my escape

From the windy storm and tempest.”

I am a beggar; I am a wicked man.

I am a poor man at God’s doorstep.

The Lord shall hear my voice,

 And He shall save me.

Matthew 6:48; Matthew 7:1-2; Psalm 51:12-13; Psalm 55:6-8, 12-14, 16-17

So there was a

Closet

And a

Basement

And a

Three bath house.

And there was a

Troll

In his

Closet

And a

Freak

In his

Basement

And a

Prince

In his

Three bath house.

And in the

Closet

There was nothing but

Darkness

And in the

Basement

There was nothing but

Lamplight

And in the

Three bath house

There was nothing but

Sunshine.

And in the

Closet

There was one closed

Door

And in the

Basement

There were three closed

Doors

And in the

Three bath house

There were seventeen closed

Doors.

So the troll was afraid

Because he was afraid

Of the dark

And the freak was afraid

Because he was afraid

Of the lamplight

And the prince was afraid

Because he was afraid

Of the world.

And the troll prayed

For light

And the freak prayed

For sunshine

And the prince prayed

For love.

So the troll opened

The door

To the

Closet

And there was

Light

And the freak walked

Upstairs

From the

Basement

And there was

Sunshine

And the prince waited

In the

Three bath house

And there was

Light

And there was

Sunshine

And there was

Nothing more.

So the troll loved the

Light

So much he left his

[Fear]

For the

Light

And there was love

And the freak loved the

Son

So much he left his

[Fear]

For the

Son

And there was love

And the prince feared the

World

So much he hid in his

[Fear]

From the

World

And where was love?

O Lord, my heart cries out to You!

It cries out in anguish,

For the ribs are a cage that keep it quiet

And the world cannot hear

But only You can hear.

 But what is as fleeting as the heart

Which will cry one day and rejoice the next?

And what is as fleeting as the heart

Which will beat one day and be still the next?

O Lord, I cry out to You!

And how much more do I cry out

Knowing that I have been saved by grace,

For I know Christ and Him crucified

And I search for His face at His feet.

Because Your face will look on me with compassion

And Your eyes have been red for my sake,

Your face that I have dreamed of night and day

Yet I have seen nothing of it.

O Lord, I praise You!

For I know I have seen Your face

Wherever there is compassion,

And I have seen your face

Wherever there is love.

And it is Your face I long for

In a crowd of strangers,

Your face, O Lord, I cry out for

In a crowd where everyone knows my name.

O Lord, I pray to You!

For my prayers leave me often

And I am overcome by my iniquities

Like a cage that keeps my spirit quiet

But only You can hear.

And what is like the spirit

Which cries out for You the living God?

What is like the spirit

Which loves the lamb and also the lion?

O Lord, I sing to You!

My heart sings to You

Though it is heavy,

And my spirit sings to you

For it soars on Your wings.

And where shall I go without You,

My shield and my rock?

Where shall I go,

O Lord, where shall I go?

He said that God stopped the rain for them, there on God’s Corner. He said it was like a faucet and God turned the knob, and then all of the children came out singing: “Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” Meanwhile, the rain fell in my backyard until all of the flowers were in full bloom.

She said the ocean is only beautiful from a distance. She said to respect it because if the sea-creatures we do know about are so terrifying, imagine all of those creatures we don’t know about. Yet I could hear God’s glory in every swell of the sea, where I was baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

He said he could see God working through me. He said I had spoken with much wisdom. And I especially smiled when he said that God can even use a donkey to speak for Him.

She said she was disowning me. She said I shouldn’t have danced in the rain on that Sunday morning. Dripping wet, I was happy because she couldn’t disown me if I wasn’t first a part of her family.

He said that there were about a thousand tadpoles in the pond the last time he looked. He said to come back in two weeks and there would be a symphony like I wouldn’t believe. But there was already a symphony at once the most beautiful and melancholy in all the world.

She said she lost all faith and hope in me and then she smiled. She said she didn’t know what I could do to gain back her faith. Though I smiled at her because there is faith in love.

He said time stops for love. He said that once it starts again it has to go a thousand times as fast to catch back up. I take heart, knowing that love comes from God and it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.

I said it was the perfect day. I said I wished all days were this perfect. And if it was different, O Lord, it would have been perfect just the same.

You said to pick up our crosses and follow You. You said that he who does not take his cross and follow You is not worthy of You. O, but Lord, they kill us with our love.

They say that everything comes back to the heart of a man

Because when he is anxious

It beats very fast

As it does more so when he is excited, happy, or joyful.

And when he is sad

It beats slowly

Like the way a cricket plays its melancholy tune in the night.

And when he is very sad

Almost heartbroken

It falls violently from his chest and makes a loud thump on his foot.

And when he picks it up

To put it back in

He tries to fill that void from which he cries out to the Lord.

And when he loves

It beats both fast and slow

Like there is no tomorrow and like today is only a dream

From which he will shortly

Awake.

This is the tale of two sticks. One of the sticks was in the shape of a question mark and the other a zigzag. He loved both sticks. He loved the one which was a question mark because he questioned its shape. And he loved the zigzag, too. He knew that at one time the zigzag had been connected to the vine and called the vine home because he could see the scars from where it had had fruit. But now it was just a dead old branch and he felt bad for it because it was very twisted and contorted. He imagined it had been through many big storms and had eventually fallen away from the vine. He saw no reason that the storms should miss this branch and that branch and hit the zigzag which was now so brittle. Yet, as a branch himself, he knew the storms well and he knew how fast he had to hold to the vine in their constant comings and goings.

It was the beginning of spring. Maybe a week or two into it and the flowers were starting to bloom and all of the branches were preparing for fruit, all those attached to the vine, that is. And the smell in the air was glorious. And everything around him was beautiful. Except for the stick which was a zigzag. So she broke the stick. She broke it once. And she broke it twice. And she broke it three times. Then he lost count. And then truly everything was beautiful. Except he had loved the stick. So many years ago, he was that zigzagging stick.

Yet the question mark was really more appropriate for him. For he questioned the slightest change in the wind and every wave in the sea that was driven and tossed by the wind. And he questioned that broken stick on the ground though all that remained was beautiful. And he smiled because all that remained was beautiful.

He thought that it looked like a long and slender, orange fish wrapped around his finger. Or perhaps like a snake. But a snake is a less endearing image, especially because one may be inclined to imagine a serpent eating its own tail; and if one also contemplates the Biblical serpent, it is ever more terrifying an idea. Therefore, it was like a long and slender, orange fish wrapped around his finger.

And he daydreamed about this dream he had had about an orange fish and how he had put the small fish in a small bowl and it would not grow or swim. So he put the fish in a larger bowl, but it still did not grow or swim. So he put another fish in the bowl and that fish grew and ate the small orange fish, and then it too stopped growing and swimming. So he put the fish in a larger bowl, but it still did not grow or swim. And when he put another fish in the bowl, that fish grew and ate the fish that had eaten the small orange fish, and then it too stopped growing and swimming. Now this went on for a couple of years until there was no bowl big enough for the fish that had eaten the fish that had eaten the fish and so on and so forth all of the way back to the original orange fish. So he put the fish in the largest bowl he could find, the ocean. And lo and behold, the fish swam, for he watched it get smaller and smaller…

But then he realized that the fish only appeared to be swimming because all of the other fish were swimming out of its mouth one by one until finally he saw the small orange fish swim out and disappear in the light and distance.

And when he woke from his dream he was happy because when he woke from his daydream he was in the light, for he was with the Lord and the Lord was with him, and he left the long and slender, orange fish on the table by the door when he left because he knew the bread would get stale in the refrigerator without its orange tie.

Yet it is written: “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

When he smokes his cigarettes I find it is very easy to talk to him. He must be used to it now, because whether I am outside already or walking around the corner, I never fail to find him when he is smoking his cigarettes. Perhaps he just smokes a lot so that it is not exceedingly difficult to find him outside smoking, but I like to imagine it is something more profound than this; besides, I like to imagine he will live long enough to watch his girls grow up.

There are two things we talk about, in general, and they are his daughters and God. And no matter how many times we have talked with the same words and the same questions and the same sarcasms, there is still something so sincere about the conversation. Because I know when he goes to Church every Sunday he talks to God, but God doesn’t talk to him; and I know that he loves to watch his girls play sports, and that they have their dad’s height, or in other words, they are both taller than me—a point that comes up fairly often. And he knows that when I stand there and talk to him, I have nowhere else to be; and when I talk to God, I do it with a walking stick in the middle of the forest, or bare foot in the rain, or huffing and puffing up a hill on a bike, or in the middle of the day, talking to him while he smokes his cigarette.

And sometimes he takes out another cigarette because it is better, he says, than sitting at his computer twiddling his fingers. Our conversation lasts as long as the cigarette, slowly smoldering to its last breath. He sighs and squeezes what is left in between his fingers and grinds the burnt parts in to the ground. Then he ends the conversation, always, with his eyes lowered as he discusses his anticipation of happy hour or that beer on the beach with his friends. And I know that sometimes happy hour entails picking up his daughters from school or driving to some far off basketball game with a camera and a big foam hand. Though it is always apparent to me when he turns to go inside that he is wondering why love doesn’t seem real until a man has several beers inside of him.

So I was searching for an answer for him. And instead I was told all of these things to which I have to conform. Because they say I need a house and I need all the luxuries of a house and all the luxuries of money which is easier to obtain with the luxuries of education by which I can have all the luxuries of luxury until I am standing still for a moment and watching the slowly smoldering cigarette. And I am finally wondering why so few conform to love. Because everything else I count as loss.

When he opens the door to go back inside, he says, “As always, the conversation was good.”

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is a strange request.

A platypus is real;

It is a mammal that lays eggs

And apparently it is venomous too

Which I didn’t know but know now

Because of a child to whom this knowledge is real.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps I should explain.

Some people, they don’t say much of anything

And others say much, yet they don’t say anything

And still others speak their mind concerning everything

Yet of things real, they don’t say much of anything.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is really rather simple.

Like the bird in the forest

That called out in melody

And when I asked him why

He listened and then called out again;

And like the other bird in the forest

That called out in melody

And when I asked her why

She listened and then called out again.

Tell me something real.

Perhaps it is like a melody.

Because when I stood in the heart of the forest

There were no longer two birds calling out in intervals

But one melody rising to the Lord.

Tell me something real.