He’s only sixteen, 

And completely unprepared for life.

So was I. I had no idea what it was like.

But that’s ok. He’ll live it anyway. And so have I.

Surely he’ll break up and flounder.

And maybe he’ll get “right”.

I don’t know if I’ve ever done that.

But that’s ok. I live it anyway.

And he will too.

And it is the best we have to give.

And when we love each other, that’s still something.

Hot air balloons hovering over the city.

I wonder where they land.

Somewhere. And I don’t understand

How they do that. But they do.

I am like a balloon 

Now that I think about it.

It's private property, they say.

That’s right for now. For now,

It’s in your power to endlessly seek gain

Without a thought of those who have no place.

But the tables are about to turn everlastingly

In the favor of those whose home

Is not of this world.

I always thought, when people said “work harder”

That they meant to work faster,

To be more busy,

More rushed.

Hustle is the word that comes to mind.

And I’ve never been good at that. 

I struggle to sustain it

Since it so often comes with a kind of anxiety 

As if I am making up for an inherent deficit.

But I have found a new meaning for “work harder”:

Work more consistently, without stopping, overthinking, or getting distracted

As long as it takes, until the project is completed.

I find this definition to be far more useful.

It is extremely effective for getting things done

And much more peaceful than what I thought they meant.

I once heard that strangers who wandered into Sodom

Were robbed, beaten, sometimes raped, and then cast out.

I'm not sure if that's completely true, but if so,

No wonder such a city met with fire from the skies.

I once heard from a homeless person 

That the hardest city to survive in

Was the second-largest city

In the state that makes its living

From gambling and prostitution.

Lure them in, take their virtue and their money,

Leave them broken, then spit them out,

Chase them away, from the sight of those

Who make their living on the process.

And I can't help but think that fire waits

To pour itself down on such a place.

There seems to be power in quietly continuing

After others have retired from the game.

It is not the kind of power that will save your soul.

But it is good for getting ahead when you’ve fallen behind

So long as you have shed unnecessary incumbrances

And embraced simplicity and frugality.

They are coming to me

From the far reaches of heaven.

So that I needn’t seek or reach.

This old house, weathered and gray,

Sits hunched around us,

With its windmill

That no longer spins,

And its fallow fields surrounding.

And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,

Rocking ever after, 

Grateful for the ruin of that 

Which once we thought was so important.

And the children watch with wide eyes 

From the parlor window,

And wonder at the love

That once they thought had died 

But that now they plainly see 

To their amazement

Has only begun.

Perhaps the reason that He feeds us day by day

Meal by meal, moment by moment, 

Is that he wants to see us more often.

He wants to have the interaction,

To rejoice in the exchange.

Me too. I like to serve out tidbits day by day,

Meal by meal, morsel by morsel.

I like to see you here,

To feel the warmth of your embrace.

But the world seems to have the attitude of

“Let’s take care of the needy in large waves

Let’s stock them up and streamline the process.

Let’s have less contact, less interaction,

But give them more stuff in the exchange.

That’s good if the goal is to move more stuff.

But I think I like His way the better.

Can you walk with me in the lonely way?

I hope so, because I miss you.

The circle turns round and round.

The soul of man is drawn toward God

Then falls into decay. And round and round,

And up and down it turns, but not quite.

It is more like the orbit of planets around a sun,

Not a perfect circle, but an imperfect eliptical pattern.

Out it flys away from the souce of life 

And into the cold unfeeling void.

Then at it’s outward limit 

It turns back toward

The source of life

Hurdled by the need for warmth

And draws as close as it can get without

Being burned in the brightness of the sun’s glory.

And for a season they rejoice in each other.

Until the planet, once again, feels the need

To wander far from home 

And gain experience.

And round and round it goes.

And such is the journey of the soul.

We like to think that it is an all an upward path to glory.

But we forget that even He who rose to be

On the right hand of The Eternal

First had to wander far

Into the depths 

Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmth

Before He was able to make his way back home.

The tortoise and the hare,

It’s a story that I heard 

From a child.

And I have tried both.

I have raced for the finish line.

And I have done my best to be steady

In the endless pursuit of more.

But the race itself seems to imply

That what I have is not enough,

That I must rely upon my wits,

My inward tortoise or my hare.

But what if I am already rich 

And do not need the prize?

What if it’s enough 

To be rich inside my mind?

And what if every little thing I need

An unseen hand, had promised to supply.

Well, then that would be a different story, wouldn’t it.

It’s strange to see how people gather.

Just a few miles away, 

Homelessness is everywhere.

And every store has a security guard.

And here, in the suburb, there aren’t any,

Homeless people that is, or security guards.

And I don’t know what to say about that.

It’s just an observation. 

And yet, it’s also a comfort that if I choose

I can put some space between myself and the world

Where I have to constantly think about things being stolen

Or where to park because they patrol the parking lots at night.

But it also means that I must venture out 

If I desire to be touched by those

Who are different than myself.

You reached out to me today in a song,

Though you didn’t know you did.

And I heard the sound

And answered,

Though you couldn’t hear it,

Or perhaps you did,

And answered on the wind. 

And perhaps I will hear the sound of your reply 

One day, in a song, or in the way a leaf blows in the wind.

And round and round we call, round and round,

Until finally we come back home

To the very sound

Of each other’s voices.

Won’t that be well? Yes. 

That will be well with us both.

God give me patience for the day.

I saw you where the sky meets the horizon,

A flash of unexpected perfect light.

And it colored my morning

In the beauty that is only you.

And I realized to my delight

That we were not so far away

From each other as we thought.

And now I sit as patiently as I can

Awaiting the rising of your essence

Into the middle of my sky. How I long

For your face to shine down upon me,

Sweet child of my delight, estranged,

But ever in my heart. It’s you for whom

I have been waiting. And I can barely breath

For anticipation. But take your time. Rise, rise,

Slowly, and only by your own intent.

For I have been up waiting,

Waiting when the storm clouds gathered,

And the terrors gave you fright.

Yes I have kept my vigil

Through the darkness of the night.

And finally, after all these years, it’s time.

Reformation doesn’t come by complaining 

About a perceived misallocation of means.

True reformation begins in the heart.

It is an inward motion, a conviction 

That one's way of being needs to change,

Which inevitably results in a reallocation of means,

The means of the individual.

Looking forward, I see family, the family of God

Knit together with the chords of love and sacrifice,

And the hope of what we were before we fell.

And the One who knows sheds the sacred comfort

Through grace upon all those who turn to Him,

And through knowledge to some few

Who sacrifice in similitude

Of Him.

The idea of the “right way” often causes us to miss the movement

And in the movement we have life, the life that moves

At the breath of that silent voice that speaks

In whispers, out of the unseen place.

So that, the right way is the way

That hears and moves

And changes,

Humbling bending, blowing, finding life

In the most unexpected places.

John 3:7-8 Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.

When I was young, I used to pray the way I wish,

But I no longer care to play games I cannot win.

Instead, I skip ahead to the final thing I hope for.

I imagine the end result clearly as if

It has already happened

And give thanks.

And if

There swells within my bosom

That unmistakable joy of confirmation,

I simply believe that it will be so.

If it does not, I let it go.

It is a way to stop trifling with God 

And begin the work of aligning our will with His.

Keep your eyes forward.

Don’t look back. 

Some are lost in a cause.

And others can’t forgive.

But you will not help them 

By pretending that darkness is light.

All the same, be kind.

Kindness is part of the way.

And toward what, toward what?

Toward the light that shines out of the Holy Place.