Being honest

If I am being honest,

and if you listen carefully,

you can hear it.

My voice mixed in

with the shouts of others.

First it joins from the edge

of the procession, 

shouting "Hosanna!" 

in a cacophony of hope.

And then, later, 

you can hear it again.

But this time is comes from

a place within me that 

I like to keep hidden.

(Where you find selfishness,

envy, and greed.)

Perhaps it is only whispered,

but still, it comes from my lips.

So ugly I can't even write it down.

Thank God this is not

the ending of the

story.

The Prayer of a Sixty-one Year Old

 Dear Father,

Thank you for every single one of

my sixty-one years.

I hope for more time on this earth

because I truly love seeking the things not of this earth. 

A spiritual paradox.

Faith, family, and friendships grow stronger 

as relationships grow deeper, roots intertwining.

Thank you for the people in my life

(and for those I have yet to meet).

May I listen to their stories with gentleness and compassion.

Life is different at sixty-one. 

I notice reverence has become a more constant companion.

Everything is holy and sacred when you remember to notice.

Be still. And know.

I try.

Even though it startles me at times,

I thank you for my gray hair and wrinkly skin,

reminders that I have lived.

That I am alive.

This place in my life finally allows me to recognize

it is the questions I love discovering.

Having the answers is not so important.

Adopting a posture and an attitude of seeking.

Counting on your promise that when we do that

you will be found.

My perspective and my capacity for understanding 

change with time but you remain constant.

For that I am so very grateful.

Learning to lean into your love. Again and again.

And then again.

Releasing and receiving, both.

I think about the plans you had for me

when my mother first held me in her arms,

and I wonder how many times I have resisted those plans. 

How many wrong turns taken.

Missed opportunities.

And still, 

you motion for me to come into your arms

in a loving embrace that I will never outgrow.

Now I begin each day

trying to be more careful and intentional.

Trying to notice you at the center.

Trying not to waste the moments.

Sixty-one years.

The world has changed.  And so have I. 

But not you.

Thank God.

One person

I don't know how to help

and that is paralyzing,

creating fear so great

it threatens to snuff out hope.

(Yes, you feel that too?)

The pandemic is tightening

its grip in so many places

while here we are happy

to be able to finally return to normal

and do our best to forget about it

because we are "so over it."

(Except for the people who lost

loved ones, lost businesses and jobs, 

lost their health... it is not a mere 

shifting of attitude for them.

And don't forget the people who live 

where vaccines are not available.

Where are their choices?)

We are not taking care of the Earth

and the repercussions are

being felt in so many ways.

What possible difference

can one person make in a crisis so big?

How do I move from reverence to action?

(You ask that too?)

People are starving,

while so much of our country struggles with

the ill effects of too much.

Of just about everything.

White privilege is something

that makes me uncomfortable

in my own skin, 

but I can't seem to find my role

in the effort to end systemic racism.

(Do you share the same questions?)

Children die every day 

from illnesses that can easily be treated.

Every child lost has a name

and a family who mourns their passing.

People show up on our nation's doorstep

fleeing violence and poverty

and we can't figure out how to 

put hope into their future.

(I see it breaks your heart too.)

Yes, it's such a long list and

this is only the beginning.

The answers are so very complicated.

I am one person 

living in a small town in America.

The only thing I know for certain is that

I am not doing enough.

Please, tell me what you do.

Show me how to help.

It can be the smallest of things,

just please help me see.

And in doing so, 

you will be giving me hope

so that I might pass it along.

The Brave One

I watch my daughter climb up into

the large faded-red truck, her water tender, 

to drive over the mountains,

carrying the responsibility of burn boss

along with drip torches, tools for a prescribed burn.

Pouring down rain here at home,

unseasonably dry on the other side.

"Be safe" you call out,

as she heads out the driveway,

knowing she can't hear you over the noise of the engine.

Not ready to fully consider

another daughter's desire to rappel

from a helicopter to gain access to a wildfire.

An experience that must be earned.

"Don't give me the details until the season is over,"

you say at the end of a long hug,

even though you have already stoked your

imagination with YouTube clips of shoulder taps

signaling the next rappeler's exit 

Not being even remotely prepared

to have more than two years go by without seeing 

your grown up little girl who calls Uganda her home.

One trip after another 

pushed back by the pandemic.

Grandchildren growing up before your eyes,

pixelated on the computer screen.

"I miss you," implies the hope of a reunion,

and the emptiness of the miles between.

Not thinking too closely

about our oldest who finds joy

in being lifted off high places by the wind 

paragliding on the thermals.

"Have fun," you say, wondering what 

it must feel like soaring so high, 

knowing you eventually need to come down, 

but not thinking about that part now.

When you think too closely 

about any of this,

you begin to see all the shadows

where the worries like to hide.

And so you pull your chair

into a patch of sun, close your eyes

and feel the warmth on your face.

Letting go

as best as you can.

Maybe that makes you the brave one.

                        

BirthEarthDay

She shares her special day

with the Earth -

April 22nd.

Fittingly, her totem, a mama bear,

known for the fierceness 

of her love.

So powerful. So protective.

Look closer,

a gentle compassion woven in.

Strength made stronger

through humility,

the authentic kind.

Always paying attention

to how she can take care of others.

Never seeking the credit.

She walks carefully on this Earth,

and still she leaves marks of her existence,

footprints barely visible

unless you are careful to look.

See those trees over there?

She planted those with her father.

There, that stream?

The focus of her current work.

That milkweed plant

growing tall in the middle of her yard?

Oh, for the butterflies, 

yes of course.

See her sitting in the chair

with two grown girls

piled on her lap?

So very confident they are loved.

I hear her in harmony,

in laughter, 

in words which are chosen carefully.

(She doesn't like to use her claws.)

Offering an arm to her mom,

who is always teaching us

the love of family.

She never thinks she 

does enough. 

But to those who know her,

she has made all the difference.

Happy Earth Day, sister-friend.

I am so glad you were born.

Good Friday

When shouts of praise are drowned out 

by voices of hate

becoming the only thing we can hear.

Leaving the "Hosanna" trapped within,

a half-finished thought, 

lacking the courage to become a voice.

Who was this man?

Beaten, mocked, spit on.

How did such love become

the object of consuming hate?

Fed by our need for being right?

Our misguided notion of religion?

Our incomplete understanding of God?

When the light of the world

was blown out,

with a collective breath,

leaving a curl of smoke in the darkness,

it must have felt

like the end. 

And still, the same darkness

lingers in our souls, 

but only if we let it.

Hate sometimes speaks the loudest,

but only if we listen to it.

Ask yourself, in the silence

and the darkness,

is it “Hosanna" I am shouting?

Ask yourself,

have I learned the giving

and receiving of forgiveness?

Good Friday.

A whispering of the hope

to come.

Just two people

No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember our first kiss.
But I remember every single detail
about our first hug.

It was on the sidewalk on Main Street
near the Overtime Tavern where we had been.
Arriving separately,
but leaving at the same time.

Bill the dog, waiting in the back
of Old Yeller (remember that pickup?)
parked in front of City Hall,
which makes the town sound bigger
and grander than it actually is.

It was not a first date
or any date at all for that matter.
It was just two people
enjoying each other's company
after work over a beer, belly-up to the bar.

For an Iowa farm girl,
he was an exotic cross between a hippy and a logger.
(I wonder what I was to him?)
His conversation was rapid and unpredictable,
as if bouncing off the bumpers in a pinball machine,
nearly impossible to catch up with.

As I recall, he mostly talked
and I mostly listened. Which is how I like it.
I understood some of what he said.

We left the bar together
and walked toward our vehicles.
Mine must have been parked
behind The Journal, where I worked.

And then suddenly,
I'm not sure how it happened,
I was in his arms in a perfect hug
that was exactly the right thing.
Unexpectedly perfect.

...

Now, many years later,
so much has changed.
The bar is a bistro, Old Yeller is gone,
the half-finished house is a mostly finished home.
The outhouse is now the recycling center.
The outdoor shower moved inside.
Kids have grown. Four beautiful daughters.
Grandkids arrived. Another on the way.

But one thing hasn't changed -
in his arms is still where I belong.
Exactly the right thing.
A perfect fit. Then and now.

...

(And no matter how hard I try,
I honestly cannot tell you about that first kiss.
More than thirty-two years ago.
But I'm guessing it was a doozy.)