Spirit shoots down
through the rough-hewn
wood so dull
all the way
to the place of the skull
and leaps upward
into and through
the cross beam
reaching the farthest
stretches of lands
embracing all in
Jesus’ wounded hands
then shooting
up into the embrace
of Eternal Grace
and through
that twisted, tortured
God-forsaken form
violence is forever shorn
and God’s Realm of mercy,
peace and justice
is born.

The guttural groan,
the animalistic moan
from the depths of
despair
when no one else is there;
you let it out, you can’t
help yourself
and you don’t care.
When your loved one
dies, you are in the
depths of despair —
and need to be there
to hide
until you decide
to live or die,
to live or die,
to live or die,
and if fortunate you be
and someone comes
forth your welfare to see,
then sit back and
let the healing be,
just let God’s love
embrace thee,
so you can go on
and, if fortunate, find love
again then
celebrate that one
and offer compassion
to every other one,
every other one,
every other one
who groans alone
in an animalistic moan.

In great wisdom (“I’m very bright,”
he is given to opine), he laid a
foundation of Styrofoam on top of
sand and stated, “It is good to have

a little cushion so the structure is
not too brittle.” Then on a dry, cool
day he stacked marshmallow Legos on
the foundation for the first floor.

“Now it is time for strength in the
structure,” he said, so he used peanut
brittle for the remaining floors and
finished the project with a gingerbread

roof and a candy cane cross on top and
his name attached to every side of the
structure in milk chocolate. Then for
the ribbon cutting, he invited all the

worshipers who trusted in the architect’s
opinion of himself and all he said he
would do for them. As they sang the first
hymn they noticed a little swinging and

swaying in the walls but they thought
that was just the rhythmic movement of
the second class, hired choir. Just
after the offering was received and

dedicated to the architect’s favorite
charity — his own foundation, the sun
began to beat down followed by clouds
and heavy rain and the temperature

dropped and the freezing rain turned
to snow and roof caved in and the walls
crumbled and the marshmallow Legos
which initially had melted then snapped

and all that was left was the Styrofoam,
which would be carted off to landfills
where it would remain for millions of
years and perhaps then used by another

architect who was given to opine that
he was very bright. He, too, would have
his true believer, evangelical followers
because there would always be a sucker

born every minute allegedly spoken by
another very bright person, P.T. Barnum,
who, at least, was smart enough to put
a canvas tent over his three-ring circus.

“Just get shed of it,”
is the Kentucky
vernacular for
getting rid of some-
thing, putting some-
thing away — material,
emotional — anything
that was interfering
with getting on with it.
And so, as it is
New Year’s Eve, it
is time for another
resolution — simplify,
simplify, simplify —
or as they say in
Kentucky, “Get shed
of it” — whatever
“it” happens to be.

In light of, well, most everything

(for example, three good TV
stations [PBS] out of four
gazillion; equivocating, hesitating
hosts of liberal news/opinion shows
as vs. take-no-prisoners hosts of
conservative post-truth, phony news/
entertainment shows; tweets, tweets,
tweets and more moronic tweets
from the soon to be Commander
in Tweets; democrats with their
thumbs up their butts; waiters and
waitresses who say “Perfect,” every
time you order anything including
the glass of water; zombie stares
at cell-phones, traffic in Phoenix),

I thought it would be nice to
get more into nature even though
I hike, bike or jog most everyday,

so I walked a ways down a local
trail and stopped to ask Brother
Hill how he was doing (to be more
specific, it was several rocks that
I asked) and Sister Cholla Cactus
if she were having a good day and
enjoying the unusual amount of
rain we had been having.

A jogger passed, and feeling a
bit awkward to be found talking
to rocks and trees, I just leaned on
my hiking sticks and said “Hi, have
a good run.”

The jogger answered, “Thanks.
Have a nice hike,” which I thought
was nice. People tend to be
friendlier in nature.

My other brothers and sisters along
the trail just stared at me, (Things
are quiet in the desert and I
imagine most animal, mineral and
vegetable are introverts.) but
I still felt a little like St. Francis
as I moseyed on back to the
condo to have a conversation
with my chocolate lab, who, on
occasion, will bark, especially
if he wants me to hurry up
with his dinner.

Living in W. Mich bubble, I guess
These are not my flash mobs, I confess
Heard only wonderful renditions
Of beloved Christmas music traditions
Hate going to malls for any reason
Prefer total avoidance Oct-Jan season
Perhaps one day I shall dress in “concert black”
To infiltrate a chorus, enter singing, await a future call back

It would take social
scientists, sociologists,
social workers or maybe
just a sociopath to ex-
plain the insane behavior
of youths in shopping malls
shouting “He’s got a gun,”
and tossing bottles of pop
at cops in food courts and
causing mayhem of all sorts.
Is it just kids blowing off
steam in between Christmas
and the New Year’s Eve chao-
tic scene or is it something
far deeper and darker and
scarier about what our country
is becoming and where it is
descending? Excuse the arm-
chair, sociological quarter-
backing but you know it is
always the adolescent who
puts on a show acting out
about the dysfunction in the
family because he or she
doesn’t have the filter in
place to face the rat race
and then there in the corner
of the food court stands the
sociopath with a smirk smack
dab in the middle of his pizza
pie hole face. Instead of
destructive Mall Mobs we need
a Flash Mob symphony’s beauty,
joy and grace.

This morning the day broke cold
even as the sun did shine.
He worked arthritic fingers — stiff and old,
and with exercise, he did just fine.

Even as the sun did shine,
he pulled on shorts and running shoes
and with exercise, he did just fine
saying to himself, no sense singing the blues.

He pulled on shorts and running shoes;
he grabbed his hiking sticks,
saying to himself, no sense singing the blues
‘cause jogging would be his mental, physical and spiritual fix.

He grabbed his hiking sticks
and down the stairs he made his way
‘cause jogging would be his mental, physical and spiritual fix,
on this gorgeous Arizona day.

And down the stairs he made his way.
This morning the day broke cold
on this gorgeous Arizona day
He worked arthritic fingers — stiff and cold.

Out on the trail he had such fun
doing his morning slow, slow run.

Wren Day 2016

Heavy-lidded clouds
Balefully lower twilight
Close once-sunny day

For a moment or two,
the darkness of disenchantment,
cynicism, doubt, draw back
at least a little, and all the
usual worldly witcheries
lose something of their
power to charm…*
and thus eventually to do
bodily and spiritual harm,
in the past,
with battle-axe and sword,
today —
a drone, surgically striking,
but with collateral damage,
it is declared we must afford
and thus justify with euphemistic piping,
and now the threat of a new arms race
(Really? Another euphemism to embrace?) —
the bluster, the false bravado
all at a frenetic tweeting pace.
Thank God we have at least one day
or a moment within the day to lay
such non-sense aside
but not in wishful thinking or denial hide
and with admitted incomplete, partial
still yearning faith, resolve to cease
and desist our waring ways
and seek to do the Savior’s justice for
the remainder of our earthly days.

*Frederick Buechner, The Faces of Jesus