I pray like a fly
darting from one thought
to another landing
on friends, topics, tables
of discussion never
staying long
enough for a hand
to come down
a hand upon my shoulder
on the front row pew or
upon my heart, hand of
God keeping me still or
her hand holding
please keep Ryan
safe on his trip.
The liminal space between
past accomplishments and future opportunities?
In these black robes like tomb cloths
this is our long, drawn out funeral.
And like Christ we’ll die.
For some, the death of the student
no more homework—ever.
For others, the death of the dependant
no more mooching.
For others, the death of the directionless
no more drifting.
For this is our Easter weekend,
today we die—joyfully, triumphantly,
a death befitting our lives here.
We celebrate in these tomb cloths,
our cocoons from which we will emerge.
We will fall into deep sleep this weekend,
our bodies and brains finally at rest.
But when will we rise?
And to what end?
Called to follow Christ,
we’ll rise on Sunday, ready to worship
ready to share our own good news—which
is from Christ and in Christ and through Christ
and is Christ.
But everyone expects us to rise on Sunday.
More pressingly, to where shall we venture
on Monday? Some of us with promising job offers,
others with hopes for school, and many of us
jobless and frightened.
Yet we have the example of Christ.
Jesus was the word made flesh made word.
First, as the Word and lurking inside the speeches
and prophecies of the prophets, then as a man,
his life translated into deeds, and now
as the good news, the gospel, the message.
So we were once application forms and high school transcripts
and then in flesh we lived out the potential our parents
and teachers had prophesied, so now we, once again,
will be put back into the words of friends and classmates
not yet finished, we will be put back onto paper
a new transcript complete, a diploma—a piece of paper
that captures our actions in words.
Soon, we’ll be further translated on paper with
letters of recommendations like passionate epistles
with new application forms for countless paths.
And perhaps someday we’ll return to this place,
some far-off year we’ll venture back
nostalgia rich and deep like petrified wood,
yet our memory will be fluid
will flow across these few acres of land
and swirl around buildings perhaps changed or missing
and a smile might creep across
or a hint of regret will glisten
in both, a peace will arise
as we remember our collective journey
in this place.
You've given something I didn't request
And now I owe you something you haven't asked for.
I don't know you.
I don't know your name.
When I say I'm a pacifist,
know that doesn't mean I'm agaisnt you.
When I say I'm trying to be a peace-maker,
know that I don't look down on you.
I see you, early twenties,
my age, young.
Buttery brown skin against
digitized camoflauge.
Passersby offer thanks, hand shakes,
a ride home.
What makes us different?
You, a young woman,
a private, black,
silver flip phone,
duffel bag.
Me, a young man,
a student, white,
black touch phone,
roller.
Why does this moment hurt,
smarting like a burn,
discomfortingly severe somewhere
beneath my skin?
To be clear:
I am proud of you,
proud of the sacrifices you've made,
proud of your willingness to protect my family.
But I'm not proud of your title: soldier.
I'm not proud of your aged generals, your mis-fired rockets,
your uneducated comrades, your stray bullets.
But do they really belong to you?
No more than anarchist punks, poorly written essays
and protest letters, collegiate snobs, or ill-advised
flag burnings belong to me.
Yet I claim them.
I will own these moments of disrespect.
I will own my own sheltering, my gift-horse mouth-looking,
the snide comments, the sweltering self-righteousness,
this nouveau legalism.
This is the brand burned onto me
when I say I'm a peace-maker, a pacifist.
I gladly accept it in the hope of re-fashioning
this brand, and only by being branded may I alter
any perception about what it means to be a person
who chooses to live for peace.
But what of your brand?
What will you own?
And how will you aim to change it?
You collect your things to go,
boots clunking toward the automatic door.
Where those boots will march, I don't know.
Where those boots have already trenched, I'll never be sure.
Of what can I be sure? Not for what you may die, sadly.
The smearing of such assurance comes from paint brushes
on both sides.
Oil-based paints.
Lead paint.
Blood paint.
Money-funded paint.
The paint on protest signs.
The smearing has been universal,
yet in this moment, when you're real,
watching you walk away, the paint is a lot thinner.
Drive safe.
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