After Holy Pond

The story below is a sequel to Holy Pond. Its ending is like much of Scripture, pondering mercy in an unresolved space. Which is a unique mercy unto itself. I often forget this.

Holy Pond is well, I can tell. She was never mine from the start.

The scattered remnants of birthdays and barns will be hard to collect.

I will miss the pier. The sound of flips, trips and “I got a bite”.

This morning I sip Jack, not coffee, as the sun warms the dew. If that sounds like heresy then I suggest you watch the morning news.

This chair, with the arm torn off, has a stinging tattered edge. Its mine for now. If I sit shifted, I have elbow space to write about a mercy. But something about this edge reminds me of beauty.

I feel guilty for wondering what others lost.

So I will sit here a little longer, and wonder about these geese and how they managed the wind?

- B.Oaks

I challenge you to release your previous thoughts about Jonah. Instead contrast Jonah from just before chapter 1 verse 1 with the context immediately after chapter 4:11. The story of Jonah is a complex one with many applications. It ends with an unresolved strange look at Life, Grace and cattle. I put this here to give us all license to stop trying to put a bow on circumstances.

“7 But when dawn came up the next day, God appointed a worm that attacked the plant, so that it withered. 8 When the sun rose, God appointed a scorching east wind, and the sun beat down on the head of Jonah so that he was faint. And he asked that he might die and said, “It is better for me to die than to live.” 9 But God said to Jonah, “Do you do well to be angry for the plant?” And he said, “Yes, I do well to be angry, angry enough to die.” 10 And the Lord said, “You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night and perished in a night. 11 And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?””
— Jonah 4:7-11

Repentanc-ing

I have longed with all my heart to sit in the dining car of the northwest rail and see the rising sun’s warmth on the Canadian Rockies. 

And here, as the train sifts the morning clouds, with hot coffee, fresh orange scones, jam and linen napkins, there is a familiar smell. An unfriendly odor. So my gaze slides from the window to an invisible creature seated my opposite in a miserable chair.

It is too late.
A mortal wound and the bite is fresh. My blood now runs through the veins of a thief. A life stolen to satisfy guilt. 

Did the other passengers see? Do they care? Did they not smell the malice? Do they drink coffee as I die alone?

Wither does the train now move? Whither do I move? Away the sun sifts cold and black. I wish to dash but drift as death drips beyond directions into nothingness. 

An eye for an eye! With the last reserves of strength my left hand grasps a silver fork as my right hand prepares the trap. Vengeance will fuel my final reach. I smirk, knowing the creature will soon join my tomb.

I dash upon the creature's chair and press the weapon home. Again and Again. Fool foul upon my brow! Another successful assassination.

Terror. Ironic shattered terror.

My fingers have not gripped flesh, but the stem of a looking glass. My reflection fractured and the wound is mine. Everything: the scones, butter, jam and even this stupid mirror are now covered with my bloody ignorance. 

If I hurry I can clean this mess before the creature sees. Out dam spot! Who will wash me clean of guilt and shame? Who can absolve me of these stains?

And worse, much much worse, I have squandered the sunrise.

Burdened with regret I hang my head and cry.

Then the creature says softly: “It’s alright, we will try again tomorrow. Can I serve you some fresh scones and jam?”

Work - part 1

Some thoughts on living out Micah 6:8

Gospel Fluency

leads to: Gospel Curiosity

leads to: Gospel Innovation

leads to: Gospel Centered Communities

I’m thinking about how fluency is manifested. Then the importance of curiosity in our endeavors. Right now, as I sit by this fire I think this is a path for the Kingdom of God in my own life.


Sweet Creative Mind

I wrote this over 12 years ago. Still true today.

The painting is from 2014. Wood board. 36x36 with 2.5 inch relief

We tucked in the kids and headed to the kitchen. It was that time of day when spouses finish chores and debrief the ebb and flow of life. Tonight the dishes were piled a bit higher because the ladies of the house had made cupcakes, frosted cookies and marshmallow strawberry treats. This is ironic because our family does not eat many sweets. In fact, there is not one sweet treat made in our home which does not end up at our church or neighbors house.

So there we were, cleaning dishes and chatting about parenting, friends, work and what not. Then came the blind side. "I sure love cooking, but these dishes gotta go" It took a moment to sink in before I realized what she said. The girl who claims she can't draw stick figures had just confessed she was an artist.

The curtain had been pulled back. It was a glimpse into the sweet creative mind. The mind that delights in creating. In my bride I saw a reflection of God's image which takes tasteless things and turns them into beautiful objects, sweet and delightful.

Many people think artist are creative. This is only part true. Real creativity is rooted in love. God is love and He is the ultimate artist. Every time we create (songs, cupcakes, friendships, houses, paintings, jet planes, heart valves etc..) we reflect the Father's image. When creating is born from love you have art. Life is a grand canvas, and he has given us a sweet creative mind.



Ephesians 2:10 
For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

Dancing

We all have a sheet neath the weight at our feet.
It feels hammered by sin, loss or shame.

When a whisper’s soft wind lifts the waltz back again,
Our burdens do glide turn and spin. 

Hands can't hold what the spirit sustains,
And mercy is stronger where a memory reigns. 

But you don't get to choose the songs that you lose,
Cause the dance floor is more than just you. 

The Buoy

Can a buoy abide?

Fixed to hazards that depths do hide. 

In drought and tempest called to guide.

Placed by wisdom and those that cried.

Mercy's tensile does cut the ocean wide.

Resting in the anchor, tossed but dancing in the tide.

A sentinel for singing. Never drowning never dry.

- B.Oaks

“When the waters saw you, O God, when the waters saw you, they were afraid; indeed, the deep trembled. The clouds poured out water; the skies gave forth thunder; your arrows flashed on every side. The crash of your thunder was in the whirlwind; your lightnings lighted up the world; the earth trembled and shook. Your way was through the sea, your path through the great waters; yet your footprints were unseen.”
— Psalm 77:16-19

Our work is to sing and dance for the mercies that sustain us.

The Race

I went for a jog last week and thought of Eric Liddell. - ‘‘When I run I feel his pleasure’’. Its not, ‘‘when I run I earn his pleasure’’. Too often we toil for an invisible something beyond the horizon. We miss the thrill of the present. The finish line is not beyond a distant horizon. It is accomplished, and our toil is a lived memory. It is hope filled from what has been done.

I saw a man run bold and fast

on an occasion he was passed

Thin his grin when other runners paused to gasp.

In the end his screaming legs pushed and dashed.

I whispered “Well run and done”. To the ground he crashed.

……………………………………………

“VICTORY!” Glory for toils spent and went. and yet…

……………………………………………

As the prize seeped down his face,

The striders passed, still fast upon the chase.

Not one paused nor glanced amidst their haste.

Each one steadied with open pace.

……………………………………………

The crowd ran too. Onward. Upward. Toward sun and height.

Long and westward fixed in the flight.

A massive herd fleeing loss and night.

Their striving thundered with speed and fright.

……………………………………………

Ambition veiled the good and bad.

This one laughing, that one sad.

A vengeful army chasing what they had.

Sprinting chaos. Sprinting mad.

……………………………………………

“No, Not this time… Not again.”

To his feet we rose bold and fast

on this occasion having just been passed.

Thin grins grew wide when others crashed.

At the end my screaming legs pushed and passed.

A victor not to be. my wreath slipping the horizon last

-B Oaks

“9 What gain has the worker from his toil? 10 I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. 12 I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; 13 also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God’s gift to man.

14 I perceived that whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it. God has done it, so that people fear before him. 15 That which is, already has been; that which is to be, already has been; and God seeks what has been driven away. ”
— Ecclesiastes 3:9-15

The Press

We are all like wandering sheep. Straying closer to the cliffs edge. Testing the tinsel strength of God’s love. Sometimes our wanderings are visible, other times they exist in the deep chambers of our heart. In these spaces there is often an argument we have with God. We seek both him and our desires, convinced they are not only compatible, but designed for each other.

THE PRESS

Let's mitigate our positions. 

Now give me the grasp of my pursuits!

Your press has trapped my entire arm on this well's lip. 

I cannot move.

"Let go" You say?  - I have reached to the breach. 

Since when does Love become license?

I will claim jurisdiction over myself.

Let's mitigate our positions. 

I prefer here and now, 

Relent your press and grant freedom by these terms:

I will insert my hand, arm, head and everything to my feet. I promise to keep a toes grip on the lip, so as not to appear obstinate. 

To be frank, it seems daft upon an ease, extending further in, you press again.

Let's mitigate our position. 

-B. Oaks

“For freedom Christ has set us free; stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.”
— Galatians 5:1

Gullah Geeche Grace

Ms. Barbara, a prophetess of mercy.

Through providence, on a remote island, she spoke.

“Sometimes you need to hear God say YES’’.

On one side, men dripping with resources and “no trespassing” signs.

On the other, Barbara. A outcast slave descendant on barrier islands of poverty.

In the middle, me, a stranger to both.

From her wages of service, A FEAST!

Fish, shrimp, chicken, corn, potatoes, sausage, beans, hushpuppies.

From the wages of mercy, A welcome dripping in gratitude.

Mercy spoke.

“Sometimes you need to hear GOD say YES”

Christ fed through poverty when riches would not.

-B.Oaks

Cynicism tells us that charity has unseen strings, like a spider web, and the price for pulling will devour us. So charity becomes commerce, and we seek to purchase our independence. But true charity never binds. It gives. The story above is of a mercy my family received several years ago. No strings were attached. Unfortunately, I was unwilling to receive the mercy in whole. I thought I could mitigate my merit. So I gave Barbara’s husband cash. (I thought about hiding this part of the story, but I think its important as we learn gratitude.)

“But now that you’ve found you don’t have to listen to sin tell you what to do, and have discovered the delight of listening to God telling you, what a surprise! A whole, healed, put-together life right now, with more and more of life on the way! Work hard for sin your whole life and your pension is death. But God’s gift is real life, eternal life, delivered by Jesus, our Master.”
— Romans 6:22-23 The Message

The Crows Nest

There are plenty of ways to end this poem with a “ribbon”. But most of our prayers exist before the “ribbon”. This poem meets us, like the psalms, in the space of not knowing. Faith occurs in unrequested places. Sometimes, but only sometimes, those places are temporary. Mercy is much bigger than we imagine.

Prayer, thirsty in the crows nest with no land in sight. 

Ten thousand silent waves lapping. Open water.

Drifting down and away from all horizons.

In this boundless cell of questions.

The old ways reluctantly fall.

A place of beauty and ash.

A blood spilt mutiny.

Submission.

Come Mercy, diminish me.

That in this salt sea I might overflow.

Back to the crowsnest I climb. Watchers stare. 

Wisdom waits. To be the fool pointing upon the horizon 

Prayer. What a school!

-B.Oaks

“Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?... But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.”
— 1 Corinthians 1:20&27-29
“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.”
— Psalm 130:6

The Prism

Everybody has a context that God uses to shepherd us toward hope. But it is never as we would prescribe. If you are in the valley or the harvest, growth in hope is ALWAYS better in the shared light of community.

THE PRISM

Indiscriminate Light

Variant beams land on the Left and on the Right.

The scar and the hammer receive equal beam.

They grace faded glory, in colors not yet seen.

Some carve out valleys, those days to disdain.

For others it’s a harvest with endless fields of grain.

Unshakable Light

A purpose veiled for the wrong, and the right.

Prophets and Poets, all receive a proper share.

Who gets the fortune and who gets despair?

In long lean split mysteries, our shadows beg to shine.

When wishes get divided, by fractures and by lines. 

Boundless Light

Abiding through an inescapable flight.

These jars touched by darkness, all wanting to know.

Can cracks trust the light, if the wounds start to show?

No one can escape it, a wisdom that is Just.

The deeper mercies found, when light shines upon dust.

Lay it up to the Light

-B.Oaks

“ But who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’ Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use?”
— Romans 9:20-21
“Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out! “Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been his counselor?” “Who has ever given to God, that God should repay them?” For from him and through him and for him are all things. To him be the glory forever! Amen.”
— Romans 11:33-36
“Questions #1
What is your only comfort in life and death?
Answer:
That I am not my own, but belong with body and soul, both in life and in death, to my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ. He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood, and has set me free from all the power of the devil. He also preserves me in such a way that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head; indeed, all things must work together for my salvation. Therefore, by his Holy Spirit he also assures me of eternal life and makes me heartily willing and ready from now on to live for him.”
— Heidelberg Catechism question #1

Aunt Helen

Like a tapestry, our memories are woven by moments. These moments are threads of pain and joy. Each one so interwoven that we can never pull one without the other. Wisdom is learning to use that tapestry to love those around you in the here and now.

This old guitar plays just fine on a Sunday afternoon

It welcomes back by sweet memories and secrets from every room.

I can draw it out to perfection, the carpet, pictures and the clock.

Country roads and front porch woes, pass time by sway and rock.


It's all about Aunt Helen, the family I’ve never known.

She's a shadow in my memory and her hugs still smell like home.


Its butterflies and box fans, stealing ice from the freezer tray,

Humming blues just for you as we cool off from the day.

Its summertime in the vineyard, hiding ‘neath the magnolia tree,

There something in the barn that’s gone, a picture of you and me.

It's all about Aunt Helen, the family I’ve never known.

She's a shadow in my memory and her hugs still smell like home.

In the oven there is cornbread, soft butter and blue table salt,

Fresh fruit is in the cellar fridge and adventures with Charles Kuralt.

It’s a quiet that feels normal, I never felt alone,

The window’s breeze, a late-night tease and calls from a rotary phone.

He is Carnac the magnificent, laughing at a world beyond our view,

Riddles from the ages past and the truths I thought I knew.

I hear tires on the gravel, slipping by in the dead of night,

The sound of keeping promises, passing by like highway lights.

It's all about Aunt Helen, the family I’ve never known.

She's a shadow in my memory and her hugs smell like home.

- B.Oaks

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.

So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:11-13

Holly Pond

My foot is broken (5th metatarsal). Without rest it wont heal. This is also true for every part of you. Your spiritual, mental, emotional and physical health need rest. Whether things are calm or chaotic, rest is essential. Rest will shepherd you from an illusion of control and lead you to the larger narratives of love and justice.

Holly pond

A plastic folding chair with the arm torn off, resting in the vertical remnants of a pier that once was. 

This was his post, the launching point of a thousand mornings. 

A place where coffee and gliding geese folded the seams of days yet to be. 

But now, there is only grass, water, and this chair with the arm torn off. 

The meteorologist gave all the signs. 

Two pressure systems colliding in a place called tornado alley.

The barn, the house, the fence and dock.

Nothing was spared except those who can't be replaced. 

 

The years of turmoil, sweat and striving now scattered in the pasture and across the county line.  

And as he sits, maybe for the first time, he thinks less of what was lost, and smiles.

Then glide in the geese, folding the seam of a day yet to be. 


- B. Oaks

“To the choirmaster. Of the Sons of Korah. According to Alamoth. A Song.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.

The nations rage, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come, behold the works of the Lord, how he has brought desolations on the earth. He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear; he burns the chariots with fire.

“Be still, and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.”
— Psalm 46 - esv

The Foyer Rug

Its a tricky thing to write about pain and hospitality. Fear and Risk. You never know where people have been, recently or through seasons. While I typically tag a verse at the end to support the idea, I think the passage from Corinthians is particularly relevant on this one.

The Foyer Rug

Everybody wants to talk about my foyer rug. 

Kids, parents, new friends and old.

The homeless, helpless and those who love to scold. 

It was given years ago, at a time when no one seemed to care 

Spotless hopeful fabric, free from weather, rain and wear. 

A sponge for libations of joy, guilt, birth and death

Just inside an unlocked door, the collecting ground of confidential breath.

Like Mary Shelley’s opus, a monstrous muddy clump 

Revolving stories no one knew, priceless crusted bumps.

Offensive and disarming, every fiber makes me smile

A greeting for the weary, from wound, weep and trial. 

I’ll leave the door wide open, you can sit and lay your cares

Nothing you can spill is worse than what’s already there.

- B. Oaks


“For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you. all the difference.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:6-12

Breathing Under Water

About 6 years ago I heard about a friend who hit a pedestrian while texting. In the blink of an eye lives were shattered. I can only imagine how complex things got. Unfortunately western religion teaches us that for every “ebb” there is always a “flow”. This is neither true nor does the bible teach this. The gospel is a promise that no matter how devastating or permanent, the “ebb” is not our forever home. Furthermore, in a wisdom outside our comprehension, God can use the “ebb” to teach us about the strength of his love and our true home. Below is a poem my friend shared during that time 6 years ago.

THIS IS NOT MY POEM - BUT ITS TO GOOD TO NOT SHARE

BREATHING UNDER WATER

I built my house by the sea.

Not on the sands, mind you;

not on the shifting sand.

And I built it of rock.


A strong house

by a strong sea.

And we got well acquainted, the sea and I.

Good neighbors.

Not that we spoke much.

We met in silences.

Respectful, keeping our distance,

but looking our thoughts across the fence of sand.

Always, the fence of sand our barrier,

always, the sand between.


And then one day,

-and I still don’t know how it happened -

the sea came.

Without warning.


Without welcome, even

Not sudden and swift, but a shifting across the sand like wine,

less like the flow of water than the flow of blood.

Slow, but coming.

Slow, but flowing like an open wound.

And I thought of flight and I thought of drowning and I thought of death.

And while I thought the sea crept higher, till it reached my door.

And I knew, then, there was neither flight, nor death, nor drowning.

That when the sea comes calling, you stop being neighbors,

Well acquainted, friendly-at-a-distance neighbors,

And you give your house for a coral castle,

And you learn to breathe underwater.


Sr. Carol Bieleck, RSCJ

from an unpublished work

“I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”
— Philippians 4:11-13

Mumble Bumble

RJ Clifford says this about wisdom.
Wisdom is a free gift, the way to it is discipline, in the willingness to learn from others and the capacity to bear pain and contradiction.

Perhaps our stumbles and the rumbles are part of that contradiction: teaching us of God’s kindness.

Mumble Fumble Bumble

round the rough paths I stumble.

The jagged ragged ledges of a day long drawn down

Who placed this path under the boulder?

Now older, bolder more faithful courage to ascent

mumble fumble bumble

round the rough paths I stumble.

The ragged jagged edges of years drawn thin

I placed this path under the boulder

Now older, bolder more humble to descend

mumbling fumbumbling

round and round and round the rough path I stumble.

God placed the boulder and the path

Grateful now. Not to ascend, nor to mourn.

but to laugh. A pleasant line drawn in my path.

- B.Oaks

“The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.”
— Psalm 16