Glade

I should have known that something bad had happened when I noticed the weeds growing in his garden. His once impeccably clean dirt now had several obnoxious plants sprouting.

 

Weeds never stop to let people live out the end of their love story.

 

A couple afternoons later I was sitting on the drive way with June, chalk in our hands. My neighbor came home and walked over and sat down by us and asked June if he could write his name.

 

GLADE.

 

He is a simple man. He grew up on the street we live on. Him and his wife married young. Once he told us that he had to chase her away from all those other boys. He doesn’t always talk so candidly.

 

But his kind soul is always being shown. Every summer and fall he brings us over food from his massive garden. Squash, beans, cantaloupe, corn, apples, tomatoes. He hardly knew us when he first started to share his harvest. But we soon learned about him that he spends all this time taking care of his old house, yard, and, his wife.

 

I see him leave his house, wearing some plaid shirt, with his wife at the same time everyday. One day I found out where they were going. He takes her to a gym to walk on the treadmill every day ever since she had her heart attack.

We watch a lot of romantic movies and read books about it, but it’s seeing that old white car drive down the road to the gym every day that becomes one of the best love stories I’ve ever seen.

It’s the way he takes his wife’s hand or rubs her leg when she keeps forgetting who we are, even when we told her two minutes ago.

 

It was in his voice as he told me what happened the other day.

 

I just stared down at his name in chalk as he told me. I knew his wife wasn’t in the best health, but why did there have to be a car accident?

 

He spoke like he always does, the same voice he would use to talk about pumpkins, but I could hear past that.

 

Sadness.  

The deepest kind. 

The kind that comes from impending loneness.

 

The car had rolled. She had internal bleeding in her skull. She is sleeping a lot and either she will heal… or not. There is not much else to do.

 

And meanwhile his perfect lawn grows taller, his trimmed bushes get uneven.
And the weeds grow.

The Old Tabernacle

What were our chances of finding an unlocked door? We tried the first one: locked. Second: locked. Third:

            Open.

We pulled the heavy door toward us and breathlessly walked in, leaving the dark winter night behind us.

The wood smelt historic and it moaned with age beneath our steps. It was dark and empty; every sound we made bounced through the tabernacle.

 

We tip toed up the stairwell, passing by thick glass windows that only allowed in a soft amber light from the street lamps outside.

 
Emerging onto the balcony, we took a seat up front in a pew overlooking the absent audience below and the naked stage with only a lone grand piano. I could imagine the echoes of music and lights and candles that now seemed so distant.

Lunar

I woke up right after the first bite had been taken. I was excited to see my first lunar eclipse. As the earth’s shadow devoured the light I realized that my heart was pounding hard and I could feel the pulse in my ears. I was nervous. It was as if God Himself was erasing the moon from His holy canvas. What if He chose not to draw it back again? What would we do without our silver sentinel each night?

And with that- it was gone. A chorus of morning stars rushed the stage as the sky sunk the invisible moon. Somehow I felt apart of the alignment, sandwiched in. From the sun to the earth to me up to the moon.

To Purchase Happiness

"Excuse me."
"Yes."
"How much is that 'Happiness' over there?"
"Oh that?"
"Yes- the deluxe package."
"The 'True' one?"
"Yes, 'True Happiness."
"That one? We only accept sacrifice for that."
"What's the payment plan?"
"That one costs your selfish deeds and desires. Your false ideas of pleasure. Certain leisure and comforts."
"Can I pay with obedience?"
"Indeed, obedience partners with sacrifice."

"What about the 'Pleasures' package?"
"Very expensive."
"What does it cost?"
"Your salvation."
"If it's so expensive then why is it selling out?"

"Because with salvation you can buy now and pay later- where as, with obedience & sacrifice you must pay as you go. People don't seem to mind the debt."

Dear Buck

The sun sets, falling under the waves. Colors shatter and break in the air.

 

Slowly we rock back and forth, the small ship sleepy and calm.

 

On strong wooden planks you hold me and we dance.
 

The stars sit down to watch. The darkest blue turns black. Water becomes sky.

 

We rock, and we rock, back and forth.

 

Peace laps up against the boat.

 

The storms have brought us so far from the land, the clouds ushered us on. They sailed us to a place unknown by any traveler. Our place of rest. Our sea-breeze lullaby.

 

The kind wind hums softly the songs born by her travels-  distant and enchanting. Somehow she has found us. She takes our tale and continues on, telling it to the sea.

 

But we stay on.
 

And we rock and we rock and we rock to sleep.

Let's Run To

Let’s run to

Because we’re not running away
From anything.
We are running to something.
We are not leaving
we’re going
Coming
Arriving
In route anyways.

Let’s not run away.
Bring the past with us
Let’s throw it into the open future
and
run to it.

I’ll bring mine
And you bring yours
Wasn’t that the point?

Let’s stop speaking of it
Sacrifice.
We get more
That is
Than we give.

So let’s run to.

Because we can.
and because we should
for no other reason in the world
other than ours.
Lets run to it.

Throw open the doors
Don’t leave a note

Run
Skip
Swim
FLY
Anything
Together
Someway
We’ll run to.


Forever.
Into colored suns
And silver stars
We don’t leave the world
Simply
We create it

Ready when you are

Let’s run to.

Stars

It’s raining. In my rage I look up at the empty dark sky. The night stars are falling and they land on my face. I feel angry. Why is it that everyone has gone, everything has changed, yet here I am, stuck? I feel an irritation towards the sky. I want to rip every star from it’s nook and place it in a new constellation that seems to fit the amount of change that has happened. It is fair or safe that there is something so constant as the stars? It’s false hope. When was there ever actual stability in a wish hosted by a shooting star? Yet night after night I continue to look up. There’s the big dipper, Orion’s belt, the seven sisters. Still, holy, and real. But I feel lied to, slightly bewitched. But then, always, the whisper that follows the light, “Everything will be alright.” And somehow, it always is.