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Wednesday, June 27, 2012

THE YOUNG PASTOR MEETS REALITY

There were those who did not think
I was wonderful or -- let me be
completely candid -- even competent.

Skeptical at the first, they soon
enough had their suspicions confirmed.
I was, they told themselves, not

at all what they were looking for
in a man of the cloth. My failings
were obvious -- too young, hesitant,

lacking in gravitas, insufficiently
appreciative of their standing,
enthusiastic about the wrong things.

On top of that, my orthodoxy was,
at the very least, questionable.
Besides which, my wife dressed --

how should they put it -- in a manner
not suitable to her station. In
short, they disapproved. I sensed

it, felt it in their averted glances,
knew it not by what they
said as what they didn't say.

I learned what is hard to learn --
that not everyone will love you
the way your mother did.  Not even

good people who sit and listen
to you every week, who greet you
at the door and shake your hand.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

FANFARE FOR THE COMMON TOOL

I salute you, tools in this abandoned
shed. You are mute testifiers to arms
and hands that held you, wielded you.

You, ax, who split apart the hearts of trees,
let air in to rings of years of growing, who
once did mighty cleavings, I salute you.

You, scythe, you of the long sweeping
arc of steel slashing, bringing down
stalks of wheat and weeds, I salute you.

You, spade, whose gift was for turning
earth, sliding smoothly underground to free
the deep down brown richness, I salute you.

You, rake, preparer of soils, you who
conquered clumps, transformed them into beds
where seeds could sleep, then stir, I salute you.

You, hammer, pounder of nails, founder
of floors, raiser of walls, hoister of beams,
joiner and fastener and keeper, I salute you.

And you other tools, whose names I do
not know, whose deeds were many
and great, who did what no man or woman

could have done alone, I see you
and acknowledge you. I thank you, praise
you for your work, your works. I salute you. All.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

THERE IS A WORD FOR IT

The attack is planned with careful
calculation. It will be sudden, precise.
Sophisticated technology enables
our winged weapons to be dispatched
pilot-less to the exact spot where
the enemy is hiding. War has
become wonderfully tidy, thanks
be to God. Yes, it's true that
occasionally men and women
and children, even babies, will
inadvertently have their bodies
torn apart, their blood and brains
and organs strewn across the ground.
That is most unfortunate. We do
regret it. We prefer, however,
not to dwell on it. In the official
report we will, of course, employ
the appropriate term:
"Collateral Damage."

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

BOARD GAME WITH KATIE

I knew a little girl who liked
to play Monopoly. She enjoyed
especially the start, when
dice tosses sped her tiny race
car around the board and she would
buy, buy, buy. She'd clap her hands
when someone landed on her property
and announce "you owe me money"
with what seemed to me inordinate delight.

But when her fortunes ebbed,
as frequently they did, when each dice
roll promised mere escape at best,
her enthusiasm for the game began
to wilt. Until, when times turned
truly tough, she'd sweep her arm
across the board, dispatching
cards and cash to jumbled heap.

I saved my lecture
on good sportsmanship
till later.