The Mercy of the Miraculous

For Bobby
The sword-like sound
of the voice un-easily heard
snaps the sinews of our souls
which bind them to earth.
As unbidden fire
would consume a life with a crack,
so the voice may well unmake
the plans well laid,

And you know it…

Which is why mercy
makes it hard to hear.
So that the curse of our deafness
would drive us to desperate knees,
and when the word at last is heard,
and our aural sense unstopped,
we might not mistake
the kindness of our life’s consumption
for cruelty.

Favorite Wendell Berry Poems...

Of late, I have been doing far more reading than writing. Although I confess, that I've written more than I've shared and perhaps you will read it soon. But until then, I thought I'd share a few of Wendell Berry's poems that have moved me lately...

Drouth

All day the crops burn in cloudless air,
Drouth lengthening against belief. At night
The husbands and the wives lie side by side,
Awake, the ache of panic in their bones,
Their purposes betrayed by purposes
Unknown, whose mystery is the dark in which
They wait and grieve. All may be lost, and then
What will they do? When money is required
Of them, and they have none, where will they go?

Many will go in blame against the world,
Hating it for their pain, and they will go
Alone across the dry, bright, lifeless days,
And thus alone into the dark. Others
In grief and loss will see more certainly
What they have loved, and will belong to it
And to each other as in happiness
They never did-- hearing, though the whole world
Go dry, the hidden raincrow of their hope.


For an Absence

When I cannot be with you
I will send my love (so much
is allowed to human lovers)
to watch over you in the dark--
a winged small presence
who never sleeps, however long
the night. Perhaps it cannot
protect or help, I do not know,
but it watches always, and so
you will sleep within my love
within the room within the dark.
And when, restless, you wake
and see the room palely lit
by that watching, you will think,
"It is only dawn," and go
quiet to sleep again.


The Blue Robe

(note: This is how I (Will) would one day like to to look upon my beloved)

How joyful to be together, alone
as when we first were joined
in our little house by the river
long ago, except that now we know

each other, as we did not then;
and now instead of two stories fumbling
to meet, we belong to one story
that the two, joining, made. And now

we touch each other with the tenderness
of mortals, who know themselves:
how joyful to feel the heart quake

at the sight of a grandmother,
old friend in the morning light,
beautiful in her blue robe!


That's all for now. I hope these move you to read Wendell Berry in any context. I cannot promise that he will move you, but he has moved me, and helped my soul understand how to heal.

Let the journey continue...

Approximately twenty five years and three days ago, I began a journey in life that has (with hind sight's wisdom) always been headed towards the kingdom of Jesus Christ and total redemption that he's bringing. I cannot count or thank the sum of all the people who have helped me on this journey and been a part of what God has been doing in my life. About a year ago the idea began to solidify that I will never be able to give anyone as much as I have been given. I will never be able to forgive what I have been forgiven. I will never be able to suffer for others the extent that others have suffered for my sake. To clarify, I'm not speaking in metaphorical or an abstract sense, but a physical reality. Whether you take my statements to mean other people in my life or God himself the physical reality remains that I have been blessed beyond paying back. And for all of this I give glory, praise, and thanks to God.

I came across this meditation in my Celtic Daily Prayer book that talks about the reality of our relationship to God.

The Cry to God as 'Father'
in the New Testament
is not a calm acknowledgement
of a universal truth about
God's abstract Fatherhood.
It is the Child's cry
out of a nightmare.

It is the cry of outrage,
fear, shrinking away,
when faced with the horror
of the 'world'
- yet not simply or exclusively
protest, but trust as well.

'Abba Father'
all things are possible
to thee...

-- Rowan Williams

I guess the point of me writing all these things is that far too often I start to disbelieve that God is for me. He seems far removed from my physical daily experience. I wonder if he's real, and even more so if he really wants what's good for me. My own experience as I cry out to God as Father is the same desperation of Williams. I don't want any abstract cheap, merely emotional satisfaction. I desire real interaction with a person who offers and follows through on salvation. I rejoice to say that this has been my experience, my reality. I mourn, however the reality of my forgetfulness, the reality of my disbelief in my experience and in the Word he's spoken into my life. My response to these dual realities to write this note for the sake of remembrance.

Yesterday morning I met with a woman in a coffee shop and shared about the ministry that God has moved me towards reaching out to college students. I invited her to be a part of what God is doing and she joyfully made a decision to pray for me and to give $30 a month towards reaching college students in Albuquerque, NM. Her decision marked a significant moment in my life. This finishes of my initial support goal and begin my transition to Albuquerque. The journey is far from over. I will if I continue with the organization that I'm with, hopefully raise thousands more dollars in new monthly support if I ever get married, have children, and replace donors led to give elsewhere. This is a significant time of transition however as I remember the thousands of dollars God has already raised to bring me to this point. I have remarked several times recently about "the difficulty of support raising," that there have indeed been times that it has been the hardest thing I've ever done. That I rejoice to say is no longer true. I look forward to doing harder things that require more faith eagerly. God is soo good. He's not just part good, or someone with good intentions he can't follow through on. He's the best, he wants the best for us, and will give us the best if we will get over ourselves and believe him.

In summary God has provided for my physical needs and he wants to provide for yours too. He's good. Give him glory and honor him. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will lead you and make straight your paths. This is what I've experienced, I just thought I'd let you know.

Broken

Broken we watch the things which are breaking
as the innocent break from our innocence taking
we watch the helpless abused for their guileless smiles
while our own hearts are hardened by our pitiful trials
we watch the useful get used till their empty and wasted
their fruit left unripened, their best juices untasted

We fall to the ground overwhelmed by our sight
for it feels like the sky all our lives has been night
and the darkness within us has matched the darkness without
and so thoughts of the morning fill our soul with grave doubt
we’ve watched so much darkness flow out from our souls
would the bringing of light in not only bring holes?
would we not be fractured beyond all repair
if that which flows from us was no longer there?
Watch thus yourself closely that you may not fall prey
to that which we doubt most, the dread breaking of day.

And broken we’ll weep for the things we’ve been breaking
but not comprehend grief from our innocence taking
for the helpless need helped from their pitiful smiles
and their hearts they need hardening for all life’s harsh trials.
the useful need using before too old and wasted
their fruit after all is no good left untasted.

We fall and rest on the ground, well pleased by our sight.
And why not? For the sky all our lives has been night.

For Ryan

As the light sifts softly
through the dust which hangs still softer
in the morning air
a memory of the bout before the dawn
the grappling of the good and true with you
from here we’ll limp
with holy unhinged hips
to remind us of the one who’s whole
the one who is our home
the one to whom we go
as we journey through the trees.

An impassioned plea for pens, paper, and the printed word.

[note: I should mention that I wrote this when I really wanted to write a friend a note and a poem for his birthday but had no pen, just a computer. The words felt empty and so I wrote this instead. It's based on a quote another friend told me that was ironically in a book that said, "books are where words go to die."]

Books are where words go to die,
but here they’ve never lived.
They’ve never felt your eyes
except through the veil,
never felt your touch or been a part of a page
which, leafing softly, fluttered in your ears
casting scents of new or aging paper
upon your hungry nose.
Here they are sexless fantasies which
emptied of their power need
complex circuitry to bring them to light.
No warm soft light illuminates them,
only cold backlit translucence.
Words here are like cut flowers
which, while in more amiable and accessible surroundings,
are far from the home where they became beautiful.
Like animals in a zoo, there is a sense of settling.
A sense that though complacent in their cages
their eyes were meant for the hunt.
Like your elders in a “home,”
their wit and wisdom dulled
through lack of needful relationship.

Yet here we mistakenly hope,

trading beauty and sense
for a chance that somehow without them
we will communicate truth
more efficiently.

Meditation on Isaiah 53

All
pornograhpers, slavers, and ethnic cleansers
molesters, racists, and liars
cheaters, addicts, and whores
all drunks, sluts
and abusers of the physical, sexual, emotional
all oath-breakers, haters, and homos
bitches and witches
bastard children and adulterating parents
all terrorists, extortionists, and gossips
slanderers, blasphemers, idolaters,
all the arrogant, unrepentant, and reprobate
heretics, cannibals, and violent

have hope.

paradoxical,
beaming hope.

shining brightly
in the downcast eyes
of him who carries

the iniquity of us all.

You is.

You is.
You is the was
you is the now
and you is the gonna be.

You is the word that was spoke
to make the sun shinin’ day and the starry dark night.
You is what made the fishes swim
and the cow to chew the cud.
You is what makes rain drops fall down
and the sweet corn come up outta the dirt.

You is what made most all that sees the sun and some things that don’t
Jesus, you is what made the sun shine today,
and you is what brings the clouds across the plain.
you is why I’m breathin’ and why I’m cryin’
lovin’, laughin’, livin’
Everything that’s livin’s only livin’ cause you is.

But the thing is that most a what’s livin’s broken.
and the livin’ end up dyin’ someday…
but you is dyin’ too.
least ways you did one time.

The thing is that of everything that’s dyin’ you is the only one ain’t dyin no more.
Cause you is the gonna be.
You is the livin’ again.
You is the big brother of all o’ what’s been broken, dead and gonna be livin’ again.
and count o’ that you is gonna be King of all a what was, is now, and is gonna be.
and every broken livin’ thing that sees that for you there ain’t much difference between the was, the now, and the gonna be has gotta go ahead and make you 'is King.
cause the gonna be happened a long time before the was was even a gonna be.

So when you is born in a feedin’ trough you is already a King though none o’ the kings that was would ever think much of ya.

And when you is lovin’ the parts of us that’s broke, it hurts so bad we don’t believe in kings at all. But you is still a King that washes our dirty toes, confusin’ all our ideas about what you is.

But when you is gonna be breakin’ in next time… well kings is gonna be hidin’ cause they gonna realize that they all been doin' is playin’ dress up and weren’t really kings at all…

not compared to what’s gonna be.

Something I wrote as I began to sense the air turning to gray...

Tonight
we wait
long have we come from distant lands

long coming we come to this moment
and now
tonight
we wait.
in the darkness we have heard the distant star's song
and now
tonight
we wait.

the cellestial anthem beckons us to fix our gaze upon the East
and now tonight we wait.
In pitchest black before the dawn
tears streaming in silent anticipation
water the ground with the sorrow of long-suffering
as now
tonight
we wait.
broken from our journey
longing for the break of day
sobs of yearning break
as the air turns to gray
we look to the East as rays of gold
stain the sky and as day comes in all its splendor
the seeds planted in barren ground long ago
watered only by tears and warmed by mere starlight
spring forth in life.
love has come.
love has come.
love has come.
the wait is over. now floods of joy stream down.

And the song! The song which began among the heavens millenia ago before the darkness. The song which has been sung by seraphs before the throne of God Most High. The song which had its origins deep in the Sovereign's heart ahd flows thru all the Holy One is and does. The song of all and the song of the One and Only. The song of creation and the song which destroys the old for the sake of the new, redeeming what was forfeit for the sake of its hearing. The song which has never known beginning and sees no end. The song which governs time. The song of our Savior who sings over us leaping and shouting and magnifying, creating, loving, caring, knowing us. The song is given to man. And all the weeping, the sorrow, the bondage, the heartache, and the pride is replaced with tears of joy, thanksgiving, happiness, freedom, light, and wholeness. True honor is given to man as he takes his place giving honor thru the song to Most High. Looking ever eastward whence comes his King.

"God is not like me" or "How I learned that freedom doesn't come with comfort."

I thought you small
I thought you weak
I thought you looked
a lot like me.
I thought you safe
I thought you white
I thought you’d let me
sleep at night.

I tried to put you in a box
But it seems that not
the strongest locks
could start to hold you in.
I had you down
I had you snared
But it seems I’d grasped
no thing but air.

and then...

into the world you made, you came
not the least bit weak, nor tame
you spoke, you bled, you died, you rose
and when I lay in sin you chose
to save me from myself.

Then it all became so clear
that all I’d once held close and dear
was just a pile of shit.

But you...

You it seems are not like me
Not weak, not small
but strong and free
Your love abounds so mad, so wild
and it demands all from this child.
As that is how I acted while
I wanted you to be like me.

Every Careless Word

Every careless word that's ever come upon my lips
has been loading one side of a scale
which now only one way will tip.
All the "I love you"s and "I'll give you my heart"s
the "I'll never leave you"s and the "we'll never part"s
Now stand to condemn me without an excuse
all screaming me careless for over misuse.
Is there any who speaks true to love till the end?
Is there any pure, kind, or unfailing friend?
Is there any who's heart is uncrooked, unbent?
Is there any who's ever said exactly what he meant?
And saying the truest words from the core of his soul
had strength to then follow through to make others whole?

Dear brother don't lose hope
don't falter my son
for one Word's been spoken from before worlds begun
and though once it was spoken
here twice have I heard
the speaker's love is unbroken
and there's power in his Word.
Take heart then my brother
put away all your fear.
For though you've always been leaving
this Word now has drawn near.

How Long

How I long, how I long
O Lord how long will I long for home?
How long will I roam upon longing roads?
How long will I long for home?
How long the rest of the miles til my wrestling soul rests?
How long will I long for home?
How long must grow in a body which groans
and how long will I owe for the things I can't own?
How long will I long for home?
How long til my ready body's redeemed?
How long til unnatural sons will by nature be seen?
How long will I long for home?
How long will my hope be all that I have,
til in having then all of my hope at last pass?
How long will I long for home?

broken.

I got my .40 cal cocked and I don't know how to use it
I don't even know if know how not to lose it.
All I know is you're in my sights and you won't move will you?
I know everyone dies but I don't wanna kill you
I've left shattered dreams from here on down to the border
and leaving one more ain't too tall of an order
if I cry when I kill you it ain't because I true loved you
but rather because I put my own dreams above you
And when you fall to the ground then my dream's lost its prop
then all my hopes engines will come to dead stop
so I'll plead with you to stay there I'd with all my might will you
not so that you won't die but I don't wanna kill you.

A piece of my heart

I will carry you always
in a piece of my heart
which no doubt has grown smaller
the more we've been apart
but the pull is still there
an echo of love.

Haiku #1

I like haikus that
don't make any sense at all.
Stop looking at me.

The ones I cannot know...

She walks solely on the souls of men
who want her solely for her soul
She sees their sullen eyes which seek
her solely subtle soulish ways.
and when the man's souls strength is spent
its then upon his soul she preys.
he'll walk until his soles wear thin
till his weary soul no more can stand to win
the solace of her acidic soul.

Mama

A poem to honor the 90 years of Harriett Lou Whitesides, my grandmother.
By Will Rearick

A motherly love
a saintly repose
eyes fast up above
fuel a faith which still grows

A heart beats with prayers
and head shakes with laughter
both still eager to care
for the ones who’ve come after

Wise eyes long have watered
fields of sorrow and joy
and have seen sons and daughters
their fruits long employ

Though the journey’s been long
and the legs may be tired
the heart still sings the song
and holds fast to the fire.

Your life it speaks freedom
to me and my kin
which allows us in seasons
our own lives to win
not by works nor by reasons
which we’ve found from within
but by God who foreverly faithful has been.

I wanna tell you somethin'

All shadows in this world which here night our light
live in a garden growing ever more bright
and when death in this world causes us to decay
the queen light to them will at once be displayed

Their bodies out of the ground once old and abused
will wink out the instant queenlight beauty's infused
through ground we will travel, bodies old up through the terf
while our shadows are born out of wombs with queen's worth

Brother can you remember our garden world home
where queen light went through us wherever we'd roam?
Hold fast to that memory with no fear in your heart
for we'll go there again when this world we shall part.

22 Aldeah

For Brian

Silently watching tobacco bowls glowing
warmly we grasp the pace of life slowing
speaking of fathers and the souls we've been showing
the ways which the church and your baby's been growing

finding substantive answers for our hungry souls' why's
in reading of rivers and tying on flies
and of polar bear dreefees of miniature size
we'll leave here the lighter and feeling more wise.

a moment of peace grants our eyes a new view
to how loss and silence are similarly used
to teach use of the gifts with which we've been imbued
and draw our eyes to the one who will carry us through

though now the nights on the porch seem all none to many
we'll trust we were also not given too few
we'll bless the great giver for granting us any
and with mixed joy in our hearts bid each other adieu.

Possibly my new favorite poem...

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling