Same stories

I wonder about Jesus and all the stories he told. Did his disciples listen to the birds instead? When he said "Consider the lilies"... Did they get lost in considering the lilies and miss the rest of the story?

A friend shares the same stories

Time and again

Oh that one

I think

Oh that one

Again.

Too often I tune my ears

To hear the cardinals

Or even the hum

Of the air conditioner

Instead.

Sometimes I waken

At the tail end

Of that familiar story.

I think

Now that

That

Is so appropriate,

The perfect illustration.

That is the exact right story

For this situation.

I wish I’d heard it again

From the very beginning.

Winding

Still waiting to meet Miss Calliope. Today... Yellow Springs excursion. Tomorrow...the kitten.

Day two in Ohio

Winding road

After winding road.

I thank God I am

A passenger.

We have yet to meet

The calico girl.

Tomorrow we bring her home.

But today we drive

And drive

And drive,

Hear story after story.

Winding.

Winding.

Winding.

Maundy Thursday 2015

Like all those familiar plays, we know how this one goes. I think we each play a different part every year. This year I am that unnamed young man in Mark who ran away naked when Jesus was arrested in the Garden. No. I have no idea what this means.

We know how this story ends

Or perhaps

Begins again.

Wedding rehearsal

I wait for the rehearsal this afternoon. The wedding itself is Saturday afternoon.  I have a parade of wedding memories, some of which bear repeating... some not.

All the clergy

Are out of town

For the weekend

Except for me

So this one is mine.

I wear a collar

To remind myself

This is part of what

I am ordained

To do.

I remember past rehearsals.

I have a thirty year collection

Of stories.

We all do,

The ones who vacation

And me.

We all do.

This one, however,

Is mine.

Holy Week

Every year I think Holy Week will be different.  And it is.  And it's not.

I like to think

This week will be different.

It began with a pony.

Today I sit

In a different place,

Tomorrow yet another

Different place.

And so it goes.

Holy Week is always different

Yet somehow still

The same.

Seven years out

Of running Holy Week

(as if anyone ever runs

Holy Week)

Seven years out

Again I slip into

Holy Week mode.

It began this year

With a pony.

I know the story,

How the story goes.

I know the ending.

Thank God I know

How it ends.

Sometimes all it takes is a story

Stories and metaphors have a way about them.  They help us name things in a different way: dress them up, dress them down... sometimes laugh at the silliness of ourselves, in the guise of such as the farmer buried in corn. This is a Garrison Keillor story (Minnesota humor).   Despite my having been reared in the big city of Minneapolis, it names truth about my story as well.   I am still regularly buried in corn, despite having lived away from Minnesota for years.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story

Like this one:

There once was a farmer

In Minnesota,

Trapped by corn

In his silo

While his children waited

For the school bus.

The farmer did not call out

Until his children were dropped off

In the afternoon.

School was important

After all.

I know that farmer.

I was that farmer

Often

I am that farmer

Buried in corn.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story.

I could wrap myself around that story,

Claim it for my own;

Dress it up,

Dress it down,

Hold it out

For viewing,

My own and others*.

There is often great power

In a story.

Sometimes all it takes

Is a story.

The Minnesota in me

Buried in corn

Sometimes waits and waits

No trouble at all

Nope

No trouble at all.