The Baby in the Manger

When I look in the manger,

what do I see?

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Poverty -- or treasure?

Helplessness -- or hope?

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A baby,

dependent on others,

unable to choose

where to be born,

a passenger, a refugee,

helpless to prevent

the slaughter of

innocent babes.

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The angels saw

much more,

and burst into paeans of praise.

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Lord, grant me ears to hear

the prophetic song,

eyes to see Your glory dawning,

a heart tender

with love

to embrace

You,

fragile in omipotence.

Petition for a Miracle

Lord, I want a miracle for Christmas–
small, elegant, unmistakable.

I want to know
for sure
that you exist somewhere;
that you love me
really love me
personally,
like they keep saying.

Lord, I want a miracle.
Would the earth stand still
if I had perfect faith
for just for a day or two?

Something to remember.
Something to sing about.
Please.

Hope

Hope springs eternal . . .
There is always something
I can do
to help
myself,
my neighbour,
the world at large.

Always.

Sometimes big,
sometimes small,
great dreams,
small acts of faith.
We lose battles,
but not the war.

It's not over.
There's still hope.

Sub Rosa

We cannot know
what is done in secret:
that's God's domain.

We yearn for credit
to distract us from
suspicions of inadequacy.
We award accolades
to bestow pleasure,
to acknowledge
work well done.
It's just a fix--
a temporary high.

Only treasure in heaven
is truly ours.
That bites.

Divine Guidance

If God is in me
and I am in God,
it should be easy
to find the way--
so they say,
too often,
too loudly,
with worried eyes.

Being God's warrior
is more
than peaceful drifting
on a current of love--
it is a matter of choices
made daily,
burdens carried
through the dark
in fear and trembling.

Trust is not
blindness,
but blurred vision
which dares to imagine
seeing face to face.
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Nightmare -- April 16, 2002

Our car broke down
at a surreal farmstead.
The man of the house
attacked me.
I set off alone
for downtown Moose Jaw
which looked like
New York.

I had money and a credit card,
but no idea
how to get to the bus depot.

Semi-naked, of course,
carrying the farm-wife's dress.
Should I put it on?
It wasn't mine,
but yet--
people were looking at me.

Was this a trip from hell,
a trip to hell,
or just my life?

Suppression

Why am I so angry?

Do you really want to know?

No. I guess not.
I worry that it will be too much,
an overwhelming flood.

I can help you sort it out.

Will it hurt?

You bet.

So let's postpone it for a while.

Not a wise decision, my dear.
Life has a way of forcing the issue.

Changing Gears

Changing gears
is hard.
I'm afraid to stop.
"Finish what you start!"
keeps ringing in my ears.
If I stop,
I have to start
something else.
Will I like it?
Will I persevere?

Nothing
except God
is permanent
or perpetual.
All commitments come to an end.
Minds can be changed,
vows can be broken,
contracts re-negotiated.

Why don't I understand that?
Why do I feel so trapped
in the endless moment?

Metamorphosis

I feel change
but cannot see

I cannot imagine
what will be

I'm afraid
and yet
the unknown
is less fearful
than no change at all

Fear

Fear --
the miasmatic veil
hiding me
from my Beloved.

What if the universe
turns out to be
hostile and random
after all?

I manage as best I can,
forging shudders into stories
to recount
beside the campfires of my dreams;
shrouding the unthinkable
in metaphors.