The 60-Second Sabbath

I AM

"I am what I am,"
    says Paul,
"and that by the grace of God."

    [No apologies.]

"I am what I am,"
    say I,
"and that by the grace of God."

    [No apologies.]

"I am what I am,"
    say you,
"and that by the grace of God."

    [No apologies.]

I AM--
    the great, eternal I AM,
from burning bush
    to the anagogic Gospel of John
to this,
    to now,
to us...

I AM what I AM.

You, me, us, them--I AM.

    [No apologies.]

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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The Dancing Bear

Chain around his neck,
    he dances,
happy to be dancing,
    happy when dancing,
happy only when dancing.

They make him dance to their music,
    only their music,
for their enjoyment,
    when and where they pay.

But when the dancing ends,
    then he feels the chain
and then he wonders about freedom,
    and then he feels such loneliness,
and then he knows fear and its cousin anger,
    and then he feels sad.

He asks his master,
    "Is there dancing without the chain?
Do the bears in the woods dance?"

And the master looks to the woods
    (away from the village),
and the bear thinks maybe the master
    yearns for something out there
beyond the village,
    somewhere in the woods.

And so they sit for an hour or so,
    both staring into the woods,
the master wistful,
    and the bear gently pawing
the chain around his neck.

(5/1/85)

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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I Cry from the Depths

The following, originally written on February 6, 1985,
is a reflection on Psalm 130. I've modified it slightly:

I cry from depths.
    Lonely depths. Seedy depths.
    Depths of confusion. Cold, damp.

I reach up into darkness
    seeking a hand.

God says, 
    "Sit a while longer.
    See if you can sit quietly,
        without the hand,
    knowing it will come...
        in a while."

Do I trust, even as I sit in dark confusion?

I will.
    An answer is coming.
(God's hand is coming.)
    I don't grasp it yet;
I will.

God's love and presence are
    (will be)
enough.

I can wait.

I will.

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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On Outhouses and the Bigger Picture

I'm watching the morning news
    when the anchor--
reporting on a woman
    who fell head-first into...
what shall I call it...
    the lower level of an outhouse
trying to retrieve her cellphone--
    morphed suddenly into Sophia.

I nearly dropped my decaf.
    I said,
"Oh my God."

"Yes, indeed," she said.

"Sorry."

"No problem.
    Sometimes you speak truth
without realizing it.
    But let's get down to business:
you're struggling with a big decision, yes?"

I sighed.
    "Yes. I don't know what to do.
I feel stuck."

"Not comfortable.
    I get that."

"It's consuming me."
    I said again, more forcefully:
"I don't know what to do."

"Sweetie, it's hard,
    but the fact is,
you do know what to do--
    not yet about the big question,
but while you wait for an answer,
    there's lots you can do."

"Like what?"

"Like live.
    Give thanks for the all the good in your life.
Reach out to and encourage others.
    Maybe work for unity and justice and equity.
Do the things you love that you've neglected.

"In short, be about your business.
    No matter what single issue grips you,
causing you to question--
    or even doubt--
there's still plenty of living to be done
    until this particular problem
comes into clearer focus--
    and it will.
Live, love, give..."

I thought for a moment, then said,
    "The issue is only one part of my life."

"Yes, and that's not to minimize it,
    it's to help you see the bigger picture."

"I think I do,
    or at least,
I think I could."

"And that's good enough,
    because I know that, finally, you will."

"Thank you."

We paused.

I said,
    "Um...and now back to the news?"

"Yes, but one more observation,
    not about you,
but about the woman in the outhouse:
    seriously, she needs to rethink
her relationship with her cell phone.
    Seriously."

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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Listening to God (Instead of Jabbering at God)

God says:

Stop!

Sit.

Breathe.

Good boy!

Now, why were you in such a hurry?
    Are you late for something?
Are you avoiding something?

How about some we time?
    How about you talk less and listen more?
Yes, relax and listen.
    Plug in and get the day's resources.
Set the agenda with me.

If you stop to listen now,
    you'll flail less later,
love and sanity will order your day.

Stop, settle, focus, center, key in--
    on me,
on your essential self
    (merged with me).

We'll go through today as one--
   One,
And I'll be the stillpoint
    of your spinning world.

Amazing, huh?

So we have a deal?

Good.

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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From Darkness: A Reflection on John 20:1-8

Easter morning:
    darkness.

Through this darkness
    Mary heads to the garden of tombs,
through the darkness of sleeping Jerusalem,
    through darkness to the city of death.

It is dark like she imagines it is where Jesus lies--
    cold, still, alone.
It is dark like death.

Only a week ago,
    Mary's heart over-flowed with assurance and hope,
with peace and wonder,
    with love...

yes, with love.

Now Mary's heart clouds with darkness,
    the darkness of grief, despair, confusion.

Darkness without,
    darkness within.

[What darkness do you know today?
    What darkness presses from without?
What darkness swirls within?]

Mary weeps,
    and her weeping clears enough of the darkness
to reveals angels.
    She sees angels.

[Weeping,
    we see angels.]

"Woman, why are you weeping?"

Say it, Mary;
    give voice to your darkness:

"The one we love--
    the one who loves us--
is gone...
    he's...he's gone."

And then the dawning;
    there the risen Christ,
who asks, as do the angels,
    "Woman, why are you weeping?"

Darkness dispersed, obliterated, blasted,
    light flooding, spreading, shimmering,
the light of hope, assurance, peace, wonder...
    and love.

So it is, always,
    at the end of darkness,
when all is said and done--
    light.

Darkness and death, yes,
    but then, but then...
light, love and life.

"I have seen the Lord,"
    Mary proclaims.

[And you?
    Has light arrived for you?]

"I have seen the Lord."

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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Peace Be with You: A Reflection on John 20

"Peace be with you," we say,
    and we mean it--in our own way, our own time--
but imagine what those words might mean
    to the grieving, fearful followers of Jesus,
struggling to deal with tremendous loss,
    cowering together against arrest, punishment...even death.

Peace?
    Seriously?
Sure, they'd heard the rumors, 
    but could he really be alive?
Or was it wishful thinking,
    fueled by disappointment, by grief?

But, damn, if he isn't standing there
    in the middle of the room,
the room with the bolted door.
    How did he even know where they were?

Ghost?
    Hallucination?
Certainly not your normal human--
    something different,
something previously unknown,
    something that walks through walls,
willfully appears and disappears--
    yet...yet still him.

Jaws drop,
    eyes bulge,
breath is held,
    credibility stretches...

Thomas, late to the party,
    too late to see and hear and believe:
"I don't think so--
    show me the wounds,
let me hold him.
    No, I'm not convinced."

Thomas the doubter.

He has not seen;
    he will not believe until he does.

Do we blame him?
    Jesus does not.
Doubt isn't an obstacle to faith;
    it's healthy, natural, human.

Let us stand with Thomas,
    cheer him on,
continue, with him, to wonder and seek.

Do not condemn doubt,
    yours or anyone else's.

Jesus ends this mind-boggling visit with:

"Blessed are those
    who have not seen
and yet have come to believe"
    (doubts and all).

That is us, after all.
    I have not seen,
but I have come to believe.

One day, I suspect,
    he'll show up, unannounced,
in the center of my life--
    despite the locks on my doors,
the latches on my windows,
    my carefully (fearfully?) set alarm--
wounds still open in hands and side,
    and say to me, too:

"Peace be with you."

Yes, peace be with me.
    His peace.
Peace I will struggle to understand.

This Eastertide,
    peace be with us all.

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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Spine Prayer

"Four-level fusion," says the surgeon.
    "Eventually you're going to need it."

"Is it urgent?"

"No, it's not,
    and it will be up to you:
when the pain becomes too much;
    when you feel you can no longer live
the life you want to live."

I was there before,
    just over two years ago,
no longer able to walk or stand
    for more than 10 minutes at a time.
Then there was no questioning the immediacy.
    Not the case now...
at least not this week.

I understand this.
    I accept this.

But still there's pain,
    and limitations,
and constant accommodation,
    and always the letting go--
letting go of the man I thought I was,
    of how I view myself,
of what I imagined I'd be doing
    five years into retirement.

Will I know when it's time?
    Will I?

Help me know when it's time.
    Help me...

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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Journal Dream

His head nods toward his chest;
    the pen slips from his hand;
the last line of the stanza--
    something about an owl
calling into the windy night--
    trails away in a line down the page...

...and continues in that space
    just before sleep
when images gleefully abandon logic,
    refusing the restrictions of wakefulness...

...where he is now the owl,
    eyes piercing a mile or more
beyond the starlit meadow,
    ears hearing the skittering of mice
in the fallen leaves.

He launches from the branch,
    one, two beats of his wings
and he's soaring.

He is free,
    skimming between dry grasses
and the haunted crescent of the moon,
    cold air cleansing soul and spirit.

The wind catches him, and he is,
    for a moment,
thrown off-balance...

and jerks back awake.

He sighs, disappointed,
    finds his pen,
and continues,
    wishing to soar again,
released, joyful, true.

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
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In Silence...

"For God alone,
    my soul waits in silence." (Psalm 62:5)

In silence,
    in silence...

My soul waits
    and wonders...

In silence,
    in silence...

My soul sinks
    and settles...

In silence,
    in silence...

My soul sighs,
    draws nigh...

In silence,
    in silence...

My soul drifts
    and dreams...

Oh, my soul,
    my soul in silence...

For God alone,
    in silence...

In silence...

Silence...

...

Text and image © 2022 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
Visit PhotosByDirk.com for fine-art photography.
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