The 60-Second Sabbath

On Disagreement

How well do we
disagree?

How well do we--
    as individuals,
    as a culture,
    as a nation in the world arena--
disagree?

Part of maturity,
part of an evolved faith,
is the ability to disagree
    with respect,
    with appreciation,
    with empathy,
    with acceptance,
    with grace

(and therefore
    without ridicule,
    without defensiveness,
    without anger,
    without fear).

I think, for example,
of American politics*:

If God watches to see
how well we disagree,
how sad she must feel.

*or religion, morality, social media, etc.

Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Good Dough

Like a good dough
destined to become fragrant, hot bread,
dripping with melted butter and sweet honey,
I, too, occasionally need to be punched down,
deflated,
returned to an earlier state,
and left in a warm, quiet place
to rise again.

Like a good dough,
I, too, relish a hard knead
by hands knowing and strong.

Like a good dough
ready for presentation at the dinner table,
golden and crusty on the outside,
yielding and finely textured within,
I, too, must withstand the heat of the oven,
the cut of the knife.

Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Maundy Thursday

It's probably not your feet
most in need of washing,
but let Jesus begin there,
and when he's done,
you may have the courage
to request a fuller cleansing.

I mean, he's already here (right?)
with the basin,
the warm water,
the clean towel,
those beautiful, gentle hands,
    soon to be shattered.

Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Essential Self

You are not your history;
your history is not you.

You are not your family;
your family is not you.

You are not what you believe;
your beliefs are not you.

You are not your accomplishments;
what you've done is not you.

You are not your thoughts about you;
what you think is not who you are.

You are not the friends you have;
your relationships are not you.

You are not the job you have;
your career is not you.

You are not the body you've sculpted,
    the car you drive,
    the salary you make,
    the clothes you wear,
    the stuff you own,
    the identity you cling to...

All of the above is over there;
you are over here.

Without it all,
here you are,
same you,
no more, no less,
complete,
worth celebrating,
definitely worth celebrating.

Do you affirm your stripped and naked,
    solitary, essential self?

Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Set Up

Tell me I'm handsome,
tell me I'm smart,
tell me I can do and become
    whatever I want,

and when I encounter failure,
when I make mistakes,
when I face reality,

I will doubt myself,
wonder what's wrong with me,
realize I can't possibly be
    as handsome, smart and competent
as you said.

Either you were horribly wrong,
or I've screwed it all up.

Tell me to enjoy the challenges,
to be intrigued by my mistakes,
to love making the effort,
to continue learning
    no matter what happens,
and you've given me the tools
to love life
and myself.

The illusion that I'm all that
destroys.
The desire to keep trying
empowers.

Text and image © 2015 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Advent Lament

No, you come to early,
    Lord Jesus:
Just announced, yet here it is,
    two weeks from your arrival.

We've got too much to do...
    Chex Mix to make,
    cookies to bake.
Thank God (I mean, thank your Father)
    the tree's up...
    oh, but not the garland
and gifts to wrap, and cheer to spread--
    nursing-home visits,
    the pageant at church,
a shepherd's staff to craft,
an angel's halo to weave of tinsel.
    Wash the guest-bed sheets!
plump pillows,
plan menus,
purchase the ham...
    (Wait, ham? You're Jewish still?)

Perhaps this year,
    you could come with the kings,
    at Epiphany?
All arrive together
    in your black Crown Victoria?

Above all my heart--
    not quite ready...
Who am I kidding?
    It will take a week, at least,
    to clear it's arrogant clutter.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

The Approach

Advent,
    and who is this approaching?

What hidden self
    emerges from the woods,
    the crawl space,
    the garden labyrinth?

What time-hidden, reclusive divine embodiment
    has Word to give,
    Word to enflesh,
    my Word, that Word?

What lost unspokenness
    now comes to the end of its wandering?

Where will be this birthing,
    its pain, its release,
    its joy, its terror?

Giving birth. Being birthed.

Advent,
    and what is this approaching?

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Voice of the Mountain

"It's the wind," he told me,
"nothing more."

But I'd heard the voice,
deep and resonant and beckoning.
I could not make out all the words...

"Wind," he repeated.

...but could tell--
just by the tone--
it's old, wise, weary.

"The mountain has no voice,
and you have an overactive imagination."

It spoke again,
raising the hair on my arms,
shivering along my spine,
tousling my hair.
"He's wrong," it said.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

How Poetry Works, Revisited

"Poetry?
No, I don't generally read poetry.
I don't get it."

"Of course not," she said.
"Poetry isn't gotten;
it's absorbed.
You read it,
and read it,
and read it,
and then it's inside of you,

and you are someone else."

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.

Because Things Do

Things fall apart
    then reassemble.
Life unravels
    then weaves back together.
The water overwhelms
    then recedes.

This is always the pattern;
    we've lived it 1,000 times,
    survived it 1,000 times.

Yet always
    between the disaster
    and the recovery,
    between the spill
    and the cleanup
is a point of despair,
    of "It will always be this way"
    and "What's the point?"
rarely "This too shall pass...
    like all others have passed."

This too shall pass
    because things do.

Text and image © 2014 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.