John and Lisa's Blue Skies Blog – Soaring with God

Bob Dylan said, “Love is just a four letter word.”
But then so is Hate a four letter word.
Hope is also a four letter word.
Life is another four letter word.
Many of our names for abstract,
non-physical things are four letter words.
Word itself is a four letter word.
Yet these words have such power.

In doing my meditation I understand why we should focus into the third eye.
This helps keep stray images and thoughts from entering and hijacking the brain.
It keeps out the “zits” —
the whatzit,
the whyzit,
the wherezit,
the whenzit,
and the whozit.

Okay, this is my first attempt at erasure poetry. Let me know what you think, particularly if you have ideas on how to make this better:

“My beloved, obedient as you have always been, not only when I am present but all the more now when I am absent, work out your salvation with fear and trembling. For God is the one who, for his good purpose, works in you both to desire and to work. Do everything without grumbling or questioning, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you shine like lights in the world, as you hold on to the word of life, so that my boast for the day of Christ may be that I did not run in vain or labor in vain. But, even if I am poured out as a libation upon the sacrificial service of your faith, I rejoice and share my joy with all of you. In the same way you also should rejoice and share your joy with me.”
— Philippians 2:12-18

Love, present now,
you work that you may,
with light, hold life
for the day of Christ.
Poured out upon faith,
you rejoice and share joy.

Tall, young, super-fit woman
climbs on a treadmill
wearing a snug tank-top and
very tight short-shorts.
What do I see up high
on the backs of her thighs?
Cellulite.
She doesn’t know it’s there.
A hidden defect.
Like our spiritual defects,
subtle and hidden from our awareness.
Lies, gossip, greed,
manipulation.
Borrowing without returning.
Sneaky, sneaky pride.
Well-meaning friends may point
these out to me.
Praise the Lord!
Show me my errors.
What remains hidden
cannot well be
remedied.
Tell me! Show me!
I’m not afraid to see.

James, the farm boy, dreamed of playing
pro football – But too bad –
the dream died the day his leg
got caught in a tractor.
Five-year-old bathed in blood.

James, whose four blood-brothers
attended seminary, spent
his Friday eves in smokey bars
and one-night stands. Dozens
of women, hundreds of drinks swirled
in his mind. A woman
on the rag he never knew.

James, too tough for the Army,
joined the Marines
to fight and kill Vietnamese.
Some mysterious accident –
mum’s the word – meant
he never left the States.

James, whose would-be-priest-brothers
all got married and had kids,
decided he heard God’s call
to become a priest most-holy.
He informed his latest fling –
She exclaimed, “But why?”

James, on his knees in church,
begged Blessed Mary’s statue
how he’d pay for seminary.
Gust of wind from an opened
door blew dust-balls
from the Virgin’s bare feet.
She said, “As the dust was blown
away, so your expenses will blow away.”
Ah!  A benefactor footed the bill.

James, who wanted to be Franciscan,
found rejection in orthodox Orders.
A newer one made exceptions – men
of conversion should be encouraged.
So, a clean life could begin.

James, conscious of his many sins,
tightened chains around his groin –
became the Father of the 40-day
fast with his daily Lenten Mass.
Nothing but water for six weeks – well,
maybe pureed onions and garlic.

James, who served a parish in Texas,
lasted there one year. He broke
the hearts of mourners with tales
of their loved ones burning;
Preached obedience to kids ’til
they huddled in fear.

James, resolved to be a hermit, told
of the vision. Yes, perhaps
change would be good!  The search
for a place of quiet seclusion.
Road trips around the U.S. ended
in the North.

James, chaplain of women hermits,
passed the laundry to spy
piles of white panties
and snatch and sniff worn PJs –
forced confessions of secret
masturbation.

James, who claimed to know
massage – tore off veils to see
clipped hair; pulled down
panties to know
polluted rags.

James, who never lied,
answered questions with
questions. He couldn’t get
canned: daily Mass was a must.
Pervert in Roman collar longed
to shed his blood as a martyr.

James, you were holy in your mind,
judging your own confessor,
dreaming of a mistress. In the end,
your life was a minor sport.

You live on
somewhere
I’m sure –
for spirits
never die….

We played “Mrs. Spider” and I loved your gentle
touch. Your arms and lap gave comfort.
Dad, you were always generous with hugs.
My teachers didn’t understand my solitude
or love of the earth –
They disdained my deep need for quiet.

At recess, I felt called by the quiet
to sit under trees. This solitude-
nurtured soul of mine, you understood. Gently
cradled by God and rocked by Mother Earth,
I knew I could rely on her hugs.
Unlike mom, she gave comfort.

Your ready smile and playful dances comforted
my anxious mind. You watched with quiet
admiration as I cultivated earth,
Just a small patch, in grandpa’s yard. Hugs
from you, after I’d carried the watering can, gently
balanced my time of solitude

Among rows of vegetables. Silence and solitude
opened my heart to hear God in moist earth
and to surrender you there, too, without comfort
from family. The emptiness inside met gentle
spaces outside, far from mom’s wailing. Quiet
seemed impossible but my soul felt your hug.

I tired of striving for good grades but felt hugged,
no trapped, by the obligation. So gently
I sneaked away from mom’s meals, being quiet
while jumping to Jane Fonda tapes, avoiding comfort
of spaghetti and meatballs. I needed solitude
in my room, wanted to join you in the earth.

Yet my heart was drawn to evenings with the earth.
Listening to cicadas and trying to hug
the warm breeze. I walked in solitude
but always with God Who I knew heard my quiet
prayers. Grandpa, grandma and dad comforted
me with their presence in Spirit and gentleness.

Dear loved ones, called quietly into the deep hug
of our earth: I miss your gentle
words of comfort. Help me hear them in solitude.

Lord, take me,
do anything
You want with me.
Anything.
Make it hurt.
Otherwise,
I’ll keep wandering
around doing
my own things,
chasing desires,
plans, silly dreams.
Kill me, Lord –
so I’ll live for You.

“You have taken note of my wanderings,
caught each of my tears in Your bottle.
My enemies shall turn back and scatter
on the day I call out to You.
This I know for certain: God is on my side.”
(Psalm 56:8-9)

Sadducees
Pharisees
wanna-bees
could-bees
should-bees
try-to-bees
hope-to-bees –
and me

“Christianity isn’t a narcotic that dulls you into obedience. It involves battle – it’s excruciating to give up control. But that is why we must not feel despair if we are struggling. To struggle does not mean we are incorrigible. It means we are alive!… Heaven will not be filled with innocent people running around saying, ‘Oh, was there another way? I guess I never noticed.’ Rather they will say, ‘You bet there were other options that begged to control me. By God’s grace and my struggle, Jesus is my Lord.'”
— Rebecca Manley Pippert, “More Myself” in Women’s Devotional Bible

Excruciating!
Crucified
Give up control
Resist Satan’s traps
Struggle without despair
Trust the Father
Crucified with Christ
Death leads to life
Drowning….
Help!
Christ died
Christ lives in me
I trust

“Slaves, be obedient to your human masters with fear and trembling, in sincerity of heart, as to Christ, not only when being watched, as currying favor, but as slaves of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart, willingly serving the Lord and not men, knowing that each will be requited from the Lord for whatever good he does, whether he is slave or free.”
(Ephesians 6:5-8)

Freedom freely given
to the Lord saves
from servitude.
What once was burden
is done in love;
all toil here below
aims to please
God above –
God Who is spouse,
employer, friend,
even a seeming foe –
asking only what’s
for our good,
not ever for woe.