three feet across, two figures are standing
each other’s attention completely commanding
the rehearsed motions of this choreographed day
have relented to the sincerity in these few words to say

they speak now to each other, not to friends or family
we’re watching all around, but we’re not what they hear or see
they’re putting all trust possible in a language’s communicative sound
trying to capture a promise, for when hard times come around

she watches him repeat the words that give marriage its start
from paper to his voice to somewhere hidden in her heart
“in sickness”, he hears her speak of how she will act
if a worst case scenario becomes his own life’s fact

their eyes search each other’s face as when they met that first day
dispensing with niceties, committment is shared in a most basic way
all romance, music and poems, all courting is placed aside
because from the weight of these words there is simply no place to hide

so they stand, and in that space
for the rest of their lives they mark their place

Chivalry has passed, Chivalry is dead

 his sleeve got caught in a car door

 as he was opening the door for a woman

 the car drove off and he was heard from no more

Chivalry was dragging along the pavement

as the sedan turned right onto Main

 he was used to suffering for others, he was no stranger

 to allowing himself to be subjected to pain

but this was a modern car and the speed was too high

the bleeding was simply too much

in this world of urgent coming and going

Chivalry was simply out of touch

he thrived in a much slower era

when maybe the car wouldn’t be going so fast

taking the time to slow down and enjoy life

those were the hallmarks of his remembered past

but now the destination is the only priority

and it doesn’t matter who gets in the way

manners and courtesy tend to be left out

when one travels or has something to say

in those old days there was more respect

especially for the ladies in our society

but that respect has seemed the necessary martyr

in the feminine desire to be free

now, freedom is right, freedom is good

fairness should be shared by each and by all

but fairness shouldn’t be called into question, perhaps

when a gentleman makes his chivalrous call

but now that respect for a woman isn’t insisted on

more than one feminine heart has been torn

men have cast aside the guidebook of decency

and turned to magazines and websites of porn

now that selfishness has all else well beat 

the role of Chivalry is lying in the street

I saw Chivalry’s lifeless body along Elm

like a quiet island in a sea of red

I regret to announce, in two thousand and nine

Chivalry is truly dead

I still haven’t used that algebra equation

I learned in 9th grade in my moment of frustration

the math that my teachers always said that I’d need

I’ve used about as much as a bag of chicken feed

Do you rememember what they said? “It’s foundational my son!”

I think their only point was to ruin all our fun

in the middle of a day of learning exciting things about life

they plopped down an 4 pound book and then began our strife

Ages ago somewhere an old professor hated kids with a passion

so he set out to torture them in quadratic and linear fashion

since then I’ve been waiting to use it some place

but all I’m getting are flashbacks of my teacher’s chubby face

not at a restaurant, or beach, or supermarket does it come in handy

even when I’m buying apples or lemons or grapefruit or candy

when Congress was asked for cash so the economy wouldn’t freeze 

the Treasury never called me up for my mathematical expertise

but I think there must be some reason they were so intent to train

something lurking ahead that will require that part of my brain

Now here comes a question that fills me with fright:

will I somehow need algebra on my wedding honeymoon night?

(Oh please, married friends! Please tell me that’s not right!)

Because I’m forgetting what I learned, the numbers are getting faint

I think I retained more at five after the lesson of finger-paint

 I will not talk

I will not talk

I will not talk in class

those lines are more familiar than any math test I passed

wait!

I can finally see a scenario where algebra skills will be needed

after the hands of time have spun, and the future has been seeded

when I’m a dad, and need to give math help to my daughter and her brother

I’ll hold them close, and whisper in each ear: “Kids, go ask your mother”

Iron your clothes, brush your hair

but there’s still something missing there

shoes polished, shining bright

but something remains wrong tonight

wash your hands and your face

you’re getting closer to what’s out of place

it’s about your hand - the left, not the right

seems one finger is just too light

No diamonds or rubies on that finger

they say is like a song missing from a singer

like a woman standing outside in the cold

is a ring finger completely devoid of gold

families chat and wonder why

you stay at home and don’t even try

or if you’re a girl, why your beauty doesn’t speak

to eligible men who might seek

At gatherings and reunions

they frown and stare

“her hand is quite lovely

but so, so bare”

But a finger isn’t all there is to life

(my arm’s still warm without a wife)

our hopes and dreams shouldn’t begin or end

the moment we find a bed-time friend 

25 years, maybe 30, or 33 like me

we’re just a twig on the family tree

I’m blooming leaves but not as much

as my sisters with the family touch

But if no woman makes a shadow, I can’t see it cast

an absent girl’s words, in my mind they won’t last

it’s the missing perfume I have a hard time detecting

instead I’ll turn to this moment which deserves perfecting 

Today, this life, this minute, this second

she’s my dream, my joy, my romance 

I’ll love a woman one day, but till then

with her I’ll gladly ask to dance

I was beaming as I sat on my bed hammering this out last night because after many years of focusing on a void in my life, I can finally see what’s really there.  I think if you focus on a void in your life for too long (like the lack of a spouse), that void can become a “black hole”, sucking all your emotions and passion into it.  Then you have nothing left for what’s really there – what’s all around you.  Life and people and the rest of the world.

I’ve learned to live how alot of people in the bible seemed to live: take it as it comes.  And appreciate what you have.  Maybe alot of people around you are focusing on something like your bare finger, but you know that’s not who you are.  You are everything God has made you, today, right now.  Look in the mirror – that’s you, sweetheart. 

The cow was again starting to meander a bit closer to Mary and the baby (probably out of curiosity), and Joseph rose to his feet and held out an arm to push against its head, making it turn back its course.  As he looked briefly glanced into the cow’s black eyes, Joseph almost braced himself for a look af recognition from the beast’s eyes, as if it had come to verbally convey something about this situation.  Normally that would be a crazy thing to expect, but this was no normal situation.

It was not too long ago on a calm night like this one Joseph was fast asleep, having another one of his dreams about Mary’s face.  That was the only object in this frequently occuring dream, her little face.  It seemed in this dream that he had just told her he was going to divorce her, like the words had just filled the air between them.  Joseph hated this dream, and it would make him sick to his stomach after he awoke. 

Then his sleep and dream seemed to move in another direction, and he stirred as if to awaken, but couldn’t.  Something held him asleep, and then that something took light in his dream.  It got brighter and brighter and the light seemed to move out of his dream and fill his mind, but he was held fast asleep.  And then the light took form in the shape of an angel, and the angel spoke to Joseph. 

 The angel told him to not leave Mary, but that the Holy Spirit had placed the baby inside her.  And that he should name the baby Jesus, and that he would save his people from their sins.  Then the words from the angel stopped and the angel left the dream.  Then Joseph finally was able to wake up and he laid in the bed, and in the peace that he felt come over him the second the words started from the angel.  He could feel the peace remaining in his chest and on his shoulders, like nothing he had ever felt before.

He loved Mary, but after that night Joseph was almost afraid to look at the bump on her belly that was getting bigger by the week.  He had developed a new routine for every time they got together.  He would look at her face as he greeted her, then quickly down at her belly, and then would never look back down in that direction for the remainder of their conversation.  He wasn’t afraid of the baby, or of anything that came from Jehovah, but he just felt he should keep his eyes elsewhere.  Joseph was not of a religious order, he just a man who worked with his hands.  But he knew who and what he should respect.

But not looking at her belly had gotten much harder the last couple days, and especially on this frantic night, as they had searched from inn to inn.  They had made the trip to Bethlehem to register, and now Mary’s head was down and she was crying out; the baby was approaching.  With every sound she made Joseph was gripped tighter with anxiety and frustration.  He was letting down heaven, derailing the plans of the Most High, because he couldn’t find a inn that had room.  

“How can this be the plan of our provider, as He is not providing us a place?”  Joseph wondered.

On this cool night Joseph was sweating as they approached the stable, his wife almost unable to stand, his arms around her waist as they walked, under the place that held the centerpiece of the hope of mankind.  Joseph staked a clearing in the stable, almost throwing aside animals like his boy would do later in his life in a temple, and he quickly laid the cleanest hay he could find in a manger.

Mary delivered Jesus and then Joseph stood in the dirt beside them, watching Mary and the baby.  He watched her hold Jesus, and then she asked if he wanted to hold him too.  The first three times she asked he refused, and then accepted the offer the forth time.

Joseph reached out and slid his left hand under the baby’s back over Mary’s hand, and cupped Jesus’ head and his tiny flock of hair with his right hand. 

Joseph looked down at the baby in his hands, his little head illuminated by the yellow flickering flame of the lamp.  The baby was still quiet but Joseph could feel the baby’s legs moving inside the thick cloth.  He looked like a baby, like a normal child he had always seen.  Joseph had somehow expected the child to shine with visible light like a magical thing, but He didn’t.  He was a baby. 

After the frantic last few hours, Joseph felt himself relax.  A new peace  had come upon him, but not like the one from the experience with the angel.  This peace seemed to come from the weight in his arms, as if Joseph was holding Jesus and the sight of Jesus was somehow holding him. 

 Joseph had felt and seen his faults as a man all his life, and it felt like every one of those faults was packed together and then shown in all their ugliness tonight with the single reality of not being able to find a suitable place for Mary and this child.  He felt his inabilities staring at him in the face when he saw Mary’s face earlier tonight, as they had approached the stable.  But now here was the baby, at peace.  And Joseph was at peace as well. 

Heaven still didn’t make sense and no explanations came that answered the last few confusing months.  But Joseph stood in this peace, and he accepted it.  He held Jesus for a few more minutes, and then he gave the baby back to Mary. 

So now Joseph got back on his knees beside his wife next to the wooden manger, and the baby inside lying on the hay.  He looked up from the baby to the wooden structure around him, something like he might build, and for the first time in his life felt an advantage in being just a carpenter, in having a simple life.  Maybe his simple life might be allowing him to quiet himself and accept all of this.  Who would imagine that God would send a savior to His people like this, in this dirty place, with these animals around them?  Joseph’s knew his mind wasn’t about to find the answer.   

He looked back down to Mary’s eyes, and then to Jesus.  Joseph said a few words to Mary as they kept their eyes on the baby.  And then they both heard voices in the air behind them.

I don’t know about you, but when I read the Navity story, and really read the story, I almost feel embarrassed.  Jesus, the King of Kings, who loves me and has saved my life, came to us in this way.  It’s like if I walked outside and a king or a president was cleaning my car.  I’d tell them, “Really, you don’t have to do this!”, and I’d try to get the cleaning rag out of their hand as soon as possible.  I’d be embarrassed that someone so important was washing my car - it’s just not right.  They should never have to do that.

So how can I express thanks for what Jesus did?  Not alot comes to mind, but just to love Him and do what He says.  He didn’t have to do this, He really didn’t. 

Linda lost track of time years ago.  She knows how old she is in years (44), but she’s older than that.  Is it possible to be older than your age?  She looks down at the red viens between her knuckles and knows it is.  Her skin shouldn’t feel this stretched at her age, or her head this heavy, and now her sense of time and the way she feels just doesn’t match up.  Her slight frame leans a bit too comfortably onto the iron railing as it creaks outward, and she folds her thin forearms over each other, then lays her head on them.  

With eyes closed she takes inventory of herself and this moment.  Her body seems intact, and her backpack’s loaded, just inside the door of room 212 behind her.  It’s funny how quickly her mind goes to that yellow backpack, as if it’s an extension of her body, of herself.  Probably because she’s kept it close for at least five years now, ever since that 25th of December, when she recieved it as a gift at some shelter in Oklahoma. 

The yellow color of the bag’s fabric is probably the best gift Linda’s ever been given.  She stares at that color sitting at bus stops, laying on benches at parks, and sitting on dirty motel bedspreads, while listening to the always-strange rustling of some Truck Stop Romeo shaving in the bathroom.  Something in the yellow triggers something from her childhood, some dress or truss of doll hair – she can’t quite focus her memory on what it is.  To this day it still takes her away from her surroundings, soothes her at little.  And some nights when the yellow shows up in her dreams it makes her cry.            

With eyes closed she has taken all inventory – her bag and herself.  She lifts her head up, opens her eyes and then squints - the morning is brighter, the sun finally having conquered the clouds.  Orange light covers the parking lot and now there’s a few travelers slowly loading minivans and sedans below.  It’s time for her to go as well.

Linda stands upright and looks down at her digital watch: 7:45am.  Still plenty of time to make it to the shelter downtown and get breakfast.  As she turns, placing her hand on the doorlever to give it a little push and reach in for her bag, she stops.  Linda stares down at the place where the door meets the door frame.  Closed.  A closed motel door means a locked motel door.  The weight of the door must’ve forced it shut, past where she’d left it cracked open.  Now the only way to get her backpack and every posession she owned in it is to knock on the door, waking the man sleeping inside, the man who had called her all sorts of names and given her all sorts of bruises the night before.  

Linda silently slumps down to her knees and breathes in deep.  She stares down her at knees, the holes in the corduroy showing her white skin more pale than the day she was born.  No movement at all.  She closes her eyes again and takes inventory once more.  Herself.  That’s it now. 

With eyes closed she makes a wish.  To herself, to God, to her dead father - who knows to whom?  Doesn’t matter, a wish doesn’t need a recipient, it just needs to be.

She wishes one thing.  That she could start again, hit the reset button on life.  Erase this moment, this sunlight, this balcony, this old body.  Linda wishes she could be new again.  That she could be born again.

Born again.

Every secret we keep, every thought that nests in our minds untold, every whispered word between friends or enemies, every act that has shaken or shocked us, we tell no one.  We walk around holding them in, never revealing them, almost like they’re not there.  But every last one of those glows like bright red neon lights before the eyes of God.  The secret things are as bright as the obvious things to our Lord.  Jesus said every secret thing will be made open - that’s God’s perspective.  And He sees them all right now.

You want to make something plain to God?  Feel it, then think it, then bury it deep in your heart.  Let the days and years press it down into the soil of your heart, never telling anyone.  It’s away from the eyes and ears of other people, inside the center of you.  But God’s eyes probe down there and can see who you are.  

No, secrets really aren’t.  There are no such thing as secrets.  Just things briefly hidden from people. 

 I think the “secret” of life is to realize that - and live your life, every second and minute, with every action, acknowledging that God, the source of our life and any joy we have, sees all.  God knows us.  We can’t hide anything from Him.  Will that affect what I do “in secret”? 

All that you pleasure in or suffer through that no one else sees, God sees - He really does.

They’re not quite girls anymore, more like young women – all middle eastern descent.  I think they are actually from the Middle East, thier manner of behaving.  They’re sitting around a table, all five of them, and leaning in to talk.  They don’t just lean in, they speak quietly but excitedly.  They are animated and giddy, but at the same time subdued.  Like a cat moving rapidly in a box, or a church kid playing happily under a pew, but trying to keep quiet enough not to alert his mom, who would spank the tar out of him for being disrespectful in the house of God.

I guess this curious behavior on the part of these women comes from their living atmosphere.  A domineering husband or strict father probably quiets their mouth in the house, a typical ingredient of many Middle Eastern homes, a cultural norm it seems.  Day and night in their homes they are made to be docile, unopinionated, and subservant.  But out here, out of the house, they have crowded tightly together and let thier tounges speak free, if still rather quiet.  Not longer under the restraint of the male control, their movements are still small but excited, and they make happy quick gestures.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I lived completely free of concern for what others think of me.  As a whole, I generally don’t care what they think, and I don’t make big life decisions with that in mind.  But in the day-to-day, I know there is a self-conciousness guiding me away from doing what might make me look strange.  I think it’s like the domineering males in these women’s lives, this concern that works to silence the spirit a bit. 

I’ve found myself at times not closing my eyes to pray for food as I wanted to avoid a strange appearance.  Or maybe other times I’d stopped myself from starting conversation with a perfect stranger for fear of rejection – people normally just don’t start up a coversation, and I don’t want to look wierd.

What would life be like with never a selfish, constricting thought of what people would think?  Who knows how much more we could do if we just didn’t care about the petty opinions of people that we’ve never met or probably never will. 

Would our personalities begin to get excited being free of this shallow concern?  Would we begin to move more freely and just live more freely, more happily?  What would open up?  What would change? 

Just a thought.

The images showed men and women in clusters in the dirt, walking in the along tractor tire tracks, bending over, stuffing thier sacks.  The farm spokesman, in a thick mid-American accent, said that they never  expected this sort of turnout.  Even a church called up wanting to send 5 of their workers to retrieve potatoes.  He remarked about the strong general need for food in this ecomony.  People just need.   

So that was it – the farm just made the decision to donate the potatoes, they contacted a few news outlets, and the people poured in.  Nothing complex about it – it was simple.  They had something to give, they let the people know and the people came.  The potatoes were sitting right on top of the soil, they didn’t even have to dig. 

If we have something that something needs, we can just let them know we have it, and they’ll come and get it.  It’s not about superiority or inferiority, it’s just need and come-and-get-it.  Doesn’t make me better than you or vice versa, it’s just we need and “here you go”.

I’m a pastor, have been one for a whole 5 months now.  In that short glimpse of time, I’ve seen eyes that need.  They look just like my eyes when I need.   When we need, we can try to cover it with our voice and a confident walk, maybe a laugh or two, but our eyes will always tell the story.  Like a homeless man walking through a dump site looking for scraps of food, we walk around with needful eyes.

And then someone has what we need and we come, and take it.  Thank you.  We fill our bags and then go. 

What is it you have that someone needs?  If someone walks onto the field of your life, what do have for them?  Your needful eyes will become restful eyes as you get what you need somewhere.  And then what do you have to give?

For me, when I need I look upwards and God gives to me. And then that love He gives me He tells me to give to others.  “As I have loved you, you love others”, He says.

If you have something to give, people will come to you for it.  For potatoes, or something else.

Where am I?  I’m here, kicking off this blog page, getting advice from my friend about web 2.0, really enjoying updating stuff on Facebook, looking towards setting up sermons on YouTube.  I’m a 33 year old man realizing I’m about to cross over into the “fully-plugged-in-mode” and wondering if I should do it.  Heck, I’m even thinking about getting an iPhone next spring when my current cell contract runs out.

Now you may be thinking “Aaron, what are you talking about?  We’re all in the ‘plugged-in’ age!”  Cell phones and laptops (I have both), email accounts and CD players (of course).  But this mode I’m talking about is a different way of using the web, of investing alot of time and energy into communicating and connecting over the dubya-dubya-dot.  Frequent blog updates, a real ministry outlet online, trying to develop a big audience out there  (out there – where you’re reading this right now).  And then keeping up with it all on a shiny new iPhone (“Phones are for talking!” I insisted barely two years ago).  Plugged in.  Really putting my hands onto this virtual place and trying to make something substantial.  

There’s a side of me (remember, I am 33)  that just doesn’t trust it all.  It says “Okay, fine, you can have your Hotmail account and get on CNN to check the news, but that’s IT!  Get in the web, get out, but don’t trust that place!  Don’t set up shop there!”  I grew up in that in-between period.  Didn’t have this stuff as a kid.  Back then my laptop had Triple Shake Memory (Etch-a-Sketch).

The Emily Bronte novel (don’t laugh) lying on the window seat across from my bed, that book which is made of paper which came from trees, compels me not to cross that bridge.  So does “The Lord of the Flies” two books up.  All paper and dried black ink, all the product of a different paradigm, a different age.

So what do you think? Should I go for it?  Digitally immerse myself at the risk of ending up looking a Anime kid with the complexion of tuna fish because he’s always inside on the computer?  What if I develop all the charm of Bill Gates?  Have you SEEN him in an interview?