Friday, March 27, 2015


(“The practice of resurrection encourages improvisation on the basic resurrection story….” Eugene Peterson)

The day Grandma died
something quickened in the atmosphere.
A breeze sashayed
through the cherry orchard.
Unseen stars kicked up their heels
in the day-blind sky.

Cancer ward. My friend Sandi
fights nausea. Hope hides
its bright face but refuses
to disappear altogether.
Outside in the evening
pond frogs croak,
“Kyrie eleison.
Kyrie eleison.”

Peter turns seven.
At his request we go to Red Robin
for hamburgers. As the waiters
gather at a neighboring table
to sing a loud and public “Happy Birthday,”
Peter leans in and announces,
“They’re going to do that to me next.”
And they do.

On my early morning walk,
hundreds of calendar-defying daffodils
greet me, all of them grinning
like stewardesses.

Dwaine’s death stuns. My friend
and colleague, a husband, father,
grandfather. Running on the beach.
Not old. Not old at all. It’s like
those something-is-wrong-
with-this-picture puzzles I did
as a child. Lord, help us trace our way
through the shadowed places. Splash
in some resurrection hues.

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