The contagious nature of ingratitude

A sickness rages in our land.
A pandemic through and through.
A chronic viral malady.
I call it the Whine Flu.

“Not fair!” “Oh, brother!” “Woe is me!”
We grumble, grouse and sigh
regurgitating constantly
the questions “How?” and “Why?”

Whine Flu dehydrates all our joy.
It leaves a bitter taste.
Our whining ways repel our friends.
They run from us post-haste.

Ingratitude is what’s behind
this spread-able disease.
When we forget to count God’s gifts
we start to croup and wheeze.

Lord, help us to express our thanks
for blessings you impart.
Please heal us of this dreaded flu
and give us grateful hearts.

Grieving the death of a 5 year-old sex slave;
I Am But One, But I Am One

Crying for Shaniya
Grieving the death of a 5 year-old sex slave

Earth’s traffic jam is not pureed.
It’s seedy, dark and sour.
This gridlock’s human slavery
where helpless children cower.

In dim-lit rooms and brothel cells
(in Oakland or Mumbai),
their hopes and dreams run out of gas.
Their innocence runs dry.

It’s traffic in which they get caught
regardless of the time.
From morning-rush to late at night,
they’re victims of gross crime.

This human trafficking collides
with what is right and true.
But lives now wrecked can be restored.
It’s up to me and you.

I Am But One, But I Am One
Individuals can slow the speed of human trafficking

I hear my conscience calling me to rescue the oppressed.
I choose to answer willingly ’cause I’ve been richly blessed.
I am but one but I am one whose candle mocks the dark.
I am available to Him who owns my willing heart.

I cannot disregard abuse in brothel, field or slum.
I will not rest until I work that justice might be done.
I am but one but I am one who feels the children’s pain.
I am available to Him who calls each one by name.

I’ll be a voice for those enslaved by power, lust and greed.
I’ll advocate for those in chains until they have been freed.
I am but one but I am one who will not be denied.
I am available to Him who with the victim sides.

• the above poem can be sung to the hymn tune for “My Soul Has Found a Resting Place”
  ** Check out what the International Justice Mission is doing to halt human trafficking. Go to http://www.ijm.org

Both the one in Berlin and the one within;
Mileage Plus

The Fall of the Wall
Both the one in Berlin and the one within

A crumbling wall
recalls the fall
of 1989
when Germany awoke
to see
Berliners hoisting steins.

A piece of wall
would (after all)
announce the Cold War’s peace.
It would portend
another end
when Communism ceased.

But there’s a wall
within us all
that stubbornly still stands.
It keeps us from
the Holy One
and what this King demands.

Without a doubt
we wall God out
by wanting life our way.
Behind our pride
we try to hide
pretending night is day.

Let walls fall down
that peace be found
where conflict’s been the norm.
For after all
where there’s no wall
our cold hearts start to warm.

Mileage Plus
It’s more than miles that matter when families live far apart

I’m grateful for the internet,
for cell phones and for Skype.
But when your kids live far away
it’s easy, Lord, to gripe.

I’m jealous of some dads I know
who meet their sons for lunch
or treat their daughters at Starbucks
to tea and apple crunch.

Forgive me, Lord, when I complain
and claim it isn’t fair.
I’m sorry for my tendency
to envy and compare.

But golly, God, the holidays
can seem too much to bear.
I ache to see the table set
with all those empty chairs.

And yet, I’m oh so grateful for
the lives my children lead.
It curbs the pain to see how You
have helped each to succeed.

Thank You, Lord, for times we share
though few and far between.
Perhaps some day we’ll all live close.
At least a dad can dream.

* This year all three of our daughters live more than 2,000 miles away from home. Although we will all be together for Thanksgiving, Wendy and I were not able to be with our youngest for Parents Weekend at her college in Illinois. Neither will we be able to celebrate with Lauren as she turns 19 this weekend. The miles that separate seem somehow much longer on special days.

Folding Old Glory at a new grave;
First Anniversary of a Veteran’s Passing;
The Tragedy in Texas

A Dance of White-Gloved Hands
Folding Old Glory at a new grave

They fold the flag and with each fold
we realize what we’ve been told
(about those men who gave their all)
is absolutely true.

As silently they crease the cloth,
we realize there is no froth
in Freedom’s stein as Liberty
makes toasts to those who served.

That triangle with each fold grows
more thick as we recall the foes
that robbed young soldiers of their dreams
of coming home again.

A slow motion dance of white-gloved hands
that pictures what few understand.
That freedom is not ever free.
That heroes are not born.

One last salute to one now dead,
who rests within an earthen bed
aware of Taps, but even more
awaiting Reveille.
 

The First Anniversary of a Veteran’s Passing
Second thoughts on my father’s death

A year ago this very week
I heard my dying father speak
three little words I long to hear.
He whispered, “I love you.”I think about that final yearas that last day was drawing nearand how my dad reminded mehow rich his life had been.
A faithful wife, two loving sons
a rental business that he’d run,
extended family who believed
he was a royal prince.

This veteran of the Second War
recounted South Pacific horror
as conflicts paved the way for peace
and his long trip back home.My mind rehearses what I sawas Dad would shuffle down the hallto find his favorite easy chairand spend some time with God. That proud Marine resisted aid.His do-it-by-himself paradewould prove to me (and to himself)that he still had some fight. But at the end he was so weak,he found it hard to even speak.Yet softly he bequeathed me hopeand faith to carry on.

A Tragedy in Texas
Poetic reflections on the massacre at Fort Hood

When we’re ambushed and blindsided
by a foe disguised as friend,
we’re as helpless as a child
or a leaf blown by the wind.

At such times we’re thrown off-balance
as we try to understand
Evil’s modus operandi
here and in Afghanistan.

Life is fragile and ironic.
War survivors die at home.
And as questions beg for answers,
we must turn to God alone.