My Girl Friday

A toast to all administrative assistants

Administrative assistants.
Now that’s an oxymoron if ever there was one.

They aren’t assistants.
They really are in charge.
They administrate and so much more.
They do the work that others get credit for
while they are happy to remain behind the scenes.
You know what I mean?

And in the case of the one I have in mind,
she was most gracious and quite kind.
Her competency and professionalism
made me look good
even when I hadn’t done my homework.

Her hospitality, honesty and integrity
were a blend of three teas
that was calming, refreshing and invigorating.
Like a hot cup of tea,
she was a source of warmth
when creativity and inspiration grew cold.

Having been a pastor’s wife,
she understood the unique challenges I faced
as I attempted to shepherd my flock.  
And so we would talk.
And often we would pray.
And often I would hear her say,
“Don’t worry! It will be okay.”

I once called her “My Girl Friday.”
But that was a bit of a misnomer.
Every day of the week
she’d seek to lift my load
and goad me to do my best.
May she rest in peace
having found release
from chains that age can bring.

And so we sing
a song we love so well.
“I Have a Future All Sublime”
where all in Christ will dwell.

* this tribute was inspired by Lucille Larson, my administrative assistant at Crossroads Covenant Church in Concord, California from 1984-1994. Peace to her memory!

Two Giant Hands in Tulsa

Praying for forgiveness and healing

Two giant hands in Tulsa
folded quietly in prayer
call to mind our need for God as we recall
the massacre in Greenwood
back in 1921
when racist bigots cast a bloody pall.

These giant hands beseech the Lord
confessing corporate sin
and asking for forgiveness of our wrong.
These hands that tremble somberly
acknowledge needed grace
admitting all lives to the Lord belong.

These giant hands now call us to
unclench our fists and pray
that love will win and justice will prevail.
These praying hands in Tulsa
tower over unmarked tombs
where those who grieve can still be heard to wail.

To a Field of Dreams

Memorial Day ponderings

To a field of dreams
where heroes sleep
I’m drawn.

To a park punctuated by
marble markers
(too often taken for granite)
I drive.

To a garden of freedom
irrigated by the blood of the brave,
I go.

Memorial Day is more than a day
to display our flag
while barbecuing burgers and brats.
It’s a time for decorating graves
while freeing gratitude
that has been enslaved too long.

Memorial Day is more than a day off.
It is a day on which we pin our hopes
for ongoing freedoms
(we mindlessly enjoy)
that could be taken from us
if we fail to recall
the price tag
others were willing to pay.

On this Memorial Day 
may the dreams of those who sleep
(awaiting Gabriel’s reveille)
become our dreams as well.

Don’t Mask! Don’t Tell!

It’s about time for about face

Don’t mask.
Don’t tell.
It is allowed.
Unless of course you’re in a crowd.

Don’t fear.
Don’t fret.
There is no cause.
The CDC has changed its laws.

Don’t gripe.
Don’t grouse.
But give God praise.
God helped us through the COVID maze.

Liz Cheney’s Not Lon Chaney

Why recent events on Capitol Hill resemble a horror show

Liz Cheney is Lon Chaney
to the Tumpsters on the right.
To them she is a monster to be shunned.
Ridiculous! Dick’s daughter
isn’t scary or insane.
Watch her contemplate a future White House run.

I respect her for her candor.
She has guts to speak her mind.
Perhaps The Donald’s met his match in her.
Refusing to be silenced,
Liz has paid a hefty toll.
But there is a price if truth is to endure.

Republicans, be cautious.
Ask yourself what Abe would do
to preserve a party built on Lincoln logs.
The spirit of division
will not multiply for good.
Those who fight like cats in time go to the dogs.