Respecting the awesome power of words!

journey

May Our Prayers Rise to Meet You

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Our prayers rise on your behalf,
lifting you into the presence
of the Great Physician:

Behold your precious child, O God;
one created in your image
and filled with your reflection.

Grant that the medical team
may continue to act with wisdom,
compassion, and understanding,
so that the journey along the
road to recovery may be
bearable and dotted
with respites and oases
giving breathing room.

Grant an awakening each day
with enough courage
to climb out of bed,
enough strength
to shuffle forward,
and enough hope
to lift eyes to the rising sun.

Grant that caretakers and family
may discern when to push
and when to hold,
when to cry
and when to laugh,
when to speak
and when to sit in silence.

These and all prayers we waft
in the name of him whose robe hem
sparkled with life itself,
Jesus the Christ. Amen.

© 2018 Todd Jenkins

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Yet

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So many choices we have 
for what might be God’s utterance, 
when all seems done and 
the only thing left to say – 
the only thing allowed 
to be said – is a single word.

Powerful and compassionate verbs 
come to mind, as do 
unique and tender nouns, 
or maybe adjectives, 
or some other eloquent string 
of letters and syllables 
possessing unmatched beauty.

Even so, I know 
the word is “Yet.”

Yet, in its not-quite, 
still-to-come sense, 
holding out possibility 
in the presence of nothingness, 
or even in the face 
of every imaginable oppositeness.

Yet, in its 
“You’ve blazed a long trail 
in the opposite direction 
from where you need to be, 
and missed what’s been 
in front of your face all along, 
so turn around.” sense.

God’s word is “Yet.” 
I’m still trying 
to get used to it.

© 2018 Todd Jenkins

Here We Are

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I wanted my words
to make a difference;
not just the words
that leaked out of my mouth
in the heat of the moment,

but the words that seeped
out of my veins, carrying parts
of me from the deepest places
I’ve yet to plumb,

when your pain stabbed me
with the dull side of its blade,
its razor edge sunk
to the hilt in your heart.

I wanted my blood
to make a difference;
but it didn’t.

At least, it didn’t effect
the wispy dream of reconciliation
I constructed with letters,
punctuation, and space —
lots of space.

So, here we are,
on the far side of words —
on the dried side of blood —
and the wet side of tears;

still groping for the edge
of the grave,
still hoping for breath
not squeezed tight
by pain and rejection.

Here we are.

Here we are.

© 2018 Todd Jenkins

Siblings

lpatrick2Photo by Linda Patrick

 

“Justice and peace
will kiss each other."
- Psalm 85:10

Justice and Peace embrace
in a warm hug and
double-cheek kiss

because they’re long-lost siblings,
separated soon after birth
by cultures, societies, nations,
and people who cannot see
and believe God’s generosity
and extravagance;

a blind disbelieving which tilts
the world toward selfishness,
greed, anxiety, and fear.

In the tension of such shrinking,
their (J’s & P’s) mother
had to ship them off
to separate family members
to be raised, while she
continually cleans up the messes
and patches the rent fabric
in societies that
tiny-hearted people create.

At least, that’s
the story I’m dreaming.

© 2018 Todd Jenkins

3 Rivers

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Life consists of a journey
between and beyond three rivers;
the first is named Patience;
another, Preparation;
the third, Perseverance.

The first river has
neither bridges
nor is it fordable.
It asks you to wait
while someone constructs
a way to cross.
Maybe, you become the builder.

The second river also seems
impossible to cross.
It wants you to be sure
you know how to swim
before you jump in.

The third river is no more
crossable than the first two.
It wants to know if you're
hungry enough to jump,
and trusting enough to float.

The rivers already know you.
How are you
getting to know them?

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Focus

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Photo by Mark Saline

 

Focusing on Messiah’s
future return —
either trying to do
all the right things
to prepare for it
or seeking to discern
the arrival signs,

is the surest way
to miss God’s full
and complete presence
in the here and now.

Stop looking
for the end times
and begin more fully
living and participating
in the joy
of the present time.

THIS is how we experience
the heavenly realm.

Miss it now, and we’ll
not only be clueless
when the time comes;

we’ll also have wasted
the precious breath
and heartbeat
of each of our days.


Advent’s message
is spot on;
the beginning is near!

Let us dare
to begin again,
and again.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Fire on the Mountain

Joe Stephenson 65Photo by Owen Todd Jenkins
Then Moses said, “I must turn aside and look at this 
great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.” 
(Exodus 3:3)

From the valley below,
fire could be clearly seen;
lighting up the overcast afternoon
like a great oil lamp.

Was smoke, however,
in short supply,
as this particular source
of combustion was beyond ordinary?
The storyteller leaves this detail
to our imaginations.

Moshe was so struck by its glow
that he soliloquied
like an actor in character,
declaring his intent to approach,
just in case the source
of the fire turned out
to be territorial.

That's when the voice thundered,
not so much objecting
to the trespass itself,
as requiring deep,
personal tactile engagement.

Barefoot and vulnerable,
the shepherd on the lam
risked responding,
to the point of objecting
to a return to the scene
of the crime, even if it was
on debatable grounds.

"Whom shall I say has sent me?"
Moshe inquired;
a perfectly valid question,
given the double-digits
of generations who had
crossed the bar since last
the Hebrew narrative
included a divine cameo.

"Is" came the reply,
or more specifically, "Am".
The verb of being,
existence,
presence.

And it is enough.
Enough for a returning bail-jumper.
Enough for a hungry prodigal.
Enough for you.
Enough for me.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

Creeksong

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Let me be a creek,
O holy one,
meandering through the deep woods 
of creation like a lovestruck couple
on a spring picnic,

singing creeksong
for all who wander near,
smoothing over the jagged rocks
as the years roll on,

teeming underneath with life
for all, shallow in some places,
rapids or deep pools in other,

smooth as glass in places,
reflecting the sky's crystal blue
and cotton-white clouds
so we'll all remember
to look to the heavens
from whence our help comes.

Let me be a creek,
O holy one; a creek
for your everflowing love.

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Grief’s Recipe

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When the slice comes,
it matters not whether
you heard it coming.
You bleed; sometimes
through your veins;
other times through your soul,
and maybe both.

  Either way, you’re searching
  for something to make
  the pain go away; something
  to turn back the clock
  to how it used to be –
  how you’d hoped it would remain –
  if not forever, at least
  for a while longer;
  a long while.

    Here’s what I want you to do:
    find a large bowl;
    the deepest one you have.
    Peer into the bowl.
    You're going to need
    a bigger bowl. 

  Place the cavernous bowl
  on the counter.
  Look at the floor around you.
  Go ahead and put
  the bowl on the floor. 

You cannot gather or assemble
the necessary ingredients.
You probably don't even
have them all.
Yet. 

  Get out your measuring cups.
  Look at them.
  Measuring is mostly irrelevant.
  Put the measuring cups away. 

    Remember the bowl?
    The one deeper and more expansive
    than you've ever seen?
    Some of the ingredients
    will never make it
    to the bowl.

  They'll end up being scattered
  all over the counter
  (Because, at first,
  you didn't want to put
  the bowl on the floor,
  did you?) 
  and all over the floor;

You can set the oven
at any temperature you want.
It will change from day to day,
even hour to hour,
to match the shifting flame
of your emotions.
Let the fire burn like it wants. 

  Sing to the bowl;
  sad songs, angry songs,
  songs of thanksgiving,
  whatever music wells-up in you. 

    Talk to the bowl;
    share memories, ask questions,
    demand answers, use whatever words
    you find bubbling up.
    Write the words, even and especially
    if it feels like you're scribbling
    in your own blood. 

  Invite another person
  to come sit on the floor with you;
  someone who'll refrain from sweeping;
  someone with ears agape and mouth shut;
  someone who's not afraid of weeping. 

Stir everything that makes it
into the bowl.
Let it rise over night,
night after night.

  Don't worry if,
  on some nights, it doesn't rise,
  or if the same thing is there,
  day after day, or if there are
  days when there's nothing there.
  Just stir, sing, talk, weep,
  scream, breathe, write.

    And listen.
    listen, even if it is
    only to silence. 

  You'll figure out when it's time
  to put it in the oven
  by listening to your heart.
  If you put it in too soon,
  it's okay to take it back out
  and resume your stirring. 

When it finally comes out
of the oven, taste it;
sit quietly and savor it.
You'll probably detect flavors
you don't remember seeing
in the bowl or scattered
on the counter or floor. 

  After you taste it,
  wrap the rest of it in your heart
  and carry it with you,
  wherever you go.
  In due time, you will feel others
  who need to taste it. 

    Accept the invitation
    to their kitchen.
    Sit on the floor with them.
    Share the recipe.
    Give them time and space
    to stir, sing, weep, write,
    and bake their own grieving mess. 

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted…” Psalm 34:18

© 2017 Todd Jenkins

 


Float

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We yearn for heaven, and,
standing on this side
of the river, our soul
is enraptured by glimpses
we catch of the other shore.

Still, we'll risk wading
in the shallows,
rehearsing our swim
whenever courage is flush,
carefully calculating trajectory
based on the strength
of our supposed morality,
completely forgetting
that floating is the way across.

Letting go, instead
of holding on;
this is the way
to traverse the river. 

© 2017 Todd Jenkins