Exile

I remember my home -
old roads only roamed
in Spirit-whispered stories
of ages past and yet to come,
now borderless and barren,
skeletons lining the lands
that once flourished like flesh,
young and unspoiled, tender and toiled
as fallow soil, the earth
as it was and will be
in its ancient youth renewed.

Old roads overgrown
with time and longing
for time without longing,
without losing and bruising of hearts
and breaking of bones that ache
for home, can you feel it?

Can you see it? The light
that lessens the weight of waiting
for what is right and out of reach,
the pillared beacon that beckons
the passing brave to believe
that bones, even of those who die in exile,
can be carried along the old roads
to the farm-land of their Father
- and await the harvest

Jesse

Last night I met a homeless man named Jesse. He lives under a bridge that I drive right past on my way to work every day. He had wandered, ragged and alone, into the church gymnasium where my son plays basketball. It was before the game, and we were standing in the lobby of the rec center.

Jesse came in from the cold night carrying a thin trash bag, which seemed to contain his few belongings. He sat down in one of the leather-cushioned chairs circled around a coffee table in the center of the lobby. After a moment, he asked in my general direction about the popcorn in the downstairs concession stand. "Do you have to pay for it?"

"I think it's 50 cents a bag," I answered. He nodded and looked down again.

Another moment and he mentioned the popcorn again to someone else who was passing through the lobby. He didn't get much of a response this time, but it struck me that he hadn't dared to ask for the popcorn, even though it was becoming quite clear he wanted some and also quite clear that he had no money. I couldn't help myself. I quietly slipped down the stairs, reappearing a few minutes later with gifts from the concession stand: popcorn and a coke. If Jesse wasn't going to ask, I'd ask for him.