A: Two Good Feet

I seen a lotta people tryna jump ‘round on one foot.

Up and down the sidewalk and out in the middle of the street, people hopin’.

Some people got a right leg they use, an’ others use the left.

They cranky tho’. Don’t they know they got two feet?

That ain’t nearly the most bizarre thang, these people hopin’ on one leg with a perfectly good one flappin’ loose.

Some people ain’t even doin’ that! Some people got two perfectly good feet, but they’d ratha’ crawl on their bellies.

They in the street, yellin’ and holler’in. Screamin’ at damn near everybody hopin’ pass.

Makes no sense. Why?

Don’t they kno’ they two good legs ‘ttached to two good feet?

“Use ya’ damn feet man!” I wanna scream. Poor wretches.

Makes me say grateful things to the Doctor. Cause then I sure’member. Me on my belly, then one the foot. It’s good I don’t fo’get.

Now I uses both my feet, and I walk with a stride. I’m faster than I ever was befoe.

When I was on my belly, I didn’t have love for an’one. Nope. Not a soul. On I crawled, mad at the worl’. I hated me.

After I met the Doctor, I got religion. An’ I tried to love people. But that hurts, all these people crawlin’ and hopin’ all over.

Sometimes I’d go see the Doctor. An’ He said if I kept showin’ up, I’d learn howda walk. But I had to hop first.

So I hopped. An’ hopped. An’ hopped. An’ I fell a bunch. The Doctor was good fo’ me when I saw Him, when I made time.

The more I tried to love people on dis’ one foot, more I fell.

Then one day I had e’nuff hopin’. I said Lord, what am I doin’ wrong? I’m so afraid, an’ ever’thang I try, I can’t do.

Bein’ a good Doctor, He swept me up in His big ‘ol arms. An’ He pointed at my other foot. “Time to learn to walk.”

“You have got to love you. No once else can do for you what I made for you alone to do for you.”

Just like that I put down that foot I never used befo’. ‘Twas shaky at first. Felt like tha’ groun’ was moving.

Now I walk mighty fine. I got that bal’ance- right, lef’, right, lef’.

Love Him, Love Me, Love Him, Love Me. An’now I can Love others.

No mo’ hopin’ and crawling, fallin’ and getting stuck‘n the mud.

A: Why Are We Surprised

Why are we surprised when resistance raises a hoard against us?

When did we start to believe life was an easy stroll down the lane?

What history book or person of age lied with such constancy?

Do the mountains endure the whips of the wind? Pounding of the rain?

Do the trees withstand the storm surge? Dodge lighting?

And what of the river? Its bed a record of endless change?

Indeed, why are we surprised when the wind howls hard against our face?

Where is it written we should expect anything less?

No, we should not expect less.

My Lord, teach us to take our eyes off the storms of circumstance and our fruitless need to control the flow of life.

Let us be like the enduring mountain, a monument to your Glory.

Let us be like the trees, a shelter to the weak, and fresh air to the weary.

May we always live in the reality of the river, that we are full of life and purpose, a source of joy and peace.

Thank you for the sunny hour and cool of the day.

Abstraction: Cut by the Glass

A flick of my thumb, like a roll of this dice, I never know what will come.

The scroll stopped on a black and white photo of a restaurant. A woman worked behind the counter. My former future taunting me as I stared.

This one picture held everything I thought I wanted, I loved. And old sorrows rose as I fixed my eyes on the screen.

They got everything they wanted. Used me up. Left me to bleed. I wanted to argue, and spit, and scream.

A moment later, anger gave way to dejection as I put the glass down. Surges of sadness flooded my heart.

I closed my eyes and wept. I loved her. I loved her, I loved her, I loved her. I still love her. I can’t stop loving her. I can’t stop hoping the best for her, hoping she’s happy.

After a few deep breaths, I let silence fill the room.

I waited for the Voice above all voices, and He did not disappoint.

“I am here…Would you go back?”

No.

“Do you trust me?”

Yes.

“Good.”

Simple as that, I laid my broken heart in His hands. A practice now routine between us, I gave the Lord all my suffering, desires, and judgments.

And like He’s done a hundred times before, He washed away all that would drag me back to what I was. Back to the me before I divorced my fear.

The sadness of an unwelcome end is not to be ignored. The wounds of suffering either fester or heal, but they never fade anyway. And I will not bandage myself in the false wisdom of self-protection.

I will allow myself to bleed and weep before Him, creating room for Him to work miracles.

My heart healed, pumping to the rhythm of joy, I think back to the glass. The resentment and heartache now vanished, replaced by peace and love.

I hope they continue on toward their great destinies. I head toward mine.

A: Love Reveals Purpose

I once wondered blind, straining to hear kind voices.

My hands cut off and eyes removed, my only option was to follow the direction of the voices down one empty road and up another. I dragged my heart behind me, refusing to touch it. It was ugly. Dust and muck and crusty memories clung to me. On I marched, in search of rest from my filthy condition.

My hopes stood on the shoulders of the voices. Oh what sweet voices they were. Warm, encouraging, well-intentioned voices. And they belonged to warm, encouraging, well- intentioned men and women. Giving people. Compassionate people. Yet every map they gave and every encouragement made led to the another dead end.

I hold not a sin against them for their efforts. I asked and they answered as well as their wisdom allowed.

Eventually my search took me beyond secure into risk. The wisdom in this venture was not in the doing but in the being. As I sat at this table, crippled as always, I found no solace or purpose, my heart tucked up under my chair. The longer I sat at the table the more I battled to remain. In my mind I played a game. Should I win this game, then, and only then, might I have the chance to rest. To heal. To be me. No. I had to stay glued to my seat. I had to win this game.

Day after day, I slogged my way back to the table. Night after night, I meditated on whether I should return. Having traveled enough roads, and sat at many tables, I knew I didn’t have the heart to win this game.

Late one evening, I found myself looking into a mirror, drawn by the One who is the mirror. Obvious for the first time to me then, as it may be to you, is I indeed have eyes. And hands. And my heart is where it need be, in my chest. The layers of grime and shame gone. What was this? A trick? All of my life was, until that moment, a series of failed journeys and disappointment.

Then the Mirror began to speak. Having nothing left and no where to go, I listened.

“I love you. I am in love with you. And I command you to love you as I love you. Look at yourself through my eyes- not broken or used up. You are beautiful and strong. Brave and creative. Relax. Let your feet follow me, and I will give you the Peace and Joy you want.”

All the voices faded into silence as I carefully considered the Lord’s offer. I studied the choices in my head. The streets I traveled, I knew. I knew their promises and the danger in believing in such promises, and the tables they led to. What the God of Love and Grace offered me was a chance to be me, to cut my own path.

So here I sit, powered by love, chopping my way through another day. I no longer walk the paved roads of another’s calling. I no longer listen to the kind voices of my friends. Through love and devotion, I found my way. My beautiful heart is finally at peace.

A: Not Every Day is a Winner

I sat down to write about how today, this Tuesday in early September, isn’t going my way.

My brain is obsessed with situations I can’t affect, a customer is nervous about her campaign results, a friend has cancer. In truth, this is an ordinary day. I am strong, healthy, loved, appreciated, and lavished with opportunity. What possess me to look and greive today?

And people say evil doesn’t exist. But it does. It does when a man has every blessing yet can’t find peace. Yes. Evil is real. Its only goal to separate us from Him.

JESUS, thank you for my life. Thank you for loving me, even when I'm stuck being a twat. Even when I focused on me, you never fail. In fact I suppose you laugh, as I chase my tail. My troubles not trivial but momentary.

I lay down every desire and hope, every dream and fantasy, every source of security and joy. For You are all of those things, and inside my striving is nothing but more struggle and death. And I am no boy.

The title of this poem is a lie. I’m not conceding shit to my enemy. More importantly, I am choosing to allow Jesus to be the Prince of Peace, the author of my Life, and holder of my soul. I am not my own. I am His. And I am worth the victory.

A: Never Alone

Loneliness is more often a state of mind than my reality. 

I have, in moments of self-hatred and denial, felt the sting of loneliness, on my birthday, surrounded by my friends, who were in the room to celebrate my life. 

My loneliness was was form of self-belittlement, and the older I grew the more I knew something was amiss. Akin to self-imposed isolation, it stemmed from an insecure crack in my chest, when I craved approval and validation. I’d slink into my hovel desperately hoping for anyone to break through and scream “I LOVE YOU NIK, YOU ARE GOOD MAN, AND YOU ARE BRILLIANT, AND KIND, AND FUNNY, AND CUTE, AND ALL THE THINGS A GOOD MAN IS.” 

It was an evil game with no winner. 

During the summer of 2020, I spent as much time by myself as I have ever spent alone. And yet, loneliness did not come calling. The solid truth is I never was or ever will be alone. 

I am loved.

I am worthy of love.

I love myself. 

And He, the Goodness and Gracious Gifter of Life, is always with me. 

A: Ode to Bo

He stood up straight, and wore his confidence like a crown. His broad face and iron stare preached louder than any sermon.

This was the greatest athlete you ever saw.

He glided on the football field, until he needed to charge. It’s uncommon to see such grace and swift feet attached to body of a bulldozer. In a world full of fast men, and strong men, he was both. In the same violent body.

But we are not talking about a mere football player. No. No-no-no.

For then we turn to the outfield. And out on the grass, he was there. Upright and focused. Like a video game glitch, he ran up walls in defiance of gravity and logic, unleashed throws that captured the attention of all baseball, and manufactured the prettiest swing in generations.

No. Bo was no ordinary man. We are ordinary. He was extraordinary.

And life being life, it was all gone on a lazy Sunday afternoon. One show-stopping injury against the Cincinnati Bengals, of all teams, ended this brilliant display of athletic glory.

I can mourn the loss of something so good, and find gratitude in the same space. Bo Jackson is not a myth or fairy tale. I was a witness, the greatest athlete I ever saw.

A: Peace In the Fog

He lingered in the mist. His face wet and cold, but not weary. “Memory is a tough chain to break,” he admitted. But soon after, his feet touched earth to the rhythm of a stride, to where he could not answer. Deeper into the mist he went. 

Alone in the endless gray cloud, he began to ponder his life back in the old sloppy house. Though he hated it, the routine and ease were comfortable. Predictable. Almost bearable. And still, always a shadow, a derivative of what could be. Never the gospel of genuine substance or Love. 

To be in the fog, walking toward an unknown destination was a feat of itself. He battled to leave his tiny dark room, plugged his ears to ignore the shouts of apathy and desperation as he ran down the hallway. And then at the last, he forced himself from the porch, the last visible place of safety, into the Midst. 

He wanted a plan, a goal, a point on the map, anything to rest his mind while he strolled. Everything inside him told him he needed a plan, because “it’s responsible.” At nearly 40, how could he look a woman in the face, a potential companion and confess he did “not have a goal?” (He did have a goal, but who wants to hear a grown man say his life goal is to walk with Jesus everyday, into this great expanse? To allow life to dip and duck and rise without doubt? To be himself?)  

Without warning or needed explanation, Wisdom rose within him. He stopped to focus on the voice within.

“You no longer need a plan or a goal. You’ve done the will of the Father. You’ve leap into faith, and go daily into the Midst, to know and to be known by the Lord. I promised to see to everything else in your life. And so I shall. You keep walking into the Midst. I’ll get you where you need to be.” 

He continued to stand in the fog, no longer interested in the destination. His future will be with the others in the mist, not the miserables back in the house. In the mist, they will understand his heart and his joy. They will not find comfort or have need for elaborate blueprints of control. “Goodbye house mind,” he chuckled. In all his years he never felt the peace he felt in that moment. His mind no longer focused on the future, but on Jesus the Christ. 

A: From Safe into the Mystery

In silence my dream vanished. The safety and hope of my glossy future disappeared like the make-believe it was, and I possessed nothing to bring it to life. I was empty-handed as ever.

Faithfully, I opened my eyes to reality, to my pathetic room in a sloppy old mansion. “Why had I settled here?” I wondered. The only sign of hope was the light which beamed through the thin window at the far corner of the room. The brightness covered the dark, but only where it could. Still, the glow was warm and invited me onward. 

For a beat, I thought about going back to my dream, a return to the shelter of my fantasies. However, on this day, the light seemed too pure to ignore. And as I gazed upon it, I became aware of a sweet aroma leaking through the walls. In combination with the light, they were too much to spurn. 

My courage rising, I reviewed what I knew about the bright light, sweet scent, and all Mystery beyond this broken place. In my youth I dared touch it. I dared to believe I could move beyond my need for dreams and comfort. I dared to join my place in Creation. 

I gave my dreams one more consideration, how perfect they seemed. Then the reality of the tiny room began to speak. “Those dreams are not where you live, they are where you escape. How long will you hide in this room? Dreaming dreams, but never living life?”

“But Lord, what if I fail at being me?” 

“Come with Me, and I will carry you into the future.”

After years of dreaming, the decision made itself. Slowly I swung my feet to the floor, and staggered through the door. My weary legs, acting on their own accord, led me down the hallway. On either side I saw tiny room after tiny room. Like my tiny room, no doors. Like mine, each one filled with a single person. 

In some were people dreaming like me, forever focused on the future. Their smiling faces disconnected from their wretched decaying bodies.

On I went until I passed a respectable looking young woman, alone in her chair, facing the door. As I shuffled past, she yelled, “The fuck do you think you’re doing? There’s nothing out there. GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM!”

I didn’t stop to contemplate her words. I couldn’t. My mind was set to give my heart the breath it needed. 

Near the end of the hall I heard the cries of those terrorized by the night. They begged for relief, yet when help came they rolled over to start again. Back to the horrors. Among the voices I heard her, the voice of my sister. I raced to her room. From the doorway I screamed, “Wake up!! JOIN ME!” Tears fell from my face, as I wailed in vain. She didn’t hear me. She couldn’t. 

Sadly, I found the staircase leading away from this hall of pain. I stopped for a moment, a thousand miserable voices behind me. On cue the One small voice whispered, “Trust Me.” 

Without delay, down the steps and onto the front porch I ran. The light was bright on my face, the scent of the outside air sweeter than ever. I shielded my eyes until they adjusted to the new. As they focused I stood in shock by what I saw. 

From the thin window in my tiny room I never quite knew what lay beyond, but now I stood face to face with a thick, misty fog. And though I felt it beckon me onward, panic wrapped my heart. 

“Lord, what is this? This isn’t a plan. Where do I go? What do I do?”

“Come into the mist. Grab my hand. Let Me lead.”

“Trust Me.” 

“Lord, I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do.” 

“Trust Me.”

And not wanting to go back, not to the tiny room, to the unfilled dreams, and hopeless hopes. I tripped forward. The sloppy fear at my back no longer dreaming, I marched into the unknown. Off the porch into the great Mystery I slipped, my hand in His. 

A: Death, A Sweet Friend

We fight rage and battle, ultimately to fail. Run, hide, punch, scream, none of it matters.

He arrives on time, taking what He came for. Death. The thief of life. 

But what if Death is our friend, not our sacred enemy?

Death leaves gifts we need but open. In the space where life was He always leaves what will be. What could be. But being flawed, being beings in need of order and shelter, we try to hide from His blessings. 

We build towering monuments to our pain. Swear by our lives to never visit Death’s gate again. As if we have the ability to control Him. 

No, Death is not the enemy. When a bright hour is gone, a loved one in decay, and a hope smashed into shards of grief, Death’s purpose is to carry it away. The remains of what was, to clear our ground for new life. For new hopes and dreams, and stages for joy and peace. 

A: He Remained

Every blow I absorbed, each crash to the ground, and all the hoards...did not take me down. I thought they would. But looking for reasons why, I agonized over each calamity and judged myself (a creation of the King) to be unworthy. Why else would life punch, push, and fight me? Try to murder me? 

Answer, life did not value me. This world and all of its cruel routines did not want me. My heart slunk back into a deep musty hole. We settled for a half life. In fear we longed to be loved, to be needed. In fear we stayed in its depression. I was worthless.

Yet always and without relent, He remained. Dark day and endless night, He kept watch. Through stinging rain and ripping wind, He stood unmoved. Through depression and suicide, addiction and late night porn binges, He waited. Through self-sabotaging pride and aimless dreaming, He lingered still. Through profane curses, annoying grumbles, cynical rants, and disbelief, He patiently sat outside my prison for me.

Despite my attempts to block Him out, to believe I was not worth His effort- nothing I did, nothing I said, no thought I beheld- sent Him away. And in the waiting He proved Himself true. What the world thinks, whatever it believes about me, however it decides to treat me, I AM WORTHY OF THE KING.