Shining Spirit

Sometimes in life,
often when least expected,
a technicolor day shows up.
A rainbow day just after
the storm when the clarity
of the arched ribbons of
luxurious colors hurts your
eyes.  An artist’s palette
day rich in texture and
shimmering in glorious
colors splashed onto the
world from the heart of
Imaginative Love.

So it was today.

As I rest my head on the
pillow, I find it difficult
to release the day.  Neither
of us wants to say goodbye.
Night is almost here, but he will
not be able to cloud my
sacred memory nor diminish
the joy that has burrowed
deep into my soul.  The brush
stroke of the One who paints
the day is gracefully indelible.

(On the occasion of celebrating
50 years of ordained ministry.)

My Friend reassured me:  “even though you get
lost in the darkest, deepest canyon
I will find you.”

Don’t worry.

I told my beautiful child:  “even though you make
mistakes or use poor judgment,
I will never stop
loving you.”

Be yourself.

My wife said to me:  “even though you left your
dirty socks on the bathroom floor, forgot to pick
up the cleaning, and overlooked the flashing
yellow warning light on the dashboard,
I’m stuck with you.
I love you.”

It’s all about “even though”, isn’t it;
and,
Living from a deeply spiritual place is all
about “even though.”

Even though…
–the mountains rumble and roar, I won’t be afraid;
–the day is filled with reports of suffering and
injustice, I will work against them;
–I question some of my long held beliefs
and traditions, I will trust;
–I wonder about the future,
given the present,
I will hope.
–I feel so unloved and unlovable,
I am loved.

It’s all about “Even Though”, isn’t it.

Amazing how creation portrays the Sacred Love
that is the foundation of all living things.  I’d like
to meet the wren that carved out the opening
in such a lovely form.  Watch for signs of the
Sacred everywhere you go.

Within the space of a few words,
the length of one short sentence,
the classroom sank into silence.
Joy vanished, laughter fled,
propelled by a single word:
Lockdown.

Second graders don’t often sit rigid
at their desks, eyes fixed on the one
who stretches their young minds.
No matter how many times she
told them not to be afraid,
they were.

Children watch television, overhear
conversations, whisper among themselves.
Danger has always been somewhere else.
Now the terrible possibility is just
beyond the chain link fence.
The stranger.  The gun.

“Be cautious on the playground.”
“Run to the nearest teacher.”
“Stay very quiet.  Be sure
all the doors are
locked.”

Recess used to be fun.
Not anymore.
Not now.

Sometimes beauty is obvious.  Sometimes you have to look a little harder.  But it’s always worth the effort.  May each of us see both the obvious and the not so obvious today, and may our awareness transform our world.

Some mornings it looks like the whole day is going to
be uphill, and then I remember…

I woke this morning with a
head full of words.
They tumbled around in the dim
light of my brain, trying to
line up in neat rows of thought,
impatient with cloudy
consciousness.

A verb pushed his way to the head
of the line but was soon escorted
to his proper place by two
determined nouns.  Pronouns
scurried back and forth, unsure
of his or her place while adverbs
and adjectives loudly debated
whether it was appropriate
to be subject or predicate.

Words can be so annoying in the
early morning when coherent thought is
sleeping late.  Words are powerhouses
and without the companionship
of reason or compassion
they can do more harm
than good.
I once heard about a bunch of
thoughtless words that caused
an argument that led to a fight
that started a war.
Imagine that.
Words starting a war.

I have a vague waking memory
of a whispered conversation between
a sly verb and an easily influenced adjective.
“What kind of world shall we create today?”
That worries me because without
understanding and mutual concern
in the conversation, who knows what
words might do?

In the course of thoughtful living,
life altering decisions are shaped
from a recipe of careful analysis,
examined alternatives, and
reasoned consideration.
It is the wise way to live.

But on that day,
when fear hardened into
cold terror,
pondering possibilities was
the last thing in panicked minds.

No reasoning.
No alternatives.
Impulse without calculation.
Reaction not rational response.

In that breathless moment he
stepped into the pathway of death,
goodness denying the demonic,
sacrifice rising to the sacred.

No one will ever know what
went through Aaron’s mind.
We will never understand
the instant impulse to
shield the child,
save her life
and lose his own.
One died so that one could live.

The question lingering in the aftermath
is not “why did he do it?”
but “why was it necessary for
such heroism in such horror?”

To be willing to step in front
of a bullet for a friend is the
epitome of courage and compassion.
To be willing to confront the
circumstances prompting
such a sacrifice is to look into
the mirror and see ourselves.

“Greater love has no one than this,
that someone lay down his life
for his friends.”
John 15:13

Aaron Feis
Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School
Parkland, Florida
February 14, 2018

There are days when I watch
her sweep through the house,
swing the blue backpack over her
right shoulder and dash toward
the door.
I hear the soft trailing of her voice,
“Bye, Dad.  Love you.”
There is a joy that comes in that moment,
a sensation of sweetness that lingers
when I pick up the towel she used
or pull the covers up on her bed.

No one can fathom the raging pain
of knowing that she will never walk
through that door again,
never laugh at my silly jokes,
never again roll her eyes as she
ignores fatherly advice.
Never.

I sent her through that door this morning
to learn and to  laugh and to grow
into the young woman she was
destined to become.
Now the stained blue backpack
that I clutch to my chest confirms
the horrid truth:
There is madness in the air.

They tell me tears will come.
Perhaps.
Maybe tears will soften the rage
that electrifies my mind and
binds my body in this chair
facing the door, the door
that will never again
welcome her home
to my heart.

And so it comes to this.
The measure of one’s dignity,
a cardboard box, two apples,
a potato and an exit sign
above the door?

Where is the mind that conceived
such indignity?  Where the soul,
the heart that considers
humiliation a virtue,
indecency a benevolent gift?

And where do they fit in on humanity’s
scale of values, these Left-Overs who
hold the cardboard box, who wait
their turn to say “Please, sir, may
I have some more”?  Oh, Oliver,
wake me from this black dream
of unspeakable insult.

Perhaps one day another
generation will wonder about
the monuments erected to the
Left-Overs, the platformed towers
that save us from “the tired,
the poor, the huddled masses
yearning to breathe free”.

The lamp flickers beside the
golden door.