Abide

This morning you crawled up, curled up in my arms.
Pressed your head against my lips and then you stayed there.

You watched the sunrise over the sound, held your breath then let it out.
In my arms you found the calm and so you stayed there.

Don’t often feel so loved, but five minutes with my son,
the way you came into my arms and how you stayed there.

Sweet to you and sweet to me, how you ministered to me -
with time and cuddling, and how you stayed there.

Suddenly I’m a son it seems, wanting “just 5 more minutes!” in this scene,
then wake and breathe in deep, and then just stay there.

Now you’re my teacher - teaching me to crawl and reach.
In the Father’s arms to take a seat, then burrow deep, and choose - to stay there.

It's Nothing. He Watches.

A meditation on the Soldier that speared the side of Jesus of Nazareth when He was crucified.

When the soldiers came to Jesus and saw that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and at once there came out blood and water.  - John 19:33-34 

When I think of that Soldier’s Spear… I don’t think he dreamed this would be a part of his job. Soldier, sure… but Executioner? Putting people to death every day? Did he apply to operate the electric chair? Did he dream about maiming and mutilating helpless people?

He watches human beings raised up into positions they will never escape from. Nailed to wooden beams. Trapped on death boards.

It’s become nothing to him. The shock’s gone, and he just watches… watches people… suffocate to death, slowly. In agony. Over and over again.

It’s nothing. He watches - them hopelessly beg for mercy, or at least a drink of water.
It’s nothing. He watches - he breaks the legs of those that don’t expire quickly enough. Like clockwork.
It’s nothing. He watches - he spears the sides of dead men. Spear-in, spear-out. It’s nothing. He watches.  

I imagine he would daydream; like a shield from the trauma he’s been self-inflicting for years in this routine.
He daydreams, perhaps of how much time remains until his shift is over.
Of making his way back home. Of dinner. Of wife, of children, of friends.
But right this moment: spear-in, spear-out. Clock-in, clock-out. It’s nothing. He watches.

Without any hesitation, he walks beneath another cross with his spear and shoves it sharp-side into the soft-side of -- the radiance of the glory of God? And it’s nothing? Not a blink?

He forces the blade up under the ribs of the King that created him. And it’s nothing? No pause?

Moving it deeper into the dead Son of God. And it’s nothing? Not a wince?

Blood and water gush out the side of the same God who once pierced Adam’s side to bring out a beautiful bride. And it’s nothing? Not even a question?

The maimed, mangled, deformed, disfigured, tortured, slaughtered King of Life pronounced dead by a man He had breathed life into, and had been delighted to knit together inside his mother’s womb. And it is nothing…

Does it trouble him at all? 

Will he sleep as well tonight as He did on Thursday?
Just a spear-in-the-side and a job-well-done?
Or does it matter to Him at all?

Does it matter to me?
Every sin I’ve committed, substantial or small - did I even pause?
Every time I lived like I knew better than God - did I even blink?
Every deviant thought I creatively justified - did I even hesitate?
Every shred of selfishness - did I even think twice before I put God’s Son on the cross?

It was for my sin that the Son of God died…
And is it nothing?

The Painter, Plumber, Poet, and Preachers

The Painter painted sunsets
His brush a sword unsheathed
That cut the canvas wide with color
And mended hearts with peace
But his studio was silent
His gallery lacked applause
And few people ever bought them
But the glory all was God’s

The Plumber plumbed till sundown
His arms were iron bars
That flexed the chaos into order
And cured many anxious hearts
But his profession won no laurels
His colleagues dreamed of other jobs
And few people ever thanked him
But the glory all was God’s

The Poet penned sweet sonnets
His ink an ocean’s depths
That flooded ships with beauty
And flooded hearts with rest
But his writing desk was cluttered
Each draft was full of flaws
And few people ever read them
But the glory all was God’s

Some preacher preached his sermons
His words a windless storm
That whipped poor sheep with ego
Until those weary hearts were torn
Though his mouth should move a mountain
And the church fill with applause
And many people flock to hear him
Still the glory would be robbed

Another preacher preached a message 
His words a simple flow
That came straight from the Bible 
And poured on hearts so they could grow
Though he often felt unworthy
His soul gazed upon the Cross
No matter who might come to hear him
Still the glory all was God’s