What if it's You?

What if it's You?

What if it's Your hand that ties up

my stomach in knots?

What if it's Your net that catches

my breath at the throat?

What if it's Your choice

leading my will to submission

like a lamb to its place

in the fold?

What if it's you?

What if it's your eyes

I'm supposed to gaze into?

What if its your arms

which are meant to caress?

What if its your well

that is meant to refresh me?

What if it's your guidance

I am meant to attend?

A Student of Letters

I stare at the letters

I still haven't said,

though Rome has unlocked

their exotic sounds.

My palate could test them,

swirl the mixture of flavors

around on my tongue.

I could finger their rhythms,

like sight-reading a solo

for clarinet.

On my own,

I could sound their phonetics

like a student in grade school

learning to read.

Teacher,

you still haven't taught me

your name.

My Surprise

You amaze me, did you know?

You tell me things no man has ever said—

save one, my dad.

He’s seen the worst of me and still he says,

“I’d marry you.”

And yet, that is one threshold

we have never crossed.

And I am grateful

because this means that I am free

to cross that line with you,

Querido.

You sneak up on me, love—

in the shower as the water trickles

past

and pools in puddles at my feet;

while awake at night, imagining;

as I drive along the freeways

of the city,

silence blaring from the radio.

It’s like a beating on the inside,

my organs all at once arrested

by the sweetness of your words

remembered.

Asombroso.

You’re like a treat too-oft enjoyed

which leaves a cavity,

empty

but for love’s enduring pain;

or like the tickling of my feet that’s felt

like Phantom’s fingers

somewhere along the hipline.

I can’t escape you.

Dulce.

You could be the next

uncovered Wonder of the World

the way you take my breath

away—

brilliant as the Lighthouse built

on Pharos,

majestic as the celebrated

victory of Rhodes,

influential as the Pyramids’ remembered

dynasty.

Poderoso.

Your faith astounds me.

In its infancy compared to mine and yet—

matured beyond what I have yet to do.

Many people on the other side had called me “missionary”

just because I wasn’t with them.

But you—

No one pats your back for bravery

and yet you go

selflessly to give that some might see,

like Peter, Paul, or John, the Savior’s

right-hand men.

Fiel.

Shipwrecked

Lord, what are you up to?

I want so much and yet

my desires float away like driftwood

on the currents in the endless sea of time.

I thought I could apply

to grad school this year

but I've missed November's deadline.

Why not chase my dream to where it beckons

from far along a distant shore?

"Korea's not the place to hang your hat,"

I heard You whisper

as I began preparing for my move.

If You were to extend the call, I'd go--

and yet the day

the festival of kimchi pride was held,

my own reaction

to familiar smells surprised me.

I found myself there thinking, "Oh, Korea!

If you e're need support, I will uphold thee,

but I do not now believe I'll e're be with you."

It is too beautiful a place, indeed,

for such a derelict like me to mar

its fair complexion.

Beth Moore addressed the issue yesterday,

referencing Paul's shipwreck found in Acts.

"Take courage, men," she said he said,

for I know fully from the Lord the vessel sinks

but your lives will this day be spared."

My ship's been wrecked!

What brought me here has been destroyed--

and now I watch You,

watch You watch me stay afloat

atop this restless

endless

sea of waiting,

waiting for Your lifeboat's rescue.

Arrested

You have the right to silence--

to contemplation in

inaudibility.

The right to seek attorney--

wisely to solicit Counsel's side.

The right to forego further questions--

to curb communication if in too deep.

These are the Miranda Rights

of those who are arrested

by Desire.

I hear the siren 'fore I

ever spy the lights--approaching,

it intensifies, its frequency a

steady rhythm.

My heart pounds louder

at the sound, the muscle seized

with urgency. Dare I

raise my head to witness as

my new life marches in?

The siren slows its whine to rest

behind me as

the officer steps forward. "Ma'am."

He doesn't have to say

what's coming next, the truth

that floats between us like

Hope's unborn

yet unabandoned child.

Desire swiftly turns me 'round

to grab my wrist

and place it firmly 'gainst

my lower spine. I wiggle free

in protest.

His fingers tighten once again

to wrestle 'gainst my will to

stay unconquered.

Anticipation hand-cuffs, sinking

teeth into my skin, and renders

motionless my arms.

My arms relax, enraptured,

unable to resist. It feels delicious.

Once taken in, Anticipation

so swift resigns her post, unbending

wrists so that A Dream recaptures

them for fingerprints. Examining

each tip with gentleness, he

quietly caresses each by each--

the touch exhilerating.

When finished, he escorts me to

Desire's cell, in order

to await Fulfillment's bond.

Adjustment

An array of books—

both read and reread,

unopened and unfinished—

stand erect between metal bookends

that were never sold in the garage sale.

Larger books, peers of the first,

rest wearily against a wooden slat

two perches down.

The august shelf,

what some in this library occupy again,

speaks its age

through chips in dulling whitewash,

yet another relic from the fundraiser.

Air surrounding the assemblage

smells of must and cat urine,

pungent witnesses to time's relentless passage.

Diagonally opposite the structure,

a pair of bunk beds guard the entrance to the room.

A purple blanket drapes the lower bunk,

its year-old wrinkles dismantling its elegance.

Above the color,

crinkly plastic stately covers tucked-in sheets,

protection from those clammy nighttime visitors.

Between the weathered denizens

squat two newcomers,

oocheguk stamped sluggishly across

their crumpled flanks—

keepers of some unfamiliar treasure.

Outcasts,

left defenseless in the family room’s dark corner,

here they sit rejoicing in the surety

that their mission

to transport their charge to safety

has been righteously accomplished.

Welcome home.

For Things I Know are Meaningless

In Scripture, Simon Peter said,

“Thou art the Christ,

Son of the Living God.”

And what was Your reply?

“Blessed are you, Simon,

for this flesh and blood did not reveal.”

Like Peter, I have been awakened

to the truth of who You are:

the Christ, Anointed One,

slain Lamb who now lives.

You make all things new.

You have made me new.

I am alive to God,

no longer slave to sin.

I know how You meant life to be—

poured out like a drink offering.

I know You desire to reconcile

through my hands and feet.

“Oh taste and see the Lord is good,”

the psalmist wrote.

I have tasted; I have seen.

Will I now seek to fill myself with another?

Will I turn my back on all You’ve shown me?

You have chosen me, Lord.

Will I now choose to reject that

for things I know are meaningless?

a prayer of confession

originally written spring 2005