Part I

Awake to the dimming of your doubt,

shout praises skyward as the thunderclap shortens in the storm,

trusting lightening could not possibly strike you twice.

Bow your head while lifting your arms

in defiance of wickedness,

resistance to force or subjugation,

wholehearted surrender

to the manifest goodness of joy unbound.

Sit back-to-back with me

on the edge of the stone wall overlooking the river,

eyes closed,

listing things however small or large

that make us happy,

bring us peace

or give us hope.

Keep going until one of us is tapped out,

and then pretend to laugh

from the bottom of the barrel until we really do.

Keep laughing until it hurts,

that is how we best learn 

to find purpose in the pain somehow,

for wounds are inevitable 

yet so are music and dancing.

Walking in the rain can feel like a baptismal

filled with fireflies and happy tears.

We are not meant to remain in grief,

it must run its proper course of recognition 

and then be enshrined in a place of honor

to commemorate its existence,

giving that love somewhere to go when needed.

Remember that shaking hands can be moved into shaping and service

by steady hearts,

and that shaking hearts

can be calmed into peaceful balance

by determined souls.

Awake to the shining of your light,

sing hymns of brokenness glorified

and abandonment healed.

Meet neglect with tenacity and 

harsh winters with warm embraces.

I wish I could listen to you forever,

hands open on each others backs,

easing burdens by the power of touch,

alleviating spoiled cargo

with each breath

in a joined holding of communal space.

I see you crying in the darkness,

I feel you on the precipice of enlightenment 

not knowing which edge to step from

for the signs marked “abyss” and “paradise”

cannot be read or understood without a proper light.

Stillness can only be maintained for so long.

The very act of continuing to live

is worship of something.

Relief comes soonest to those who welcome the truth.

There are things which cannot die,

there are things which cannot be bought or sold,

things which cannot be coerced or controlled.

There are sacred things.

There are things worth living for

and things worth dying for.

There are things which bring both happiness and peace, 

but the only thing on each of these lists

is love.

Part II

And love cannot be completely contained,

fully accommodated or recklessly restrained.

It isn’t entirely encapsulated by pithy aphorisms,

Disney film plot lines, after school specials

or terse verse in Hallmark cards,

although it is grand enough to exist in all of these spaces.

Love is in the staying late and the getting up early,

the holding of hands bedside in the hospital,

the embracing of an ex on their wedding day,

and continuing the conversation after the lights go out.

Love is pulling weeds from the garden together,

and going out for breakfast on a whim.

It is laughing together in thrift stores picking out the evening’s attire for a fancy date night. 

It exists in genuine connections on blind dates,

and kindred spirits not being bothered by age differences.

Love is in keeping the program from the show that moved you,

permanently rippled on the cover from catching your tears in both acts.

Love is horse riding bareback and barefoot on the beach

and sitting silently together staring at the stars.

It is the genuine smile and warm greeting,

beyond awkward social pleasantries, 

when turning to your neighbor

between the worship songs 

and the needed message.

It is the removal of your shoes and your coat at the door,

knowing you’re going to stay a while.

Love is helping your friend take out the garbage

even when it isn’t your chore that week,

and letting everyone know it’s starting to rain,

in case they left their windows cracked,

or in case they’d wish to open them all the way. 

Love is biker buddies riding up on the curb,

just to give strangers a high five, 

completely unaware they were just coming from an epic poetry and music gathering,

on a Monday in the Biggest Little City,

rapidly becoming the perfect way to punctuate the evening,

and a funny story to tell for the rest of our lives. 

Love is making snow angels before the last run of the day,

climbing trees with our children,

swimming in lakes with our dogs,

and bonfires near the ocean with our chosen families.

Love is wanting to pick the other person up and swing them in the air, 

eyes gently closed

holding onto each other for dear life,

never wanting to let go.

Live music at the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings,

and at the local coffee shop on Thursday afternoons.

Love is you and I getting along the way we do, 

in spite of our differences,

sometimes because of them.

Love is far too big,

too filled with wonder,

too all encompassing 

and too mysterious

to be contained or held 

within a single attempt,

but that is also why

so many of us try.