The Pile

The rain pelting against the window sill

My heart laying far down upon the hill

How did I become so far removed

So entrenched in the road I've grooved

Through my lonesome, weary heart it spans

Over broken hourglass desert sands

Past deserts, over chasms, my traveled feet now stand upon this hill

Only to endure the bite of winter's merciless chill

A farce! I cry, a counterfeit and fake!

And far beneath my crying eyes my heart begins to ache

What happened to the stories, the stories loved and told

Of maidens fair, tyrants cruel, and warriors brave and bold

Perhaps I made too much of these

And only inquired enough to please

My youthful curiosities

Are they the recounting of deeds noble, fair, and true

Or are they only set up as lies and careful rue

To keep the hearth of youth ablaze a little while

Before they too crumble and become part of the pile

A pile made of things wished but not received

Of all the hopes and dreams the dead had once believed

I am just a traveler, the latest to find my way

To top the hill where night over takes the day

Bear the Load

Discontent with life, dreams my persistent itch

I've scratched and bled and dried with time the healing stitch

Time rots my hopes to a stinking stench

But I remain unmoved on my apathetic bench

Distance not traveled, goals unattained

Long nights alone I have entertained

The darkest thoughts a man knows how to bear

Each new vision another burden, another care

Nothing to ignite, nothing to brighten my weary soul

No happiness on earth from pole to lonely pole

Even the heavens offer nothing less than death

They fill you with a void that steals your earthly breath

There is no ease, no slowing, and no stop

If there is a drink it's as a mere drop

God of heaven split the sky above your servant

Shower me with love and Your anger do not vent

But who am I to command one such as God

Who before such high majesty I could never plod

Without, by his glory, being killed outright

Or at the very least, be blinded by the sight

So now I bear my load alone with clenched teeth

For the hope of His presence and a golden winner's wreath

Dad & Stars

I dim the headlights and squint as a car passes me on an otherwise deserted highway. Up and down, left and right I weave along the narrow mountain road. Last week's snow looks stale in the yellow of the headlights. I'm listening to music, but not hearing the words. I cross over bridges spanning unseen rivers. It's so dark, I think. There are stars, but no moon. The stars don't seem to be giving light though. Instead they appear to be little holes in a drain and that the last little bits of light are getting sucked down. I think about life and death and how they are not the same. Death is not a part of life. Who could think that? Death ends your life. I speed past impossibly tall pines. But I slow down at my father's favorite place in the road. Here he had told me he loved the trees, especially when they were covered in snow. Now the trees lay silent and dark. Did they know? Were they mourning the loss of the man that drove by them everyday and admired them. No. As old as those trees are, they are none the wiser for it. The life is gone out of them. Here on the straight stretch with trees covering almost all of the sky I switch out my lights. I look up between the trees to the only revealed strip of sky. I see the stars creating another pathway to mirror the road I drive. A celestial pathway. No, my father isn't there I assure myself. No matter how many Disney movies say he is. He is at a place far better than those stars. Those stars are broken too. They are wearing out just like our little earth. The distance of their death serves to make them seem immortal. Death is only real when it is close. I've never been closer to death than this; to lose my guide and protector. But my father's death was not so recent. He died a long time ago at a small Baptist church in Georgia.

On November thirtieth my father walked into fullness of life. My dear dad was killed while working on a snow plow truck up on the mountain pass he used to maintain. He and the crew worked to keep the road clear for people traveling to and from central Oregon. He was a good man. He was not a great man. Great men have buildings with their name's on them. Great men have foundations and charities. Great men travel and lecture. My father did none of these things. He was a good man though because he was humble. To be humble is to have a modest or low view of one's own importance. In a culture where self confidence is paraded as the key to success and happiness my father knew he was but a speck in the universe. This knowledge alone would help in creating a correct view of one's self, but this was not the only knowledge my father possessed. He knew that he was a speck that was loved. This love was the key to his life, the life. He knew he was no good on his own. He knew he could not save himself. So in spring of 1983 he gave himself over to the One he knew he could trust. My father followed Jesus Christ. He was buried with Him by baptism into His death. In 1983 my father died. He died to himself and that little voice in all of us that says that we are God. My dad knew he wasn't God and lived like a servant.

As I slowly pass the trees he loved so much I don't have to ask why. My only question is when. When will I be born upon the wind to join my father and our Father. Being so close to death I've never felt so close to eternal life. No bitterness, no regrets. Only life and love and joy, forever. Coming out of the trees I cast my gaze where I know mountains should be. However, there are no mountains to see. There are only spaces where I cannot see the stars. In a time of grief My Comforter is like those mountains. You look where He has been in the past and he is not to be seen. Yet, He is there, watching and waiting and pouring out hope through unseen hands. Yes, in a time like this my Shield is closer than ever. A pillar unmoved by the most terrible adversary. He must wrap the void around Himself lest we die from His glory. Mountains and streams and the tallest trees all shrouded in darkness serve to show me the light of His glory and grace.

His son,

Aaron