Wounds Meet Mercy

We walk slowly down the hill
into the hush of Panther Creek.

Oliver, the barred owl,
keeps his feathered silence
somewhere in the oaks.

Again the sun rises
and sets at Buzzard’s Roost
without us.
Light leaves
the way old friends leave,
quietly,
before we turn to look.

*

So we listen.

High above Cherokee Lake
two woodpeckers knock
on the door of the morning,
one answering the other,
a duet carved
into living wood.

Below them,
a dried line runs
all along the shore,
the mark of where
the water used to be.

Each season
it sinks lower,
the lake drawing down
into itself,
as if searching
for the floor of hope,
for the last
bare measure
of enough to live.

*

Then a message
crosses the sea to find me.

Half a century
since seminary.
A classmate,
now a retired bishop.

His words fall
like a stone into still water.
I watch the circles widen
across the shrinking lake
until they reach
the shore of my heart.

*

A small seed of worry
roots in the dark.

Leaders who love
power and gold.
A story of history
bent to fit a crown.

A king said to drink
until four in the morning.
Streets said to lie
in drunken quiet.
A people said
to welcome a stranger’s rule.

It is a lie.

The wound was real.
The grief was real.
Memory is not a coin
to be stamped
with someone else’s face.

*

How can shepherds
lead a flock
by such a crooked lamp?

The path bends
where the light bends.
And the sheep
cannot see
who has turned it.

*

Fifty years ago
I left my home.

Tonight
the ocean lies between us
like a dark field
no plow can cross.

I weep
for the land I lost,
the mountains that raised me,
the rivers that still
speak my mother’s tongue.

*

Yet one thin thread remains,
fine as the light
under a closing door,
fine as the dark line
the water left behind,
still marking
how high it once rose.

Lord, have mercy.

Lift a new sun
over a divided land.
Let North and South
remember they were once
one breath,
one table,
one name, for thousand years.

Let the small flame of peace
in Northeast Asia
lean but not go out,
sheltered by hands
on every shore.

*

Lord, have mercy on us.

The owl is still hidden.
The lake is low and dark.
The woodpeckers sleep
in their hollow trees.

Comfort my soul tonight.

Fill again
what has been drawn down,
the lake,
the land,
this aging heart.

Let the wound
lie down beside Your mercy,
as I lie down
in the quiet woods of my years,

and let me sleep
in peace.

——-

(I received the following statement from Korea from a seminary colleague. Reading it deeply wounded my heart, and I grieve over it because this statement is, in my conviction, a complete falsehood and pure distortion on currtain political purpose. Also the present government and the president are most honest and hardworking for people and the nation ever in the recent Korean history.)

—

The Day Joseon Fell, No One Wept
If that time were now, what would your choice be?

On August 29, 1910, the day of the so-called “National Humiliation of Gyeongsul,” Emperor Sunjong issued an imperial proclamation:

“Our weakness has accumulated, and our exhaustion has reached such an extreme that there is no prospect whatsoever of recovery. Therefore, I intend to entrust the great responsibility to Japan. I ask my subjects not to cause needless disturbances, but to comply.”

*

The country had fallen. Did people everywhere pour into the streets, weeping and wailing?

No.

Immediately after the announcement of the annexation of Korea by Japan, the streets of Jongno were strangely peaceful.
This is what foreign reports conveyed.
What was Emperor Sunjong saying?
“Was he not saying, ‘The country is weak and exhausted beyond recovery, so I will entrust it to Japan. Keep your mouths shut’?”

◇

Choe Rin, one of the 33 representatives involved in the March 1st Declaration of Independence, later recalled:

“That day on the streets of Jongno, Koreans went about as though nothing had happened, bustling about, doing business, eating, and drinking as usual.”
Chinese intellectual Liang Qichao wrote in an essay titled The Causes of Korea’s Ruin:

“When the annexation treaty was announced, people in neighboring countries grieved for Korea, yet Koreans drank, made merry, and appeared content. High-ranking officials lobbied the Japanese in pursuit of advancement, busily enjoying themselves as they sought positions under the new regime.”

According to Japan’s Annexation of Korea, Japan had originally decided to announce the annexation on the 25th. However, the Korean Empire’s government supposedly pleaded that the announcement be made on the day commemorating the fourth anniversary of Sunjong’s accession, and Japan agreed.

*

The royal family of this country, which we are taught was invaded and forcibly occupied by Japan through military force, supposedly went so far as to coordinate the date of annexation with a day carrying nearly the significance of a national holiday, holding parties to celebrate and enjoying toasts with those responsible for the takeover.

For those of us who learned about the sorrow of losing the country through terms such as “the National Humiliation of Gyeongsul” and “forced annexation,” this seems utterly unfamiliar.

◇

Liang Qichao’s Theory on the Causes of Korea’s National Ruin contains many painful criticisms.

His contention was:
“The cause of the country’s ruin was neither China, Russia, nor Japan. Korea destroyed itself.”

*

The problem, he argued, was not only the “incompetence and corruption of the ruling class,” including the Joseon royal family, but also the “national character” itself.

Koreans supposedly had a disposition toward relying on others rather than achieving independence, and the so-called reform factions competed to bring Japanese power, including Japanese troops, into the country. This was attributed to the bad habit of attaching oneself to a more capable nation.
The royal consorts did not have enough time to learn Japanese, while the ordinary people, already plunged into misery, supposedly attached no more significance to the country’s demise than they would have to a change of dynasty.

◇

Isabella Bird Bishop, a geographer associated with Britain’s Royal Geographical Society, traveled through and reported on Korea between 1894 and 1897. She left an account to this effect:
“Most commoners bore heavy taxes, while the yangban ruthlessly exploited them under the pretext of collecting rent.If word spread that a merchant or farmer had obtained money, a yangban would fabricate a debt and pressure him to repay it. One method favored by the yangban was falsely insisting that they had lent the person money.It was commonplace for yangban to buy commoners’ houses or farmland without paying for them.”

◇

At the time Korea was annexed by Japan, not one of the great powers sympathized with Korea. Rather, they supposedly regarded the development as long overdue.

As uprisings frequently broke out throughout the country during the final years of the Korean Empire, the Joseon royal court, unable to suppress them, brought in Japanese troops and entrusted them with putting down the disturbances.
At that time, the Korean military had completely lost its effectiveness.

—

Let us briefly look at records from the period.
“The political disorder of the old Korean state had already reached its extreme, and bands of brigands were extremely numerous. Among them, armed bandits carried firearms, formed groups, roamed throughout the country, and engaged in plunder, but the authorities were unable to eliminate them. The weapons of the army were hardly different from those possessed by the bandits, and local ruffians merely entered government service in order to obtain food and clothing. Instead, they used their weapons to seize property and mistreat women, becoming parasites who sucked the lifeblood of innocent people.Government troops largely became the hands and feet of powerful men and corrupt officials and openly engaged in slander and intrigue, while Confucian scholars distorted scholarship to flatter those in power and pursued only their own interests. During the final years of Joseon, the entire country was ravaged, and hardly a day passed without disputes and disturbances erupting somewhere.”

—

But what sort of person was Gojong?
Hwang Hyeon wrote in Maecheon Yarok:
“Gojong kept the lamps brightly lit and amused himself until dawn. Only around four to seven in the morning did he finally go to sleep, rising at around three or four in the afternoon. Gojong and Queen Min were obsessed with parties, spending day after day holding celebrations until dawn, eating and drinking. When the royal private treasury ran dry, they became frantic about replenishing it. Selling government offices was not enough; eventually even the rights connected with the minting of nickel coins were recklessly sold, causing the value of Korea’s currency to collapse.”

*

Let us look briefly at another account.
The National Institute of Korean History writes in Gojong’s Banquets and Amusements:

“Gojong enjoyed amusement, and after assuming power he held banquets every night and lived a dissolute life. Entertainers and shamans sang and strutted about.The palace was illuminated as brightly as daylight, and the festivities continued until dawn. Around four to seven in the morning, curtains were drawn and he lay down on the royal seat to sleep, rising at around three or four in the afternoon. Because this happened every day, the young crown prince became so accustomed to it that when sunlight shone through the window, he thought it meant it was time to sleep.”

—

“A country that deserved to fall!”
Discipline among government officials had collapsed.

Now then…
Would it not actually have been stranger if a country like this had not fallen?
Corrupt officials ran rampant. As the country reached this condition, Confucian scholars arose throughout the land, claiming that they would save the rotten institutions of the dynasty. Thus emerged the so-called righteous armies.
We were taught in history that these Confucian scholars engaged in righteous resistance.

*

But suppose their hopes had been fulfilled, the country had not collapsed, and Joseon had continued to exist. What would life have been like for the great majority of its people?
International affairs were dominated by imperialism, in an age in which the strong preyed upon the weak. Was it not perfectly natural for an antiquated country unable to adapt to those circumstances to collapse?
Are we perhaps outraged simply because the country responsible was Japan?

Yes.
Joseon was bound to fall.
No, it was a country that deserved to fall.

—

But what about our country today?
Some say that the present situation resembles Korea immediately before the Japanese invasions of 1592, and perhaps that is not such an unreasonable conjecture.
I feel that the confusion present at the fall of Joseon is being reproduced today.

—

Why?
The government is preoccupied with borrowing money and spending recklessly.
What about the military?

If war broke out, would it really be able to fight properly?

Developments in the surrounding region are by no means moving in our country’s favor, and our ally, the United States, distrusts us.

From the President to the members of the National Assembly, all those who wield political power are facing doubts about their legitimacy.

The ruling party arrogantly engages in factional politics among its own people.
Public sentiment has already turned away from such groups, and explosive resentment approaching the level of resistance is building like magma.
At a time when survival amid rapidly changing circumstances would be difficult even if we were united, the country is being torn into pieces, while businesses are following their own paths in an effort to survive.

—

We must change!
We must replace the corrupt and incompetent political establishment.
Recovery is impossible without major surgery to decisively remove the cancerous elements within society.
How hard-won was this country, and yet how did we come to this?

—

The people must awaken.
We cannot live by simply saying, “As long as everything seems fine, it is fine,” or believing that we should simply enjoy the present.

Why?
Because this is a precious country in which our descendants must live.
Should we not awaken to the present national situation, rise up, and set the country on the right path?

Is that not our calling in this age?
“Do you not think that the conditions of the state and society at the time the Joseon Dynasty collapsed are coming to resemble what we see in the Republic of Korea today? I hope you will take some time to reflect deeply on this.”

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Genesis 44

— The Cup and the Heart

Morning over Egypt.
In Benjamin’s grain,
a silver cup sleeps
like a closed eye.
The brothers ride north,
carrying bread
and what they do not know.

In Sudan, the storehouses
stand hollow as bells.
I hold a cup of water,
and the distance
fills with thirst.

Hooves in the dust.
Let the guilty one die,
they swear—
certainty running ahead
of the opened sack.
Then silver rises from the grain,
a small cold moon
in the youngest’s keeping.

Once, they walked home
lighter by a brother.
Now every saddle turns.
The road bends back
before repentance
has learned its name.

In Gaza, the rations thin.
The shadow of my cup
lengthens across the table,
toward a child’s hand
I cannot see.

They fall before Joseph.
What can we say?
Not this theft—an older one,
buried beneath the years,
has rooted its way
to the floor where they kneel.

The one with the cup will stay.
The rest may go in peace.
The door stands open.
The road is easy.
Judah comes closer.


Here, a hand rests
on a pantry door.
Let the threshold be gentle.
Let someone look up.

He speaks of his father:
two lives bound
like roots beneath one earth.
Beneath the linen
and the Egyptian name,
a son listens.

Before the signature, a face.
Before the verdict, a name—
in every chamber of power,
and in the small room
of my own deciding.

Let me remain, he says.
Let the boy go home.
The hand that once
sold a brother for silver
now offers itself.
His feet do not move.

I have loved the hearth,
the warm cup in my palms,
the door shut against the weather.
Sit with me, Lord,
until I hear the latch
and am willing to rise.
These aging hands
can still open a cupboard,
carry water across a room.
Teach them the weight
of what I pray.

No embrace yet.
No hidden name unveiled.
The cup holds the light.
The heart, at last,
holds someone besides itself.
And mercy waits
at the edge of a voice:
Let him go.
Let me stay.

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Genesis 43 (Edited)

— At the Table of Mercy

The grain ran out again.

Jacob opened the sack
and looked into its darkness—
as I sometimes look
into my own heart,
wondering how what once sustained me
has become
so little.

“Go back,” he said.
“Buy us a little food.”

And I think of all the mornings
I have risen
with only enough courage
to ask
for enough.

*

But Benjamin must go.

The father’s hand
tightened around
what remained of his joy.

I know that hand.
It lives in me—
holding the people I love
as though my fear
could shelter them.

Lord,
how quietly
I have confused
holding close
with keeping safe.

Jacob stood at the doorway.
His blessing followed his sons
farther than his eyes.

*

Then Judah spoke:

“I will answer for him.”

Once, he had found a price
for a brother.
Now he placed himself
behind a promise.

I sit beside those words.

There are parts of my past
I cannot call home.
There are words
I cannot gather back
into my mouth.

But someone still stands
within reach.

Perhaps repentance begins
when my hands
stop explaining themselves
and become willing
to help.

*

They carried honey,
balm,
spices,
almonds—

a little sweetness
the wounded land
had not forgotten
how to give.

And twice the silver.

Even hunger
must leave room
for honesty.

Jacob prayed:
May God grant you mercy.

I imagine the prayer
traveling among them,
unseen,
like warmth remaining
in a stone
after the sun has gone.

*

Joseph saw Benjamin.

Beneath the linen and gold,
something young
lifted its face.

His mother’s son.
The shape of a home
he had learned
to live without.

“Bring them inside,” he said.
“Prepare the meal.”

But the brothers
paused at the door.

They remembered the silver.
They expected chains.

How often
I have stood
before an open kindness
and searched
for the hidden price.

*

“Peace to you,”
the steward said.

Then Simeon came out.
Water was brought.
The animals were fed.

Dust loosened
from their feet
and clouded the basin.

I watch that water
in the quiet
of my imagining.

Someone had carried it.
Someone would carry it away.

Lord,
let my prayer
learn the weight
of a pitcher.

*

When Joseph returned,
Judah lifted his eyes.

They faced one another
across the gifts.

One saw a ruler.
One saw a brother.

Between them,
the years stood
like a door
neither had yet opened.

I have sat
across from those I love
with such a door
between us.

I have spoken
of ordinary things
and hoped
they could hear
what I could not say.

*

“Is your father well?”
Joseph asked.
“Is he still alive?”

Then he looked at Benjamin.

“God be gracious to you.”

His voice
could go no farther.

He left the room
and wept.

The man who opened storehouses
could not open his mouth
around this sorrow.

I am grateful
for that closed door.

For a place
where strength
could lay down its garments
and become
a wounded brother
again.

*

Joseph washed his face.

He returned.

“Serve the meal.”

I linger here—
between the water
and the table.

The sorrow
had not left him.
He had only made room
to carry something else.

A bowl.
A question.
The sight of his brothers
eating.

Lord,
when I have wept,
show me
where to return.

*

There were separate tables.
The old boundaries remained.

No confession.
No embrace.
No telling of the pit.

Yet bread passed
through the room.

Benjamin received
the greater portion.
The brothers looked
at one another
in wonder.

And Joseph watched.

I leave his watching
unexplained,
as I leave my hand
upon a stone
until I feel
the warmth
I did not notice
at first.

*

I cannot bless
the selling of a brother.
I cannot call the pit
a necessary road
to this abundance.

A child cried there.
No one answered.

Let that remain
within the story.

But let this remain also:

the child survived,
and when the hungry came,
his hands
could still give bread.

*

My own hands
are aging.

They have held
what they could not keep.
They have failed
to open.
They have opened
too late.

Tonight,
they rest beside a plate.

Someone moves
in the other room.

I have been waiting
for a sign
large enough
to change my life.

The bread
is within reach.

*

This is mercy
in the language of my soul:

not the past made harmless,
not the wound forgotten,
but a little room
within the heart
where another life
may enter.

Joseph washed his face
and returned.

I rise
with the bread
in my hands.

The story
is not finished.

There is someone
at the table.

*

Joseph’s name
is still hidden.

The bowls pass.
The lamplight trembles.

I hear someone
breathing beside me
and no longer know
where the prayer
begins.

My hands are empty.

I leave them
open.

A Prayer for Daily Strength

Lord,
meet me
at the beginning
of this day.

Before I take up
its responsibilities,
before my thoughts
run ahead
to everything
that might go wrong,
help me rest
for a moment
in Your presence.

You know
what I am carrying—
the worry I cannot quiet,
the decision I keep postponing,
the grief that returns
when I least expect it.

I do not need
to hide these things
from You.

Give me strength
for what is mine
to do today,
and wisdom
to recognize
what is not mine
to control.

When I feel overwhelmed,
help me slow down
and take
the next faithful step.

When I am afraid,
keep fear
from making
my decisions for me.

When I am tired,
help me receive rest
without guilt
and ask for help
without shame.

Give me Judah’s courage
to keep my promises
and take responsibility
for my choices.

Give me Jacob’s faith
to entrust the people I love
to Your care
when I cannot protect them
from everything.

Give me Joseph’s tenderness
to remain compassionate
without denying
my own pain.

When old hurts rise,
help me respond
with wisdom
rather than resentment.
Show me when to speak,
when to wait,
and when to step away.

If I make a mistake,
give me humility
to acknowledge it,
courage to make it right,
and grace
to begin again.

Prepare a quiet place
within me
where I can remember
that I am loved
before I accomplish anything.

Feed me there
with enough patience
for the next conversation,
enough courage
for the next decision,
and enough hope
to keep going.

Help me notice
the good I might overlook:
a meal,
a kind word,
a moment of laughter,
someone willing
to listen.

And when this day ends,
help me lay down
what remains unfinished.

Let me rest
without needing
every answer.

For today, Lord,
give me daily bread,
a steady heart,
and strength
for the next step.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

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Genesis 42

— When the Past Stands Before Us

Empty jars in Canaan.
Rumor of grain
coming up from the south.

This November,
aid trucks sit idle in Darfur,
no fuel in their tanks.
In Gaza, ration lists grow shorter.
Here at home, five million names
are gone from the food rolls.

“Why do you stare
at one another?
Go down,
that we may live.”

*

Ten went.
The youngest stayed,
held back by a father
who had already lost one son.

They bowed to the ground
before a stranger
in linen and gold.

He knew their faces.
They did not know his.

*

“You are spies.”

“No, my lord.
We were twelve.
One is no more.”

He heard himself spoken of
as a dead man.

So nations talk
of the ones who are no more,
counting graves
in Kyiv and Khartoum.

*

Three days in the dark,
then the old wound spoke:
“We saw his anguish.
We would not listen.”

This week a country counted ballots
and heard its own voice
come back changed.
Is it a verdict,
or the first stirring
of memory?

The buried thing
had only been waiting.

*

The governor turned aside
and wept.

In Brussels, envoys sketch
how a ruined land might be rebuilt,
while the night skies
still trade fire.

Tears behind a closed door.
Talk of rebuilding
under falling fire.

*

He bound Simeon.
He filled their sacks.
In the mouth of each,
the silver returned
like a question.

“What has God done to us?”

*

At home the old man cried,
“Joseph is gone.
Simeon is gone.
All this is against me.”

He saw only loss,
not the son he mourned
feeding the nations.

*

So it is
inside a broken world.
We see famine.
Bread is being kneaded
out of sight.

The wound is not healed,
but it is no longer hidden.

Truth opens the first door.
Mercy waits behind it,
weeping,
not yet ready
to say its name.

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Genesis 41

— When the Time Comes

The Nile at dawn.
Seven fat cows rising from the reeds,
seven lean ones after them,
and the lean ate the fat
and looked no fuller.

Seven full ears on one stalk,
seven scorched by the east wind.

A dream of a land
where plenty and hunger
live on the same riverbank.

*

This week the country woke
to both houses of Congress
in new hands.

Some sang.
Some mourned.
I sat by the window
and asked the old question:
peace for whom?
justice for whom?

*

Two years the cupbearer forgot.
Then: “I remember my faults today.”

Justice often begins
with one person remembering
a name left behind the walls.

*

Joseph, shaved and clothed,
before the throne:
“It is not in me.”

The reed is hollow
so the breath can sing.
Power is hollow too,
until it is filled
with someone else’s need.

*

Pharaoh’s ring.
Fine linen.
A gold chain.

But the true sign of his office
was the storehouse:
grain set aside in the fat years
so no child would starve
in the lean.

There is no peace
on an empty stomach.
There is no justice
that forgets the granary.

*

I preached peace
and sometimes kept silent
where justice should have spoken.

I know the Friend
does not choose between them.
They are two hands
of the same embrace,
two banks of one river.

*

Manasseh:
God has made me forget my hardship.
Ephraim:
God has made me fruitful
in the land of my affliction.

Not forgetting the wrong.
Forgetting the bitterness,
so the field can bear again.

*

Then the famine came,
over Egypt,
over all the earth.

And the doors of the storehouse opened,
not to one tribe,
not to one party,
but to every hungry hand
that came.

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Genesis 40

— The Dreams We Carry in the Dark

Two sad faces at morning
behind the same prison wall,
one who poured the king’s wine,
one who baked the king’s bread.

Palace and prison,
two worlds,
and sorrow had led them both
to one floor.

*

“Why are your faces sad today?”

Before power,
before freedom,
this was his first gift:
to see another’s sorrow.

“Do not interpretations
belong to God?
Tell me.”

*

A vine with three branches,
budding, blossoming,
grapes pressed into Pharaoh’s cup.

Three days, Joseph said,
and the cup will be in your hand again.

Then, softly, his own prayer
hidden inside the answer:
Remember me.
Do not let me disappear.

*

Three baskets on the baker’s head.
Birds eating from the top one.

Three days.
A different ending.

Joseph stood between two dreams
and told the truth
as gently as truth allows.

*

Pharaoh’s birthday.
One lifted to the table.
One lifted to the tree.

And the cupbearer
walked back into the palace
and forgot him.

*

How easily we forget
the ones who carried us
through our darkest hour.

I have been that cupbearer.
Lord, forgive the names
I left behind the walls.

*

He read the wine of another’s dream
while his own cup stood empty.
He carried hope for others
while his own hope waited.

The Lord say
the wine of the Friend
is poured first into a cup
that has learned to be empty.

*

The cupbearer forgot.
God did not.

Past the walls Joseph could not see through,
the vine was already
budding.

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Genesis 39

— The God Who Was With Him

A strange tongue in his ears,
a stranger’s house,
a slave’s sandals on his feet.

And one plain line of Scripture
falling like light through a high window:
The Lord was with Joseph.

*

Not after the chains.
Inside them.

Whatever his hands touched
began to grow.
A whole house grew quiet
around one faithful servant.

*

Then her voice, day after day:
Lie with me.

An open door.
No one watching.

But the lover knows
there is no room
where the Beloved is absent.

How could I sin against God?

*

She seized his garment.
He left it in her hand
and ran.

The dervish sheds his cloak
to keep his soul.
Sometimes faithfulness
looks like running.

*

The garment became a lie.
Truth stood outside the room
while accusation filled the house.

From slave
to prisoner.
One descent,
then another.

*

And again:
The Lord was with Joseph.
Even there.

The keeper of the prison trusted him.
In the dark,
a lamp needs no permission
to shine.

*

He lost his freedom,
not his integrity.
His garment,
not his name.
His place,
not the Presence.

The world kept taking.
God kept staying.

*

Looking back,
I see the dream was never
a promise of an easy road.
It was a promise
of the Friend
walking inside the road.

*

Down to Egypt.
Down into slavery.
Down into prison.

And under every descent,
like water under stone,
one word:
Here.

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In the Evening of Election Day

Crimson spreads across the west. The eastern edge bleeds softly, pale stars on blue, stripes of red and tender white, a flag the sky hangs out by itself.

Flower scent, caught in the teeth of the dark, drifts sideways on the wind.

*

One rises, one falls. Your loss, my betrayal, hanging over the trembling land like smoke from a single lamp.

*

With the sound of bones licked clean, the counting goes down into me, takes root in the hollow of my soul, and splits what had been whole.

*

Neighbor and neighbor, eyes meeting across the void. No word is spoken, yet the silence is a battlefield.

*

I had fallen like a beast at the trough, gasping in the mire of the news.

Then one flowering tree, and my body was already rising before I knew it.

The blossoming tree, death itself standing before me in a bridal veil, reminding me that every throne is only for a season.

*

I no longer want to win. If I could ask for anything, I would ask only to see a human face again across the aisle, and in it, the Friend.

*

Past midnight a thin old moon rises in silence. Whoever wins tonight, perhaps it is her turn to grieve for all of us.

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Genesis 38

— The Woman Who Would Not Disappear

A seal.
A cord.
A staff.
Three ordinary things
held in a widow’s lap,
waiting for the hour
of their speaking.

*

Judah went down
from his brothers.
Er died.
Onan refused her a future,
and died.

“Wait in your father’s house
until Shelah grows.”

Shelah grew.
No one came.

*

A promise left empty
is a cup set on the table
and never filled.

Tamar waited
until waiting itself
became a kind of vanishing.

*

So she changed her garments,
veiled her face,
sat by the road to Timnah.

Judah passed
and did not know her.

Some veils hide.
Some veils reveal
the one who refused to see.

*

“She is with child.
Bring her out and burn her.”

How quickly the hand
lights the fire
for a sin it carries in its own sleeve.

*

Then the message:
“Recognize these.
Whose seal,
whose cord,
whose staff?”

The mirror turned.
Judah saw his own face.

“She is more righteous than I.”

*

The heart is a house
with many locked rooms.
Repentance is the key
that turns
only from the inside.

*

At the birth,
a small hand reached out.
The midwife tied a scarlet thread.
The hand withdrew,
and Perez broke through first.

Breach.
Breaking through.

*

I have stood, over the years,
where Judah stood,
quick to judge
what I would not name in myself.

Lord, give me eyes
for the overlooked,
for the widow on the roadside
of my life.

*

The Beloved writes the promise
through the margins,
in a scarlet thread
on a wrist
almost forgotten.

Tamar would not disappear.
Through a broken door
the truth walked in.

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Traveling to Normal

– in the Fall Creek Falls in Tennessee State Park

We ran one hundred ten miles
across the globe
to Spencer, Tennessee,
two hours away
from the familiar world.

Then, step by step,
only 0.35 miles down,
we entered
the deep heart of hell.

Forty-five minutes descending,
with weakened knees,
without trekking poles,
each step heavier
than chained feet
being led into darkness.

The path fell sharply,
rocks beneath our feet,
uneven ground,
rough steps twisting downward.

Above us,
the ceiling of stone leaned over the trail
as though it might fall
at any moment.

The sleepy faces of ancient rocks
seemed to whisper:

Stop.
Go back.
Why are you going downhill
so late in your life?

Do not try hell.

Yet we continued.

From the spectator’s place at the top,
we had seen a fish
moving through the dark pond below,
a tiny life
inside the shadow.

On our way down
we met a dog
coming back up.

He had been swimming
in that dark pond at the bottom.

He did not look tired at all.

No fear.
No complaint.
No trembling knees.

Only the dog
walking upward
as if hell
were simply another place
to swim.

When at last we reached the bottom,
we discovered
many people had already arrived.

They rested peacefully
among the rocks.

We gave up trying
to reach the dark water itself.

Instead,
we stood still
and looked upward.

From heaven
a long silver hair
fell 256 feet
into the dark pond below.

But the silver hair
was not one strand.

It broke apart
into millions of drops,
each surrendered to gravity,
each falling freely
into darkness.

And yet,

with her silver essence,
she carried light
into hell.

Less than half a mile down,
yet it had felt
longer than an afternoon,
longer perhaps
than distance itself.

Slowly the great sinkhole
filled with shadow.

The light withdrew.

Time and space
returned to our minds
and whispered:

Now.

You must climb.

Our mission was done.

We rested,
then turned our faces upward.

A middle-aged man passed us.

We asked,

“Were you the man
we saw behind the waterfall?”

“Yes.”

A minute later
he disappeared from our sight,
climbing the dangerously sharp, rocky path
as though flying
toward heaven.

But I could not fly.

My two hip sockets
grew heavier
and heavier with pain.

The walls pushed us upward.
The ceiling of rock pushed us upward.
The dark pond behind us
pushed us upward.

Zigzagging,
we climbed.

The dark brown road to heaven
was no lighter
than the road to hell.

Every step became slower.

Every breath became deeper.

Every rock seemed heavier.

Hell was easy to enter.

Heaven
required climbing.

Yet through the opening above us,
the colors of the season
began to shine.

Gold.
Crimson.
Orange.
Green surrendering gently
to another life.

And we could not forget
to shout:

“The heaven in the season’s colors
brings our hearts
great joy and praise.”

Then I understood:

Heaven had not been waiting
only at the top.

It was in the silver water
falling into darkness.

It was in the dog
who swam without fear.

It was in the stranger
flying upward.

It was in our painful knees,
our aching hips,
our struggling breath,

and in each stubborn step
that refused
to remain below.

Perhaps this is
traveling to normal:

to descend
into what looks like hell,

to discover
a little heaven there,

and then,
slowly, painfully, gratefully,

to climb again
toward the light.

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