signs (John 17:1-11)

not in a great
         flood
   washing us all
            away,
   but
      in the muddy
            puddle
      where children
      float boats
      created out of
      leaves and twigs,
   we find your
          power;

not in the superstars
      who step off
      the red carpet
            for a quick
            selfie,
   but
      in the kitchen
      of the grandmother
   setting out a platter
   of just-baked
           cookies
   and glasses of cold
                  milk
      for the kids
      coming in from
            school,
   we feel your
          presence;

not in the candidate's
      confetti-strewn
            ballroom
         with ecstatic supporters
         popping champagne,
   but
      in the indigents
      hospital ward
   where nurses treat
   their patients as if
         they were royalty,
      we glimpse you
              glory.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

orphanless (John 14:18)

it was on
      a crowded street
      where hope let
                   go
         of my hand,
   and as i was
   being swept
   towards the jagged
                rocks
      of despair,
            you
   reached out and
   grabbed hold,
         refusing
      to let go;

when love
         died,
   after battling apathy
   for so many years,
      i was left
      to my own devices,
            until
      you
         came along
         and gathered
         me into your
   heart;

looking out your window,
      you saw
               me,
   bedraggled,
         sin-soaked,
      mewing pitifully
      in the elements,
               so
   you opened the
              door
   and invited this
            stray  
      into your
         forever home.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

the innkeeper (John 14:1-14)

pregnant
      with all our
   unborn worries, fears
         and doubts,
      we show up
      at your doorstep
   (no place else to go)
            and you
         throw open the
              door,
      exclaiming, 'come
         in out of the
            qualms!'

hungering
      for that hope
         which is priced
         way beyond our means,
   we stand by the
              bin behind
           your restaturant,
         waiting for darkness
               to fall so we
               can search for
      some scraps, and you
      beckon us from the
         kitchen door, saying,
   'we've got a big pot
      of grace that's just
      going to waste.  Come
      in and have as much
      as you need.'

weary-footed,
         dusty from the
      long journey through
            life, we close
               our eyes, feeling
         our hearts taking their
            last beat,
                  and we awaken
      in a sun-filled room,
      clean pajamaed, between
         fresh sheets and
            you
                  smiling down
                  at us,
  whispering, 'get up, sleepyhead.
      everybody's waiting
      to see you
            downstairs.'

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

stained glass shepherd

in the silence
      and security
      of this holy place,
            i stare at
   the window where
         you are encased,
   the bright sun
             illuminating
         you
      tenderly holding
            one of your
            lambs (and
         surely, it is me),
   as you prepare
      to lead it to
         that lush pasture
      where crystal fountains
         never run dry,
   where grass never
            burns up in
      the heat of day,
         where all the
         predators are
               tricked
       by the detour
            sign at the
         bottom of the
               hill;

as i walk
      to my car, i do
      not glance back
   or else i would see
         the cracks
         in the glass
      where the world
      has hurled its
            stones;
   the sheep, limping
         and reeling
      from the violence
         they have
         experienced
      in the valleys
      of shadows;
   your torn robe,
      your scarred hands,
            your life
         pooling in
               silence
      for every
          single
          lamb.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

Thom

the stranger (Luke 24:13-35)

to the woman
      who had no more
         tears to shed
      after crying night
      after night after night,
   and to her husband
      who had no more
         words to offer
      that might be hopeful,
a stranger
          (or three?)
  came with a
          promise;

to a fellow
         on the run
         from a foe
      who was as rentless
      as he was ruthless,
a stranger
      offers a little water
         and bakes a small
         biscuit, 
   a simple meal of
             promise;

to a couple
         walking down
      grief's road along
      the edge of
            Dark Valley,
a stranger
      offers broken
            bread
   to strengthen them
         for the journey
      into God's
            promise;

to us,
   Holy Stranger,
              come
         and feed us
         on your
      promises.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman