The Answer

No!
I cannot follow you
right now:
your words are too hard,
your road is too long,
your life is too demanding,
your death is too frightening.

Maybe . . .
i could follow you:
in a few days
when the weekend comes
(but those are 'days off,' you understand);

in a few months
after school has begun
and the Thanksgiving crowed is gone
(but then come the hectic days of Christmas
and all that means - surely you understand);

in a few years
after i've done what i want,
after the kids are gone,
after the work is done
(i'm sure you understand).

YES!
i will follow you:
trusting my heart,
trusting your words,
trusting you, Lord.

which answer
will i give today,
my God?

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Thank You!

gratitude:
the first drops of rain
on a tin roof
breaking a six-month drought;

gratitude:
the mustardy kiss
of a child
at a summer picnic;

gratitude:
a cool breeze
dancing down
an August street;

gratitude:
the smile on a teacher's face
when her student masters
the intricacies of simple words;

gratitude:
the fading photographs
of a loved one
no longer here;

for every grace,
even those we cannot see;
for every moment,
especially those we do not notice;
for everything,
including those we cannot endure,

we offer to you,
Companion on the Way:

gratitude.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Body

an individual by birth,
a loner by nature,
i find myself
joined at the Hope
with others
not always of my choosing

nor i of theirs . . .

called by Another,
my humility-resistant pride,
my gentle vindictiveness,
my weak patience
threaten this life-shattering unity.

while i do not have
the body i may want,
i am graced
with the Body
i need,
and which,
by God's sense of humor,
needs me.

(c) 2003 Thom M. Shuman

Prayer

some day,
i would like to learn
how to pray:

oh,
i can hammer words together
to make a nice box
for you to fill
with what i am sure i need:
but i falter
when i try to climb out
of that hole of hopelessness
i find myself in;

i can bring you
my scrapbook filled
with all the stories
of the brokeness of the world:
but the pages
of my dreams, my fears,
my fickle faith
are out in the trashcan;

i can race to you
to tattle on
all my friends and neighbors
so you will know where all the mud-stains
on their lives come from:
but in my haste
to get to you first,
i stumble over
the shadowed secrets
in my soul.

some day,
i would like to learn how to pray,
Listening God.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Servant

whatever title, privilege,
or prestige others may give me,
i am your servant, Holy One.

when i look at another,
may i do so with the eyes
of compassion and generosity,
not those of desire
and deception;

when i speak to another,
may i do so with a voice
of wisdom and trust,
not manipulation
and arrogance;

when i am given a chance
to serve my sisters and brothers,
may i do so with open heart
and outstretched hope,
not grudgingly
or worrying about my loss;

when you seek
to dwell
in my heart,
may i empty myself
of all my silly
arrogance,
so i can be filled.

i am your servant, Holy One.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

House Building

me -
a dwelling place for God?

my roof
leaks
with wayward
and wanton thoughts . . .

my windows
look out on a world
lusting for more
and caring for less;
if any dare peek in,
they will see the same hungers . . .

my furnace
is filled
with the ashes
of dusty dreams
and hapless hopes . . .

my foundation
cracks
under the weight of loneliness,
ravaged
by the storms of sadness.

i would build you
a house,
my God;

rebuild me
instead.

Amen.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

i would prefer
to be left
leaning against the wall,
shuffling my two left feet,
watching the world
twirl by;
but you take me by the hand
to teach me
the dance steps
of grace;

when i walk near
the piano,
it shudders,
hoping
i will not sit down;
but you take my fingers
and place them on the keys,
whispering,
"play, play with joy, play!"

even with
the biggest bucket,
i can't carry a tune;
but you push me
out onto the stage,
introducing me as
the new soloist
in the Good News Choir.

i will celebrate your joy,
sing your hope,
play your love,
leaping and whirling
in your grace
forever!

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Dust Shaker

unmoved
by the cries
of the poor,
shake the dust
out of our ears
so we can listen;

uncompassionate
to the brokenness
of our own kin,
shake the dust
off our hearts
so we can give them away;

callous
towards those
different from us,
shake the dust
from our souls
so we can embrace them;

amassed
by years of hoarding,
shake the dust
off our nest eggs
of blessings,
so we may offer grace
to the hopeless.

shake the dust
off our unbelief,
Son of Mary,
so the gospel
might be lived
in us.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Whispers

it was only
whispers
at first,
people averting their eyes,
gossip trickling out
the sides of their mouths
about her 'problem';
then came the years
filled with
laughter, ridicule, rebuke.

telling stories to his friends,
trading jokes with lawyers,
asking riddles of preachers:
she heard the
whisper
of his robe's hem
as it brushed
the streets of the kingdom.

if i could only touch it, she
whispered

and did.

in the silence,
no one heard the
whispers
of grace
flowing through her soul,
making her whole.

in the silence,
Jesus tenderly lifted her
to her feet;
'you are well,
daughter of faith,
go in peace'
was the benediction
he
whispered.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

it is evening . . .

calm us, Lord!

it is evening . . .
another day
of work, of play, of retirement;
home to 'escape'
in front of the TV,
but the same weary news
threatens to swamp us:

calm us, Lord,
keep hope near
and despair afar.

it is evening . . .
and sitting on the front porch
is our old friend terror,
waiting to tell us
bedtime stories of war,
of nuclear weapons being built,
of pension plans plundered:

calm us, Lord,
keep trust near
and nightmares afar.

it is evening . . .
and the storms of life
rattle the windows
of our souls
and thunder
through our hearts:

calm us, Lord,
keep faith near
and fear afar.

calm us, Lord!

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Seeds

it's the
word of confidence
to a 9-year-old
which one day leads to
the winning goal
in a World Cup match;

it's the
extra practice sessions
after school,
going over word after word,
which bolsters
a young girl
at the Spelling Bee Nationals;

it's the gentle touch
of a mother
in the terror of
a midnight thunderstorm
which leads a child
into nursing;

in a world
which idolizes
sucess, greatness,
biggie-sized achievements,
remind us
of those mustard seeds
planted deep within us
by so many over the years,
which help to shape us
into the people
you mean us to be,
Tender God.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Come, Holy Spirit

come, Holy Spirit:

doubled-over,
drenched in the
sweat
of discipleship,
you sneak up
to tickle me
with
cooling laughter;

dragged through
life
by yet
another day,
you fling open
boredom's windows
and push me
into God's energizing
arms;

cautiously
threading my way
through the darkness
of my soul,
you blow away
the shadows
so i can see
the path to the kingdom.

come, Holy Spirit:
this day,
and every day
which lies ahead.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Remembering

We remember, Grieving God,
those, in so many places,
in so many times,
who have died in war;
and we pray
we might honor them
by becoming your children,
makers of peace to our broken world.

We remember, Mothering God,
children who have grown up
around us in our schools,
in our neighborhoods, in our churches,
and who have now gone to war;
and we pray for children
throughout the world
who are the orphans
of violence and death.

We remember, God of Truth,
the wars which rage within us,
the aggression we feel towards others,
our unwillingness to forgive,
our desire to foster divisions and discord,
our discomfort in being called
to love our enemies;
and even as we despair,
we pray for new hope,
as we struggle to see you in our world,
we pray for discerning hearts,
as we confront ancient fears,
we pray for new love,
and for your old, old peace
to be born in us anew.

As we remember,
we pray, Healing God.

Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Old Songs

we love the old songs:

we hum to ourselves
about the old, old story
and feel like we are slipping on
a frayed, comfortable shirt
which will keep us warm;

we sing in the shower
of all those places
where the saints have trod,
and wonder what ever
happened to them;

the fears of aging
jerk us awake
in the middle of the night
and into the silence
of our souls
we whisper
'Jesus loves me, this i know,
for the Bible tells me so . . .'

we love the old songs so much
we might miss the new ones:

the sunrise announcing
a new beginning each day;

the laughter of children,
louder than despair's dirge;

the softness
of a parent's love
which smooths our rough edges;

teach us new songs,
Joyous Heart,
teach us new songs.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

there was a time
when i knew
without a doubt
that you were
a white-haired old gent
holding a ruler,
ready to smack my hands
whenever i was bad;

there were years
when i longed for you
to come storming down
to shake up society
and make it more like heaven:
where everyone is loved,
no one is shoved aside,
little children are as valued
as the wisest and richest,
where we go swimming
in that cascading river
called Justice;

now?

i see you for who
you have always been:
Wisdom warning me
to look both ways
as i cross sin's streets;
Compassion whose lap
always has room for me;
Love
who always accepts me;
Grace
who walks beside me
every day.

abide in me,
Mothering God,
abide in me.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

sinking in a sea
of stress and success,
you buoy me
with your living waters
until i am at peace;

running down
endless corridors
to never ending meetings,
you detour me
to the pathways
leading to your joy;

stumbling through
the thorn bushes
of a culture which seeks
to tear my soul to shreds,
you prepare a picnic
in the garden of grace;

famished and malnurtured
from wandering
the shadows on sin and death,
you fill me
with sweet tasting hope;

fleeing
from the very life
i convince myself
i am seeking,
you slow me down
so goodness and mercy
can catch up with me

and push me
into your heart.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Show and Tell

if we showed you
our hands,
would you find them nicked
from building a house
for the homeless;
or a callous on our thumb
from using the TV remote
too much?

if we showed you
our feet,
would you find them toughened
by walking the corridors
of a hospice
with the terminally ill;
or wrinkled
by too many hours
in the hot tub?

if we showed you
our hearts,
would you find them broken
over the struggles of
the lost, the little, the last, the least;
or would they be clogged
with the plaque
of our consumerized lives?

if we truly want to be
your witnesses,
God of the empty grave,
would you show us
how?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

dour-faced
in the presence
of stunning sunsets;

stricken with
chronic severity
while surrounded
by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled
when touched
by the warmth
of grace;

if we are made
in your image,
it's no wonder
people think of you
as a grouchy old geezer,
God of Joy.

so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:
laughter which chases away
long faces;
chuckles which wipe
frowns off our brows;
great guffaws
which shatter
frozen hearts;

fill us,
Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,
so we can celebrate
the last laugh
on death.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

dour-faced
in the presence
of stunning sunsets;

stricken with
chronic severity
while surrounded
by gurgling babies;

frozen-souled
when touched
by the warmth
of grace;

if we are made
in your image,
it's no wonder
people think of you
as a grouch old geezer,
God of creation.

so, breathe on us . . .

fill our souls with:
laughter which chases
away long faces;
chuckles which wipe
frowns off our brows;
great guffaws
which shatter
frozen hearts;

fill us,
Breath of sidesplitting shrieks,
so we can celebrate
the last laugh
on death.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

very early
in the mourning,
the disciples huddled
in fear's shadowed corners,
while Pilate
and the religious leaders
drank weak chardonnay
and dropped stale canapes
into the potted plants
at the symphony;

very early
on the first day
of the week,
the women
wandered through
mourning's mist,
their broken hearts
carried gently
in their hands;

very early
in the morning
on the first day
of the week,
leaving death
sitting empty-handed
in the tomb,
Jesus strode into the kingdom,
a bouquet of balloons
filled with grace
in his arms.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman