Second Sunday after Christmas

            sirach

she has lost

                track
    of all the generations
    who sat on the floor
         watching her move
         the figures around
              the flannel board
   telling them the stories
       she knows by heart,
   but we remember
      every word,
         her voice filled with love,
         her eyes sparkling with joy,
         her tender touch of hope.
 
she is always at the door,
   opening it wide and
   giving us a hug,
          steering us toward the
                 kitchen table
          where the cold milk
          and still warm cookies wait,
                and as we settle into
                the feast, she asks,
                     ‘so, tell me, how was today?’

at night, she
      plugs in the light,
     tucks us safe under
            the covers,
     kisses us good night,
                         and
        settles herself
        in the rocker
          over in the corner,
                where
    she will keep watch
                 until
                  morning.

(c) Thom M. Shuman  from Dust Shaker (2014)

 

the bogeygod

afraid you would
   smack my knuckles
   with a ruler, i
      kept my hands
            clasped
      behind my back
               and so
      you could not
      fill them with
                     grace;

certain you were
looking for me, so
   you could scream
   about all the mess
         in the kitchen,
      i
         quivered behind
         the door, hoping
         you would not look there,
                     and so
            you could not
            gather me up
            in your arms
            to wipe away my
                            fears;

taught to believe
   you lurk in the
                  shadows,
   prowling around looking
   for a way to get in,
         i lock all the doors
                and windows,
         pull the drapes shut,
         turn out the lights,
         and hide under the quilt,
         refusing to answer the door,
                     and so 
            the invitation to the party
            at your house gathers
                           dust 
               in the mailbox.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman        
   

every moment (Matthew 20:1-16)

early in the morning,
at the corners
where we stand
with our hands stuffed
in pockets full of pride,
     you come looking for us.

mid-morning,
at the coffee shops
where we sit grumbling
about how different
our jobs, our relationships, our dreams
would be 'if only . . .'
     you come to engage us
     in the only Person
     we will ever need;

in the late afternoon,
when our eyelids droop
from acedia
and our energy follows us
about being overwhelmed,
     you come to give us
     a jolt of unfettered grace;

in the evening,
just as we are about to nod off,
you re-run the day for us,
so we can know
(and whisper),
'it was you -
     in every moment,
          in every place,
     in every person -

who got us through
this day.'

(c) Thom M. Shuman

the F word (Matthew 18:21-22)

leery
of becoming a
97-pound weakling,
i regularly exercise my
umbrage
at those who have done
wrong to me . . .
but you would release
my death grip
on pain's weights,
and give me
a Spirit-filled bouquet
of mercy's tender flowers
to hand out
as i walk home.

watching
the line form of
all who can't wait
to wipe bitterness on my soul,
i hesitate to open my heart
to put out the welcome mat,
but you sweep off
the sidewalk
to make a way for them,
leading to the porch
where a pitcher of
cool refreshing leniency
has been poured for them

have patience, Lord,
have patience:
till i discover
forgiveness
is not a word listed
in the world's lexicon
of foolish notions,
but grace gifted
    over
       and over
          and over

to me.

(c)  Thom M. Shuman

Romans 12:9-21

         variance*

purple pills
and online romance;
far-too-casual sex
and binge dating -
is there a more propitious period
to model genuine love?

angry gestures
echoed by hate-filled words;
violence flooding streets,
hate teaching our children -
is there a more apropos age
to feed our enemies with hope,
to offer a cool drink
to those burning with bitterness?

the lost sent around to
the kitchen's backdoor,
the least discounted
by hardened politicians;
the last shoved out of line
by shoppers armed with more credit,
the little squashed underfoot
in the rush to get more -
is there a more timely age
for blessing, not cursing;
for partnering with the oppressed
and not pretending they are not us?

in this stretch of selfishness
and narcissistic narrowness,
in this season of unbridled arrogance
and unchecked injustices -

is there a more opportune
time to simply
serve?

(c)  Thom M. Shuman
(* - according to the NRSV, some ancient authorities translate 'serve the Lord' in Romans 12:11 as 'serve the opportune time')

at the end of her rope (Matthew 15:21-28)

she forces open her
                eyes,
   shaking the cobwebs
   from her thoughts,
      wondering how
      does three hours
         pass so quickly,
      and give so little
             rest to a
             weary soul?

once again (almost as
         ritualistically
         as the prayers
         which are never
             answered),
   she cradles her daughter,
      pouring the waters
            over her from
            head to toe,
        hoping they might
        chill the fiendish
              fires deep
           inside her;
   she picks up the
      spoon smacked out
         of her hand,
      dipping it into the
               bowl,
         trying to bring
         a few drops of
             strength
             to the cracked
                    lips;
   she listens, as the
      curses spew out
         of that broken
                heart,
        answering (as
            she always will),
   'i love you,
        you are my heart,
             you are my joy.'

laying the exhausted
      child in her bed,
   she steps outside
            for a quick
            breath of hope,
         and at the sight
               of the one
               the neighbors
               had been
         talking about, she
      dropped to her
                knees
             whispering,
   'help me . . .

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

boating on a summer day

here we are, Lord,
your people:

on a hazy summer morning,
lazily floating on life . . .
our little church calm and steady,
a cold beverage in our hands,
our fishing lines
drifting through
the lukewarm water.

and here you come,
strolling across the water,
shaking your head
at our comfort, our ease,
our complacency.

you crook your finger at us,
with an inviting dare:
'what are you doing
still in the boat?
come, join me,
the water's fine;
don't worry,
i won't let you sink.'

here we are, Lord,
your people,
on a lazy, hazy summer morning.

pull us out of the boat, Lord,
pull us out!

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

'tis

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
a community organizer
    walking through
    oppression's
    neatly ordered
            regulations,
        planting seeds
        which blossom
                    into
    radical hope;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
mold
    on a slice
    of bread
            which
            can cure
        a child's
        infection;

the kingdom of
                heaven
            is like
the young family
    which buys a
    foreclosed house
            in a rough
            neighborhood
        and turns it
                into
    a day care center.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

weeds

no matter how hard
                    we pull,
                    we spray,
                    we curse,
                    we pay
    the weeds
    refuse to go
                        away:

        a death too soon,
            a debilitating disease,
        rejection from loved ones,
            anger enough to destroy,
        heartache that knocks us to our
                                knees
and
            life goes out of
                        life;

yet,

without the darnel
                bearding us,

hope might not bear
        enough fruit for
        everyone who yearns
                    for it;

grace might blossom
            only once every
                    100 years;

the grapes of justice
        might produce
        just a few ounces;

love might become
        an endangered plant.

© 2014 Thom M. Shuman

internee (Zechariah 9:9-12)

from the shadowed
               corner,
   i used to stare
   up at the small
         window set high
      up in the wall,
      waiting for the moon
      to appear (even if
                  only a
                  sliver,
   imagining you were
           keeping an eye
      on me;

for hours on
          end,
   i would stand
   at the door, holdin
      onto the bars
      worn smooth by
      all the hands before
              me,
         waiting for you
         to come by with
         your cart full of
                    books,
   handing me the
           words you knew
      i needed, brushing
         the back of my hand
         with fingers as light
                  as Emily's
                  feathers;

in the early morning,
when even the guard
is too bored to
             notice,
      you tunnel in,
   taking me by the
             hand
   and leading me out
                   to
         where your muster
         of mistfits waits,
     and you swing me
     onto the bowed back
        of that borrowed
        farm animal,
     and we follow
     that route marked

   Hope.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

junk (Romans 6:1b-11)

those secrets
      known only to
            us in the
         shadows of our
            hearts
   and the flickering
      monitors in the
         dim rooms?

those grudges
      we stockpile in
             our souls,
         where they fester,
   oozing bitterness
            every time
            we pick off the
         scabs?

those thoughtless words
      and mean-spirited
          phrases 
          in that
                tattered
         dictionary of
            disdain we
   keep in our back pocket
      for use at a
          moment's notice?

you gather all these
          up, (and all
      the rest of the  
      junk of our lives),
   sorting them out
      on the tables in
      the driveway,
         planting a big
         sign reading
   Yard Sale
      by the curb;

then,
turning on the
          sprinklers,
   you teach us
       to turn
          cartwheels
      in the cooling
          drops of
   life.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

poem/prayer for Trinity Sunday

at the
         crossroads,
   i could keep
      going the route
      i have been
            traveling
   all these years, with
      no end in sight,
      no benchs where
         i might rest;

i could go
         back,
   retracing my steps,
   hoping i might
      be pick up
      all the pieces
             of life
      littering
         the sides
         of the road;

I could turn
         towards
   that street which
      (with its broad
       tree-lined walks,
    houses so freshly painted
    they look brand-new,
       and lawns which will
       tolerate no weeds)
            looks
   too good to be
                real;

or
      i could simply
      turn down that
               way
         everyone warns
         me about,
   following you,
   the family playing
            leapfrog,
      splashing noisily
      through every muddy
            puddle,
   building a kingdom
   from all the discarded
         people left
      by the curb.

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

dare we? (Pentecost - A)

hesitant enough
to whisper your name,
   much less tell any one
   of your presence in us:
         dare we ask for
         tongues of boldness?

our hearts
fatigued by
   the cancer of poverty,
   the fears crouching in
                the shadows,
   the children wandering
                our streets:
         dare we ask for
         a transplant of
            compassion?

souls numbed
   by broken lives
   and shattered dreams,
grace iceberged
   by the chill of our culture:
         dare we ask for
         just the smallest
                     spark
         to engulf us?

dare we hope
      dare we dance
dare we yield
      dare we dive
      into your red-hot
              love
   so we can live?

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

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

poem/prayer for April 27, 2014 (John 20:19-31)

they lie just
         under the bed,
   doubt bunnies
      waiting patiently
      for me to get
         dressed for
               faith,
    so they can
    cling to my
       pants and socks,
          traveling
          with me
   through each day,
      giggling as they
      stain my pristine
               piety;

on summer evenings,
         as i sit
         on the deck
   trying to center
      myself in
            you, they
         flit about
         in the shadows,
   their tails flickering
            skeptically
      as they seek to
            distract me
      from such
         moments,
                  until
   you gather them
   up in an old
            olive jar,
      so you can
          see your way
          to me,

where,
    holding my
      life-scarred hands
            in yours, and
   rubbing grace's gritty                
         balm over the
      world's sharp wounds,
you whisper,
   'my friend and my beloved!'

and
      continue
   to believe in
                me,
      despite
      everything
      you have
   seen.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

the watchdog (John 11:33)

he comes
      on padded feet,
   sniffing the wind,
         recognizing the
         smell of the
      Threatening One
            who would
            steal away
         his best
              friend,
      snarling and
          nipping
        at its heels,
             until
      Azrael slinks off
          into the
        shadows;

then turning towards
     the stone, he
   barks quickly
       that all is
       safe, and
    waits (with
      joy in his
         heart)
   for Laz
     to come
out.

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

Thom

the hounds (Psalm 23:6a)

Only goodness and steadfast love shall pursue me
   all the days of my life (JPS TANAKH Translation)

pacing myself
      for the marathon,
      i slowly start
     out on the
         journey,
   ignoring the chances
      to stop and catch
         my breath,
   waving you off
      as you try to hand
         me a cup of
         stilled water,
   refusing to pay attention
      to the detour
             signs
   marking an easier
         way;

thinking ahead to
      that shadowed valley
   lying on the other side
         of the steep
                hill
      i start to climb,
   i do not hear
            you
     whistling to
        To-wb and
        Wa-he-sed,
      and letting the hounds
           sniff my scent,
   you send them on
              my trail,
      until catching up with                
                 me,
         they nip my heels
             (gently)
   turning me towards
                  home

where you wait
        with supper
      on the
             table.

(c) 2014  Thom M. Shuman

up here (Matthew 17:1-9)

         if
it was up
to us
      we would

metamorphose
         you
   into a
   cockroach, so
      you could be
      the star
   in the traveling
   flea circus;

download
         you
   onto that
   flashdrive
      that fits so
      comfortably
   in the bottom
   of the drawer and
         never sees
      the light of
            day;

transpose
         you
   into a minor
      key
   praise song, so
      we can complain,
   'why would anyone
         want to sing
         that
      tune;'

but
   into the
         Beloved,
      the one to
         Whom
   we need to
      listen?

not on our
         mountaintop!

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

reward (Matthew 5:38-48)

our reward
         for
   being strong (and
      foolish) enough
   to try living your
            way?

toothless,
      we can sit down
   at your Table
         to let those
         we don't like
   spoon feed us with
      your grace;

cloakless,
      we can walk
   through the streets
         of the kingdom,
      warmed by your love
   on the coldest days;

foot weary,
      we dip them
   in the cool waters
         of life,
   shaking them dry
   and slipping them
            into the
            soft slippers
      spun of service;

empty-pocketed,
      we have simply
            made room
            for all those
         gifts
   we beg from you (which
      you share without
              any
         hesitation)

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

fulfillment (Matthew 5:13-16)

"you are
the methylchloroisothiazolinone
   of the earth,"
         just doesn't have
      the same oomph,
            does it?
so
may we be
         the jalapenos
      in a world content
        with banality;
         the zest
      that stings minds
            focused
   only on themselves;
         the tartness
       that awakens mouths
            which speak
                  only
       platitudes.

"you are
the LED of the world,'
         just doesn't
         seem to grab us,
            i'm afraid.

but
let us be
         the torch
      that shows the
            shadowed
      the way out of
   their troubles;
         the nightlight
      which comforts
            the fearful;
         the lighthouse
      which warns of
               dangers
         we all face.

then
      may all who are
      searching
               find
   that community,
         not necessarily
         on a hill,
      but in all the
            ordinary
   places and
         people
      around them.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

           

blessings (Matthew 5:1-12)

give me, O God, this day:

         humility,
   so i can see you in the
      most vulnerable;

         a cup
   to catch the tears
   of all who weep;

         an arm
   for the longanimous to
   cling to as they walk
      through life;

         a broken heart
   which can heal those
   who have harmed me;

         guilelessness
   which looks at the other
   and sees your beloved (not
      an object);

         friendship
   which embraces those
   we are taught to fear;

         hospitality
   which welcomes those
   who are ridiculed as
      they shadow you;

         words
   of hope, of comfort, of grace
   whispered in the ears
      of all who are slandered
      for your name.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

Thom

ideally (Isaiah 9:1-4)

we would carry
      the Light
   into the shadowed
            corners
         rather
   than sticking it all
   on a tree
      once a year;

we would
      distich
   ourselves to others,
         rather
   than piling on
             more
      than they can handle
           alone;

we would take
      all the ways and means
      in which we harm
         people (including
   those holier-than-thou
               shirts
      off our backs) and
         use it all
   as fuel to warm
   the lives of those
            we despise.

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman 

waiting, you waited (Psalm 40:1-3)

hearing my squawk
      of surprise
               and then
   my wails of
         wretchedness,
you came
      running,
   stopping at the
      crumbling edge;

you reached down
   and clasped my trembling
            hands,
   pulling me up
      out of the
      slimy clay that
            fought
         to hold on to
               me;

you unwrapped the towel
      from around your
                  waist,
   and setting me
   on your lap,
         you proceeded
         to wipe off all
      the muddy traces
      of my mistakes,
   drying my feet off
            toe by toe,

all the while
             chuckling,
      and
         asking me,
   'why do you keep
   getting into these
                messes?'

(c) 2014 Thom M. Shuman

Thom

still waters (Baptism of the Lord)

like water skimmers,
we simply glide along
the smooth facade of our lives,
till you come running up,
diving right in,
coming up with rivulets
caressing your big grin,
as you splash water
in our eyes so we can
see;

we drift along
just below the surface,
occasionally coming up for air,
hoping you cannot spy us
hiding in the shadowed pools,
but you step in
with your waders on,
tying the special fly
the Spirit made for you,
casting, casting, casting,
again and again,
until we take that first bite
of your grace
and we are hooked;

throwing caution to the wind,
you drive out onto our frozen souls,
setting up the shack,
chipping through the ice,
dropping your line in the hole,
patiently waiting
(while you pass the bread
and bottle around
with your two buddies)
to pull us into
the warmth of your heart.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

edge-y (Advent 2-A)

at the river's edge, we
      rub elbows with the
      piously righteous,
   jostling for the best
   position to hear
         the camel-coated, 
             slicked-hair,
             bow-tied
   evangelist
      with his honey-drenched
                words;

at the river's edge, they
            gather,
   the bear wanting to teach
         his cubs to fish,
   the cow sipping a cool
           drink,
   the ewe and lambs
   keeping a wary eye
      on the wolf pack
      playing on the
         sandbar;

ar the river's edge, we
            wait
   for you
         to take off
         your dusty sandals,
      and jump in
      feet first
   drenching us with
            Spirit's
        new life.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

oxymoron (Reign of Christ/Christ the King - C)

King of kings
Lord of lords
Glory Hallelujah!

    really?

are these word just
a neat, peppy praise song,
fun to sing
      but empty of meaning?

no kings around here
that i know of,
      but a lot of politicians
      who act as if folks
            are agin' 'em
   if you are not with them;

no lords around here
         except those who
         think they can
         lord it over everyone else,
   but debt and worry and fear
   control my life;

glory seems to be
      in short supply these
                      days,
   and hallelujahs
      don't seem to mean much
           to most folks;

but you

      you are a mystery solved
      in the impossibilities
               of life;
      an enigma wrapped
               in wonder;
      a majesty born
               in humility;
      a life blossoming
               out of death.

and you

      you i could follow
   forever.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

shake, rattle, and roll (Haggai 1:15b-2:9)

shake the heavens, the earth,
   the sea, the dry lands -
            shake them until
            your peace covers
      creation like a carpet
                of autumn leaves,
         and your hope burns
                    bright
  in the night skies of our
                    lives;

rattle the cages
      of those churches
   who are locked into
         always doing
      the same thing over
           and over and over
      (and never getting it right),
          always being trapped
          in that mythical
                  past, never able
   to take a step
      forward;

push the denominations
off their self-imposed
             pedestals,
      so they can roll
      down the hill,
   splashing into that pool
          of wonder,
       to emerge dripping
                 wet
             with your
                joy.

but me?

just nudge me gently
   so i can turn over
   and go back to sleep,
              content
      under the warm quilt
      of
         complacency.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

sycamore street (Luke 19:1-10)

when the ragtagged fellow
         came by with his
         empty cup held out,
   looking for a cool drink
   on the hottest day of the year,
               i turned on
               the hose very slowly
      so he could get
      a few drips;

walking by the volunteer
         standing by the red kettle
         and ringing the handbell,
   i reached in my pocket
   and dropped a shiny coin
      listening as it clinked
      against the other change;

as the plate
               passes
      down the pew
      toward me, i pull
   out my wallet
         and pour
         a wee dram
            for God;

a drip
      a drop
            a dram
   a dollop of generosity
   here and there . . .

if i'm not careful
all my possessions
will dribble away
                 and i'll end up
                 like poor Zach
   down the street.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

anathoth (Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15)

hope is

the pool of cool
            water
   found on the driest,
      hardest days of
      the journey, where
   i can be refreshed
         with life;

the needle and thread
            held gently
         in your fingers,
   as you cradled me
   on your lap
      gently stitching
               my soul
      back together;

the parcel in the
               kingdom
   i purchased when
   i said 'yes' all those
            years ago,
      and no matter
      how many times
      i have lived
                  'no'
         since then,
   the deed is still kept
         safely deposited
         in your heart;

the smell of the warm
                  bread
         just out of the
      oven and placed on
      the table set with glory,
            telling me
   you have been waiting   
                 for me
         to come home

hope
        simply

is . . .

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

the coin (Luke 15:8-10)

the world,
in a dither (as
            always)
    dumps out her purse,
    trying to find the car keys
        & the piece of paper
        with the estate sale's
                    address,
never noticing
    as i fall to the floor,
    rolling across the hardwood past
        the dozing cat (who barely
                twitches a whisker)
    until i end up tangled
        in the clump of dog hair
            curled under the chair;

you come along,
lifting the cushions
    from the sofa and loveseat,
        sticking your fingers
        into the crevices at
            the sides and back;
empty-handed,
you gaze around the room,
                suddenly
        grabbing the yardstick,
    you sweep back
    and forth under the chair
            to recover me;
    rubbing off the dirt,
touching up the nicks
        till i shine,
warming me in your
            hand, you whisper
    'i know
        exactly how to use you,'

going to the front door
    you give me away
        to the young man
        standing on the porch,
    who is trying to come
            up with the
        cost of a bus ticket
                    home

to his father.

(c) 2010 Thom M. Shuman

capernaum (Luke 7:1-10)

in the child
            sleeping at
   the shelter,
  dreaming of a job for
       her dad
     and an apartment
         for her family. . .

in the mother
            helping
      her son with his
         homework
               so he can pass
               the entrance exam
            for the private school
      her third job will pay
            for . . .

in the senior
            who gets up
         in the middle of the
      night,
               to change the
            wet bedding of
         his alzheimered wife,
      believing she will
                         (finally)
                  remember his name
               at
                     breakfast . . .

we encounter that
         faith
      we thought we would
   never
               find
               again.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

a prayer for Moore, Oklahoma

O God, hear our prayers:

for teachers
   who became tornado shelters
   as they covered their children
          with their bodies;

of parents
   whose hearts shattered
   at the sight of the bearer
   of bad news;

for children
   whose last image
   was that of a beloved
               playmate,
      before they saw
      your weeping face;

for rescuers,responders, searchers
   whose grief must
   be left at home
   until their work
                  is done;

for families
   whose earthly goods
   consist of
      a picture in a
             broken frame,
      a half-torn letter,
      a broken kitchen chair;

for all
   whose beloved community
   has now become that
             shadowed valley
             of loss;

for all your people,
O God,
      hear our prayers.

(c) 2013  Thom M. Shuman

maybe (John 17:21)

we would be one

if that place
across the street
   would stop braggin'
   about all its
              missions;

if those big box
        entertainmentplexs
      would realize
      how serious worship
           must be;

if others
      would recognize
    that certain doctrines
         just can't be
         compromised;

if everyone
      would just stop
            fighting
        over the questions
        we already have
               answered.

we could be one
                if
       it wasn't for
  us.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman

almost (Easter 6-C)

it almost didn't happen:
   every door was slammed
                in our faces,
   every road became more
                 and more
              potholed,
   the shadows chased us down
                 each alley
         until we hit the wall,
      then
             you put on your hardhat,
             unfolded the blueprints,
             rolled up your sleeves,
         and built that city
         which is open to everyone;

it almost didn't happen:
   your bed was unslept in,
            empty hangers in
                  the closet,
      your laptop and cell phone
            left on the desk,
   and the house echoed with
                the emptiness
                of our hearts,
      then
            the doorbell rang,
         and when we opened the door,
            the Babysitter stood there,
       a big smile on her face,
       suitcases full of peace
                at her side,
         and gathering up our
                           fears
            she took them out to
                     the curb
          for the trash pickup
          scheduled next morning.

(c) 2013 Thom M. Shuman