Leaning

i am only a little boy:
my first day at school
starts tomorrow;
i'll be brave for my Mom,
and not let her see me cry.
but, can i lean on you?

i am only a young girl:
i'll get back on the bus
this week wondering
if the boy who teased me last year
will be in his old seat,
if that group of girls
who giggled behind my back
will still be knotted together.
so, can i lean on you?

i am only a teacher,
not a super hero:
i have good days
and rotten mornings;
i have tears
shimmering in my eyes
behind the happy face
i wear every day.
can i lean on you?

i am only a hypocrite
putting on my clay feet
every morning,
striding forth into the world
bent over by my skeptic spirit,
hoping that today,
i might be bowled over
by faith.

until then,
can i lean on you?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

I've Looked at Clouds

she taught your story
to me (and hundreds of other kids),
moving the cloth figures
around the flannelboard landscape,
making Hannah and David,
Jonah and Judith,
Phoebe and Philip
dance before our eyes;

when the widow Gospel
set up house with him,
all the neighbors were surprised,
but then they saw how
anger was remodeled into gentleness,
hollow words were smoothed into promises,
and grudges were set out by the curb
for the garbage collectors to take away;

they were your grace,
that antsy, gabbing, constantly texting
knot of teenagers,
who giggled whil making
ham sandwiches by the dozens,
and then served them
to the street people,
sitting down and sharing their stories,
welcoming the 'least of these'
as if they were family
that hadn't seen in years.

what a crowd!
telling,
living,
being

showr me with their faith,
O God,
that I might be
a witness,
too.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Teach me

Our Father . . .

when i wander down
despair's streets,
and get mugged
in the alley of arrogance,
build me a home
at the corner
of Grace and Hope
in your kingdom;

your will
is that scratchy hair shirt
hanging deep
in the back of my closet p
nudge me to get it out
and wear it
till it becomes so frayed and soft,
i could never throw it out
in the garbage;

when i hunger
for a hubris-and-selfish sandwich
with all the fixings,
feed me
with the simple crust
of the Bread of Life;

tempted to charge
all my sins
on my revolving account
with the Evil One,
let me cut up my card
with your sheer mercy
and walk around
with pockets full of grace
to share with everyone
i meet.

Our Father . . .

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

In The Ditch

a ditch
runs through
my heart,
the ice water
of my propriety
carving it deeper and deeper.

i would fill it in
with some fine topsoil
mixed with fertilizer,
then plant it with
a bright bed
of daffodils, geraniums
and an array of shade trees
that would cause my neighbors
to shake their heads
as they pass by,
remarking on its beauty.

but you . . .

you fill it:
with homeless panhandlers
and struggling single mothers
working three jobs;
with teenagers longing
for self-esteem
and seasoned citizens
hoping to unearth their dreams;
with all those who have been robbed
by a world busy building ditches.

and when i try to slip by,
you reach out and trip me,
knowing that it is in that ditch,
and the next one,
and the one after . . .

i find myself,
my neighbor,

You.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Heal Me

heal this reluctant child of yours,
Holy One:

i despise the truth
that pain
is my faithful companion,
but am laoth
to place it in
your scarred hands;

i gnaw on the
bitterness
in my heart,
its tart taste
tingling my tongue,
so i cannot
savor the sweet
Bread of Life;

the millstones
piled on my shoulders
by the world
break my flesh,
but
i fear
the peace
you offer me
will shatter
my arrogant spirit.

heal me,
Holy One,
heal me.

Amen.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

I am

am i . . .
a magnetic strip
that can be swiped and scanned
so my loyalties and love
can be purchased
like a tank of gas or a jug of milk?

am i . . .
a keyboard on which,
with a few swift strokes,
my personality can be
modified, spell-checked
and saved in a new file?

am i . . .
a bank account
just waiting to be hacked into,
and emptied of
all my dreams, my hopes, my joys?

am i . . .
a vineyard
to be eminently domained
by some developer
who wants to build a skyscraper
on the foundation of my heart?

i could be . . .
but
cradled in God's justice,
grounded in God's grace,
planted in God's family,
living in God's heart

i belong to
I AM WHO I AM.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

tickle me, God

when i am down
to my last few drops
of the oil of obedience,
and distractions hammer
at my door
inviting me to come out
and play:
fill me
with that trust
which has no end;

when the flour of faith
is but a dusting
at the bottom of my heart
and sin's silliness
points me
in the wrong direction:
feed me
with that love
which never wears out;

when i put my feet
under the table
for just a few hands
of hold-em poker with death,
and she moves 'all in':
pull the chair out
from under me
and yank me to my senses;

when i beleive
there are no miracles left
(at least, for me):
tickle me
with your grace
till i ache
with life.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Is God Triplets or What?

While the theologians have gathered
for their annual
'Decoding the Mystery of the Trinity"
symposium

God is out early every morning,
Grace padding alongside unleashed,
stopping to chat
with the single mother
just getting off the 6 a.m. bus
from her night job;

Jesus is doing
half-pipes
with the "losers"
down at the skate park
and later hanging out
at the video arcade;

Spirit pauses
from wiping the tables
down at the soup kitchen,
stretching her back
till it pops loud enough
to startle Catechism
drowsily purring under the stove;

in the evening,
while they mess up the kitchen
fixing dinner,
they chat about their day,
laughing and shaking their heads
at all they have seen and heard;
then they draw straws
to see whose turn it is
to keep watch during the night,
while the others
stumble off to bed,
yawning and scratching their heads
at the mystery of humanity.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

The Pentecost I Need

i've got a feeling
that if a violent wind
started battering my soul
i would just rund down
to the basement and hide;
but i could use
a gentle nudge
in the morning
to push me towards those
who need my help.

if flames started
darting down from heaven,
my first impulse would be
to call the fire department;
but my heart,
conditioned by the chill
of cynical callousness,
could use some melting.

if i suddenly
spoke in tongues,
i figure folks would start
slowly edging away from me
(if i didn't run from thm!);
but i could use
a new dictionary
filled only
with the language
of gentleness.

i'm not sure
if I need a day
like Pentecost,
or not;
but i know i need
the Spirit as my companion
the rest of my life.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

alpha and omega and me

okay
i think i've got it!

before anything
(any thing!)
existed
you were;

and when nothing
(no thing!)
remains
you will be.

but
what i want
to know:

where you there
the other day
when temptation
cracked the combination
to my heart?

will you be
when death taps me
on the shoulder
and grins,
'wanna go for a walk?'

and should i whisper
'come,
come soon,
i need you
right now!'

will you?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Twins

she would let me snuggle
up next to her at night
and read me story after story,
until i dozed off
with dreams of joy and hope . . .
and i learned that your lap
is always empty - for me.

she sat me down one day
to remind me that words
people hurled at me
were only that - words.
then she held me tight
to her heart . . .
and i learned about
your Word of love - for me.

she used to get up
and go to work on days
when i would pull the covers
back over my head
and sleep in late . . .
and i learned about
your self-giving grace - for me..

do you know how much
you look like my mother,
God of the Universe?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Acts 11:17

the homeless, the hungry,
the poor:
always complaining about
their circumstances.
why can't they pull themselves
up by the boot straps like i did?

yet,
you hold open the doors,
waying them in, saying,
'welcome! there's room
for all!'

i wish people
would stop whining and crying
because life is so unbearable.

but
you reach out
and touch their wet cheeks
wth nail-scarred hands.

travelers on a path
of desperation,
searching for One
who has living water
get in my way
as i hurry through life,

and
you remove the stones
in their path,
including me.

who am i
to get in your way,
my God?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

The Kittens

you promise
to be with me
when death takes my hand
to lead me into life . . .

but how will i know . . .

when i sneak down
the shadowed alleys,
hoping to find
that quick fix
for my broken dreams. . .

when I look up
from the muddy bottom
of desolation's ditch,
wondering where are my friends
who promised
('we'll be there!')
to pull me out. . .

when my addiction
to every sales pitch
i see and hear
trips me up and i fall into
greed's gutter . . .

. . . that you are with me then
and there?

i only need to look behind me -
and there are Goodness & Mercy,
those two stray kittens who follow me
wherever i go,
wherever i am -
just waiting for me to pick them up
and welcome them
into my heart.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Get Up!

my burdens, struggles,
worries and doubts
lie on the floor
where I scattered them
last night
as i crawled into bed;

most mornings,
with tottering trust,
meager mercy,
and no hope to spare,
when i cast out my life,
it seems
i only pull in
despair's emptiness.

but there you are
down in the kitchen:
flour all over the counters,
dirty pots stacked in the sink,
juice poured,
tea steeped,
hollering up the stairs,
"Get up, lazy faith!
Breakfast's ready!"

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

morning

yesterday
morning came:
i put the least on Sadness
and took him for a walk in the rain;
i put the kettle on
and watched my hopes steam away;
i stirred my life
and gorged on its bitterness.

tomorrow
morning will come:
the job will shove me
out of bed;
the dirty laundry will trip me
on the way to the shower;
TVs talking heads
will remind me how terrible life is.

but this morning?
this morning:
daffodills spread their petals
for the one who comes weeping
for her Lord;

this morning:
angels laugh
as death is kicked out
of the tomb;

this morning:
Jesus does cartwheels
through the graveyard,
splashing through
the puddles of our tears
and into our hearts.

Alleluia! Amen!

(c) 2004 Thom M. Shuman

Easter Garden

this Word
who squeezed
the vowels of chaos
into this rough world,
who spit
and filled the oceans,
who wrote on the ground,
carving the Grand Canyon;

daffodills
lift their faces to
this Light,
while grass races
toward it
like a wave;

trees
cup their leaves
to catch
this Water,
clapping with delight
at the rich banquet;

this playful Poet
who gives
whiskers to kittens,
skipping hearts to lambs,
canticles to frogs;

this Breath
blowing into
our grandparents' nostrils;

this One. . .

is the Gardener!

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Saturday

what were they doing today?

Cleaning toilets
trying to forget
their dreams
draining away?

maybe Peter wished
he was hom
eating warmed-up
passover food
trying to forge
a way out
of his
wilderness.

did Joanna
have her Saturday list:
groceries to buy,
errands to run,
kids to a soccer game,
a full honey-do jar?

perhaps Herod and Pilate
nursed hangovers
out too late last night
hitting every pub
on the Street of Tears
till they got
thrown out of the
Last Station.

were children
being shushed by
fear-ridden parents,
told
to stop playing
'soldiers and messiahs?'

did the angels
tip-toe
around heaven
afraid
to speak
too loudly
wondering
what with the Word
God was doing
behind
that rolled stone?

what were they doing today . . .

before God
yanked the legs
out
from under
death?

(c) 2001 Thom M. Shuman

where once

feet that danced
through the streets
of Jerusalem
welcoming the Messiah
now softly pad
the back alleys
in search of shadows;

hearts that leapt
with joy at the sight
of David's true son
are thrown out
with Golgotha's
garbage;

hands that wrapped
a new born son
in bright bands of cloth
now shroud
his broken body
and lay him
gently,
tenderly,
softly
in death's manger.

where glad hosannas
rang out
there is now
only
the silent
weeping
heart
of
God.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

if he had spoken

no one asked him . . .

not the chief priest
or his bought judges,
though
fear would
have deafened them;

not the governor,
balancing
political options
on
his decision;

not the mob:
pockets full of nightmares,
stomachs full of poverty,
voices brimming with bile
no goodness or mercy
flowing over
in their cupped hands;

no one asked him
(but don't you think)

Jesus himself
would have said
(maybe he whispered it
to himself):

give them Barabbas!

(c) 2001 Thom M. Shuman

in the closet . . .

hmmmmm . . .

what shall i wear?

that blouse
has a wrinkle in it;
this tie
still has that gravy stain;
these pants . . .
just a little bit out of style.

what shall i wear?
how should i look?
will people notice
the 'presentation'
i try so hard to make?

but you,

snatching at the chance
to be stained
by our sin;
not minding
the wrinkles
of our aged foolishness;
offering
to bring us
back into fashion
with God . . .

you
take off
your glory,
hang it in the closet,

and put on
us.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman