by Calvin VanErgens
So far from a hundredfold, or even thirty,
I find it hard to keep his words. But I won’t let go.
I’m not sure it’s the thorns, kingdom stranglers.
Maybe, but I see it more like my little tree.
I know that bird-devil hasn’t stolen the seed
from my way-side heart. Even in the scorching
trouble, it remains with its root somewhere
deep inside – though my heart is something like stone.
It’s my Jim Bouwsma tree. It’s a kind of
metaphor that connects me to him by
reminding me of something he once
said that stuck with me – as a worded
thought at first, which then came to
be embodied in the tree. The poor tree.
I moved it when the deer ate it,
and I moved when I can’t remember.
It came up holding its ground with its
roots and its ground holding its roots
in a clod of dirt. It hasn’t grown,
I don’t think, since I got it. But
it’s alive. At least it’s still alive.
I thought I would tell Jim about the tree,
and maybe he would remind me of what
he said that now lives in the little tree.
It was something about Jacob wrestling.
Not walking away like the rich young ruler.
I felt weird telling him about the tree,
and how it’s a sad and stunted resident
of my garden. But at least it’s still alive.
This is a fight to surrender, he said.
Then he wasn’t talking to me. He said
If I stop fighting, won’t I let you go?
This is a fight to surrender to you.
I will not let you go until you bless me.
I need to hear you say, “the day has
broken.” Until the daylight comes
I’m holding on, more than
watchmen wait for the morning.
Then he was talking to me.
We wrestlers can’t just hold
what’s been handed down,
and it gives the impression
we’re forging a faith all our own
But what we really want is to be given a name.
The name God’s people are called.
Calvin VanErgens tells the stories of a church in the voices of the people there. Although these people, their church, and even Mr. VanErgens are made up, he holds the hope that his readers find them to be very true.