Raising Lazarus


by Paulette Callen


“He wept, they say, when told of my death.
I always wondered why.”
-Lazarus 40 AD-


“Lazarus, come forth!”
shattered his hope.
Warm light
replaced by cold
stone and death-cave stench.

He struggled to sit up
(the command still pulsed through the sharp edges of broken time)
difficult
bound as he was
from head to toe
in linen strips
difficult
to sit
to stand
to shuffle toward the dusty shaft
of common Judean light
hardly knowing if he was coming or going.

Through a sagging strip
he spied his famous friend
arms outstretched
voice still echoing
through the Valley of the Dead.

He thought
The crowds must be inured to
mere healing
fast food
and traversing water without a boat.
Ah. Well. Death
has made me cynical.

They unwrapped him
and washed him
gave him his robe
and his old job back.

Lazarus shrugged
and waited for the years to pass.


Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the place she returned to has been made home by a dog.

Have


by James B. Nicola


New Yorkers have their Central Park,
The Brits, their daily tea;
The conscientious have their lark;
And science, poetry.

A daily drudger, stuck in park,
Will set forth on a sudden spree
When smitten by the smallest spark
Of creativity.

And all souls howl, as canines bark,
To spite raw apathy.
And you, who dote upon the dark,
Upon request, have me.


James B. Nicola, a returning contributor, is the author of six collections of poetry, the latest being Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense. His decades of working in the theater culminated in the nonfiction book Playing the Audience: The Practical Guide to Live Performance, which won a Choice award.

A Widower’s Wistful Worship


by Eugene Platt


In idyllic days before breast cancer crept into our home,
upsetting its serenity, eventually leaving us alone
at opposite ends of eternity, going to church
on Sundays was part of our romance.

Week after wistful week, I return to Saint James
and sit in the same pew, although without you
sitting beside me, shoulder to shoulder,
thigh to thigh, our fingers entwined.

The setting is sacred but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.

You would be pleased, though, to know the liturgy
has not changed, the congregation still affirms
its faith in the words of the Nicene Creed,
words we said in unison with others.

Most of the hymns are familiar to me,
although it is hard to sing lines like
“Joyful, joyful we adore Thee,”
when I cannot see you peripherally.

The setting is sacred but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.

In deference to you, I take the Eucharist,
kneeling pitifully at the altar rail—
surely, with grace this cannot fail
to assuage the anguish within.

From the emptying churchyard I drive home along
oak-canopied Fort Johnson Road, then our street,
a twenty-minute trip that once was beatific
with anticipation of love before lunch.

The drive is scenic but bereft
of something sorely missed.
It is and is not the same.


Eugene Platt, an active octogenarian, was born in Charleston, South Carolina. After serving in the Army, he earned a Diploma in Anglo-Irish Literature at Trinity College Dublin. He lives in Charleston with his main muses: Montreal-born wife Judith, corgi Bess, cats Finnegan and Maeve.

Eight Year Old’s View of God


by Jack Eisenman


Preacher said
God’s in heaven
Waiting for me
To come stay
With him
Someday.

I saw him yesterday
Leaning against the oak
When I landed hard
But didn’t break anything
Of tree climbing value.


Jack Eisenman is Professor Emeritus of Education and Religion at Palm Beach Atlantic University. He has written poetry since the early 1960’s. Jack enjoys creating poems that have a religious/spiritual theme.

The Keepsake


by Kelly Sargent


You kept a rusty, Bugs Bunny tin of marbles in our bedroom
on the shelf you thought I couldn’t reach
because you dreamt they might be worth something,

Someday.

I found one under your bed this morning when I was clearing out Mom’s house
and your side of the room exactly as you had left it.

A cerulean blue glassy cat’s eye stared at me
lifelessly

from the dark corner of the rectangular outline —
darker than the rest of the Brazilian cherry wood floor —
that the sun had never touched.

I reached for it.

Cool — almost chilled — it was, by the absence of life-giving rays.
Smooth it was, in its betraying lack of indentations.
It was weightier than I had expected.

My fingertips caressed it, gently at first;
then, with increasing pressure, earnestly hoping to infuse it with life.
I wanted it to see me,
and be happy to be found.

But it didn’t know that it had been lost,
and could not find joy in the moment.

Like you.
With the blue, glassy stare you gave me when I found you
in your bed
when you were 16.
You didn’t know that one to match lay on the wooden floor beneath you.

I recalled the time that I spilled your collection,
and how the clatter roused you from a lazy Sunday nap.
I froze in place and shivered, anticipating your ire.

You considered me with cerulean compassion,
a golden lock matted against your forehead.
And you laughed silver strands of grace at me.

I never knew the last time I laughed with you
would be the last time I laughed with you,
until it was.

I nestled the marble in my palm
and put it in my pocket.

It was worth something.


Born hard of hearing and adopted in Luxembourg, Kelly Sargent grew up with a deaf twin sister in Europe and the United States. She wrote for a national newspaper for the Deaf, and is also a published artist. Believing that the Deaf and hard of hearing need to be heard as an overlooked subculture, she hopes to make her voice seen as a HOH poet.

An Inadvertent Parable


by Bryan Grafton


The little shepherd boy had lost a sheep and didn’t know where to find him. He sat there on a rock, his staff in his hand, and wept as Jesus approached him.

     “What is the matter my son?” asked Jesus.

     “Oh kind sir I have lost a lamb and don’t know where to find him and if I return home this evening without him my father will beat me to within an inch of my life. I am doomed.”

     Jesus looked at the little shepherd boy who was but ten or eleven and small for his age. Then he looked at his flock of sheep. It was small too. A flock of only six sheep and the loss of one would be a big loss indeed for the boy’s father.  Jesus took pity upon the youth, placed his fatherly hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and said unto him, “You stay here and guard your flock my son. I will go retrieve your lost lamb for you and be back shortly.”

    “Thank you kind sir,” said the youth, wiping away his tears, forcing a smile.

    Jesus walked out into the wilderness and out of sight. He knew where the lamb was and went directly to it. It too was caught between some rocks.  Its right front foot  wedged in a crevice. The lamb upon seeing Jesus let out a weak bleat calling out unto Jesus to come rescue him. Jesus went over to the lamb and freed it. Then he carried it back to the little shepherd boy.

    He handed the lamb to the youth and said, “He was lost but now he is found.”

    “Thank you kind sir,” said the youth, “for you have saved not only me from a beating but  my lamb too from a predator.” The boy set the lamb down and gave it a gentle push in the direction of the flock. The lamb took one step and fell to the ground bleating in pain.

    “Oh no,” wailed the boy, “its leg is broken and now we will have to sell it and it will not bring as much as a healthy lamb. My father will beat me now for sure.”  

    “I can fix him for you,” said Jesus.

    “What are you a magician or something,” snidely questioned the boy.

    “Some say I am,” said Jesus, “and some say I am a miracle worker.”

    In fact Jesus was on his way to the next village to cure a lame man when he happened upon the little shepherd boy.

    Jesus reached in his pocket and took out a small bag. “I have some magic salve here that will cure his injury,” he said to the youth.

     “Sure you do,” said the youth.

     Jesus applied some salve to the lamb’s injured leg.  

    “There,” said Jesus, “give it some time for the magic to work and the lamb will be able to walk as good as new again after a while. I must be on my way now son. I have work to do in the next village.”

     “What is your name  sir?” asked the boy.

     “I am Jesus of Nazareth.”

     “I have heard of you, Jesus of Nazareth. They say that you are a magician. That you can work miracles. I hope you have worked one for me.”

      “I have son,” said Jesus and Jesus left.

      The youth set the lamb down expecting it to walk but it crumpled to the ground again. Then he remembered that Jesus said it took some time for the magic medicine to work. So he gathered up the lamb and clutched it against his chest.  But by doing so the salve that Jesus had applied to the lamb’s leg rubbed off onto the boy’s clothing and thus did not get absorbed into the lamb’s leg.

      It was getting late so the boy carried  the lamb in his arms the whole way home. His father upon seeing him asked him why he was doing so. To which the boy replied, “I am holding it because it ran off and it took me forever to find it and this way that wouldn’t happen again,” said the boy not exactly coming clean with the truth.

     The boy set the lamb down. But instead of it getting up and running away, the lamb fell  down. The father went over to it and set it upright on all four feet. But the lamb fell again. The father did so a second time and this time he gave it a not so gentle kick to get it to move. But the lamb let out a pathetic bleat and crumpled to the ground in a broken heap.

     “Oh great,” said the father, “it’s leg is broken. The lamb will not bring full price. Someone will  buy it to butcher it, not for breeding stock. This is your fault my son. You weren’t paying attention again now were you?”

    The youth hung his head in shame and began to sob.

    “You take this lamb to the market tomorrow and you better  get a fair price for it or you will receive a beating,” growled his father. “You got that?”

    “Yes father,” whimpered the boy.

    The boy left the first thing the following morning with the lamb. The market happened to be in the village where Jesus had worked his miracle the night before making a lame man walk. There in the market Jesus came upon the little shepherd boy offering his lamb for sale.  But before Jesus could say anything to him the little shepherd boy spoke up.

   “Well Jesus your magic almost got me a beating last night and if I don’t get a fair price for this  lamb today, I will get one tonight.”

    Jesus could see  what had happened. He could see that the salve had rubbed off the sheep and onto the boy’s clothing for he saw its greasy brown colored spot on the boy’s chest.

    “This animal is still lame miracle worker. What are you going to do about it? And no no more magic, I’ve had enough of your so-called magic. What I need is money, not magic.”

     Jesus dug into his pocket but there was no money there for Jesus was dependent upon the generosity of others for his support. So he closed his eyes, recited a chant, pulled out his hand, and opened it. There before the boy he presented a fistful of coins. The boy scooped them up before Jesus could say a word.

    “Well,” said the boy after counting the coins, giving Jesus a dirty look. “Well,” he repeated. This being  his not so subtle hint that he was wanted more.

    Jesus reached in his pocket again, took out another piece of silver, and handed it to the boy. The deal was struck and the boy handed Jesus the lamb. The boy had received far more than a healthy lamb would have brought but that was alright with Jesus for he had saved the boy from a beating. Jesus then raised his eyes heavenward, said a prayer, and the lamb was heeled.

    Since Jesus had no use for the lamb he decided he’d give it to  the first shepherd he came upon whom he deemed worthy. But until then he needed to keep the lamb under control. So he reached in his pocket and took out a small rope. He tied it around the lamb’s neck and set the animal down.  But the lamb was a devilish little fellow and quickly slipped the noose, ran off, and disappeared into the crowd.

   The little shepherd boy saw all this and hollered mockingly at Jesus, “So you can cure him for yourself but not for me huh? Deserves you right Jesus the magical miracle worker.”

    Jesus was offended by the boy’s crude remark and said a prayer for the boy.

    Jesus found his lamb in the clutches of a cute little seven year old girl. She was on her knees, her arms around the lamb’s neck, her cheek against the lamb’s cheek, hugging it ever so dearly, so sweetly. The man standing next to her Jesus recognized as the man whose lameness he had cured yesterday.  The man came forward, took Jesus’s hand, and shook it profusely. “Thank you. Thank you ever so much my Lord for curing me for this is the first time in years, thanks to you, that I have been able to walk to the market by myself.”

    “You are more than welcome,” said Jesus staring at the little girl cuddling his lamb.

    “It seems that my daughter has fallen in love with it,” said the man, “but I told her that we must find its owner and return it to him because that is the right thing to do.”

     “The owner has found you,” said Jesus, “for I am the owner.”

     The father went over to his daughter and told her to give the lamb to Jesus. But she refused to do so and clung even tighter to the animal. The father repeated his command and again the little girl refused to give up the lamb. So he forcefully pulled the lamb from her and gave it to Jesus. The little girl began to cry and Jesus, being a softie at heart, could not bear it. He melted. He caved and handed her back the lamb saying, “Here Sweetie you can have it.”

    Immediately the little girl grabbed it, hugged it, and smothered it with kisses.

    “Thank you ever so much,” said the man, “I am in your debt again now my Lord and must make it right with you for all you have done for me and my daughter. Therefore please sup with us this evening as my way of showing you my appreciation, my gratitude.”

    As said Jesus was dependent on the generosity of others for his sustenance and since he knew where the man lived and since he hadn’t eaten today, Jesus accepted his offer. The two men parted company.

     That evening Jesus appeared at the man’s hovel of an abode for the man was quite poor having been restricted in his way of making  a living because of his lameness. The man greeted Jesus and guided him to his dining table. He seated Jesus at the head of the table and himself at his right hand side. Jesus wondered where the man’s daughter was for he did not see her anywhere and he asked the man, “Where is your little girl?”

     “Oh she is in the back crying and won’t come out,” said the man. Jesus wondered why the little girl was crying but when the man’s wife brought out a platter of roast lamb he knew why.

     “We are poor,” said the man, “and the lamb was all we could offer you by way of a feast to thank you for all you have done for us. Don’t worry she’ll get over it. Eat up.”

     “Jesus,” said Jesus to himself. No Jesus wasn’t taking his own name in vain. He was addressing himself as if he was a third person. “Jesus,” he repeated, “what is it with you anyway? “Try to help people and it all goes to hell on you.”

    Thus that was the parable Jesus took with him from his meal that evening. That and a full belly.


The author is a retired attorney who started writing for something to do in his rusting years.

Kayaking at Pictured Rocks


by C. J. Kreit


Paddling along the striated cliffs, the guide tells us
That the rocks were deposited up to a billion years ago,
How each color was formed by layers of minerals.
Iron, manganese, copper, and limonite:
Red, black, blue, and white.

But he cannot explain
Why my breath catches at the sunlight
Capering among the cold, clean waves,
The way it dances along the towering rock face,
Breathing the colors to life
Like scarlet and sapphire skirts twirling
To music played on a weather-worn piano,
Accompanied by the crush of waves
And the squalling of seagulls.

Dwarfed in the shadow of splendor,
I sit in my boat, astonished into silence
As if the hand of God has stilled me.

What is it here for if not to inspire awe?
What are we here for if not to delight in beauty?


C.J. Kreit lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two young sons, but she grew up in Michigan, where she fell in love with the Great Lakes. Along with reading and writing, she enjoys working with horses, hiking, and other outdoor activities.

Moon Madlings


by Dana Miller


Well done, us!
No one ever saw us tumble out of the grandfather clock, one after the other like so many Bacha Posh acrobats, seconds ahead of being conspicuously late to dinner yet again.
We were always conspiratorially chased by a brace of over-friendly rooks,
our palms coated in negligible nectarine,
drowned scone smidgens and squid giggles
falling freely from our peacoat pockets in a techno-pastoral candy-crumb trail like no other.

Pendulum pirates, we were!
Wee nixies of the wry-necked variety,
we danced on the escritoire with our escargot governess and
spent our afternoons playing imperial concertina to the talking apple trees,
blissfully adrift in a world balanced atop a banquet table of overturned canoes
(in which we set up hermitage)
and purple velvet top hats from which we drew no end of magician rabbits, sextets, and spiralized marbles.

Between banana leaves, in balloon sleeves and loudly checked trousers, we took in the beatitudes and other rare wisdoms shared with us by a paradise of best-friend donkeys.
In our butcher’s boy bonnets we brayed right in tune with them, boxing the boxwood hedgerows for their verdant impertinence,
blowing dizzy pinwheels round and round the cricket carousels while
chips of beggar granite that were really square-cut emeralds
emptied from our willow-woven pouches.
All appeared a graceful gambol of divine disgrace. All forgot to forget time.

No one ever had to invent Christmas for us!
Not for us any stale Savile Row suspenders or stealsome Steerforth storm-shanties.
Smacks of jellyfish formed our carpets and Sedgemoor geese (our sentinels and soldiers)
flew in full fleabitten regalia.
Up and up the skinna-ma-rink spiral staircase where it was forever Saturday we skipped,
chimera-cat kites in tow, kerchiefs dutifully askew around eager foreheads,
socks slinking at separate speeds like a rigged race of mismatched inchworms
down coltish legs already bramble-run to blue-black bruises.

Primed to picnic on gingerbread and currant trifle
in our public library of gorse and heather,
we made a sport of counting the gold buttons worn by our mouse footmen
even as we pulled faces in their aurelian reflections.
Off we then pirouetted across the Victorian Goonie planks,
their strigose squeaks a Spirograph symphony we deliberately played
as well or better as ever did Wolfgang his zebra keys,
wicking cockles and cake from our crumpled quartos of Brontës even as we spun.

They say half of nothing is nothing;
to you and me, it was two of everything,
and because of this we more than thrice-doubled the anythings
we still know we could be.
Well done, us.


Dana Miller is a wicked wordsmith, giggling provocateuse, and mega-melomaniac from Atlanta, Georgia. When not wielding a lethal pen, Dana adores surf culture, Australian grunge rockers, muscle cars, Epiphone guitars, glitter, Doc Martens, and medieval-looking draft horses with feathered feet.

Why Look For God?


by Marianne Lyon


Why look for God?
Look for the one looking for God
but then Why look at all?
He is not lost
He is right here – Rumi

I circle dawn lake
stop at brilliant light patch
scented Pinecones drop

From ceiling of trees
blackbirds preen on branches
sagging over tarn

Am drawn to clearing
cannot walk by      breathe deeper
lose urge to go on

Is God right here
He may be      dear Rumi
but still I feel adrift

He gently whispers
look for unmarked path
feel your breathing unravel

Still hear breeze on lake
a song that blackbirds imitate
I walk off matey footpath

Off familiar stretch
silence walks with me
wish I was a bird

A black bird      not lost
cheeping long vowels
trilling      contented


Marianne Lyon has been a music teacher for 43 years. After teaching in Hong Kong she returned to the Napa Valley and has been published in various literary magazines and reviews. Nominated for the Pushcart Award 2016. She has spent time teaching in Nicaragua. She is a member of the California Writers Club, Solstice Writers in St. Helena California. She is an Adjunct Professor at Touro University Vallejo California. She was awarded the Napa Country Poet Laureate 2021 title.

Going, Going…
An Essay on Pending Grief

1 Comment


by Terah Van Dusen


Grandma Peggy is a ticking bomb. I can’t predict when she’ll stop. Stop ticking. I know only that she will. I know only that I will be there. If not physically, then spiritually, somehow. I know only that my mother, her daughter—Moonbeam—will be somewhere near Lake Erie when it happens.

I wash dishes by hand, swiveling a sponge inside a mason jar, trying to get at some milk gunk with a scratchy green corner. Will it be a sunny day, a slow day, a work day? Will it be morning or midnight when she goes? Will my daughter, Autumn, be with me when I get the call? Will we be in Tucson, with Grandma Peggy? Or here, on the farm?

I’ve been preparing for months, maybe years, for the inevitable. What is happening is that I am losing a parent.

In a corner of my mind, I gently suggest to the Universe that it arrange that she go out at midnight, in her sleep. That she would not know what happened in the slightest—not at all. That she would just wake up with the mermaids, the selkies, and the centaurs of her very own artwork. Of her creations: this artist. I gently ask the Universe to conjure up her wildest imagination to slip into, peacefully…a splatter-painted afterlife, smelling of acrylic and oil and blank canvas, waiting to be filled.

We’ve discussed where the paintings will go: With me, into climate-controlled storage. Though we don’t say it out loud, we hope the family will scuffle some over possession of her paintings and clay sculptures.

Grandma Peggy’s claim-to-fame is that Dennis Hopper of Easy Rider bought a painting of hers during an exhibit at the Fort Worth Art Center in the 1960s. The painting, she said, was of a field mouse sitting on a fence looking out over the horizon.

“It was a far out painting, and he was a far out actor,” she told me.

We’ve discussed other details, too, other than storage. Like if she wants to be cremated, or buried.

“If I still look good,” she said, pulling a cream kimono with red detailing out of the closet. “Dress me in this.”

I pictured her laying there, arms faintly crossed, large, droopy kimono sleeves. Would they tuck into the casket right? The sleeves? Here she had her arms splayed out into the air, as if she were ready to take flight. The sleeves look great, in this setting.

“That’s nice,” I’d replied, of the kimono. I was trying to play it cool. Act like planning for a death was the most natural thing.

Except that it wasn’t. 

Too much. Too soon.

I shuffled, barefoot, as she placed the kimono back in the closet, steadying herself with one hand on her walker.

I sat down awkwardly at the foot of her bed, then stood up. I was watching my toddler pull silk scarves from a basket on the floor.

A few years ago, the roles were reversed. I used to rely on her. Now we were trying to have her rely on me. Worst of all, there is no one I can talk to about all of this because the person who would do that for me is her.

I don’t really resent my mother. I believe we are all doing the best we can, with what we have, inside, outside, and so on. I also am feeling that being Grandma Peggy’s single support person—a medical and financial Power of Attorney (are you her POA? a doctor recently barked), is a humbling, isolating journey, even from a distance. Me in Oregon, her in Tucson.

It is especially humbling trying to navigate a move for her in pandemic times. Now that we’re vaccinated, we are pursuing it again. She should be near us, in her place of origin.

Her current live-in help is a lovely band of care. Three Filipino women: Ruthie, Tina and Clarice.

They paint her nails and cook and I feel like the Power of Nothing. But I am grateful, so grateful, for them.

I wonder if when Grandma Peggy goes, or if she falls and needs to go to the hospital again, or if she eats too many pot edibles again, just trying to curb the pain in her spine…

I wonder if Ruthie, Tina or Clarice will text me or call me this time. I wonder what they will say to this near stranger.

I imagine three words: I’m. So. Sorry.

I cannot predict if the day will be rainy, sunny, September, or June. I just know that the simplest pleasures—my morning cup of coffee, for instance—just won’t taste right or go down right, for a very long time.

I wonder if I will scream or stay quiet.

But most of all, I will wonder what was going through hermind in those precious moments stone-stepping toward her departure from this lively, colorful, dimension that I know she loves so much.  I hope it feels as if there’s a paintbrush in her hand, steady, not shaking. And that she feels she is poised, as always, to paint something extraordinary.


Terah Van Dusen is a poet and essayist near Eugene, Oregon. She writes, and takes photographs, for a local newspaper. Her body-of-work is composed of autobiographical essays, poetry and prose. She aspires to publish a memoir about her upbringing off-the-grid in Northern California. You can read her work at www.terahvandusen.wordpress.com.

Hope Remains

April 24, 2021                             Volume 6: Issue 1


by Karen Lynn Woo

During the 2020 presidential campaigns, former president Donald Trump continued to promote his slogan “Make America Great Again,” while President Joe Biden promoted the slogan, “Build Back Better.” Both slogans pointed to how the actions/plans of the presidential candidates might restore the country to the number one place America once held among the nations of the world. Yet I remember reading a story many years ago about a man who came to the United States from, I believe, China to study the American way of life in order to discover what made America the great nation it was. After 3 years he was asked if he had reached a conclusion, to which he responded in the affirmative. His conclusion was that what had made America a great nation was its strong moral compass. Sadly, even then he said he could see it disintegrating.

Looking back over the years, it is clear the man was right. With the decline of the Church has also come the decline of our moral compass, as well as the decline of our nation. Yet comparatively few seem to have noticed this correlation. Belief in God is considered at best a crutch and at worst foolishness to today’s young people.  Not surprising since this is what was taught to them by those considered wise and discerning at a time when churches were turning inward and preaching to themselves or morphing into peace and justice organizations. The question is, from whence do we get our moral compass if not from the God who commands us not to dishonor our elders, not to lie, not to steal, not to kill others, not to commit adultery or even pursue someone else’s spouse or possessions? Certainly not from those who wield their political power, knowledge of science/technology, wealth, physical or military strength, fame, etc. to force others into thinking it is okay that:

  • Violence is used to demonstrate they are right and you are wrong, or to kill others on the basis of race or skin color.
  • Abortion has led to the death of millions of children who have been murdered both inside and outside the womb.
  • Political leaders have lied, cheated, stolen, and/or otherwise forced America to do their bidding “for the greater good.”
  • Hundreds of thousands of Americans have died and continue to die of Covid 19, many of them dying alone.
  • Hundreds of thousands of migrants stand waiting outside America’s southern border or are on their way to do so; and tens of thousands have already entered the nation despite the fact that hundreds of thousands of Americans have no job, no food, and/or no home.
  • A historic mental health crisis has risen across the generations, most notably in our young people.
  • Social media bullying has risen across the generations, from elementary school children to members of Congress.
  • There is increased mistrust, racism, hatred, and division in our country.

No longer do we hear the paraphrase of Beatrice Hall, “I disagree with what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Instead, what we hear and see across our nation is this: “I disagree with what you say and am willing to kill you for saying it.” AND, there are people who are willing to bail them out of jail if they do so.

“Yet hope remains while the Company is true.” The Company, of which elven queen Galadriel spoke in J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings, was a small company of diverse beings whose mission it was to save the world from one who would be its ruler . . . its god . . . similar to those named above whose goal it is to rule America by obliterating the voices of those whose opinions differ from their own . . . by obliterating those whose skin color differs from their own . . . by obliterating those whose “god” is different from their own.

“Yet hope remains” for, like “the Company”, there are churches across the nation and around the world made up of diverse individuals whose mission it is to save the world . . . to love others as they love themselves; sharing the love and hope of Jesus Christ with the unloved and those who are without hope, and working to join together those who “the wise” are tearing apart in an effort to help heal our broken world. Mother Teresa, who left the Loreto convent in Ireland to devote herself in caring for the sick and poor in Calcutta once said, “I want you to be concerned about your next-door neighbor. Do you know your next-door neighbor?” When asked how she was able to help so many people she called a child to her and hugged them. Then did the same with another, and another, and another. “One child at a time,” she replied. She demonstrated Christ’s love to the poorest of the poor, giving hope to the hopeless each and every day for decades, never seeing anyone as being less than herself because of their status, wealth, race, age, or anything else by which we, in America, judge others. To her, they were all God’s children deserving of His love . . . deserving of her love.

On Sunday, April 4th, people across the nation will spend the day with family/friends hunting for Easter eggs and eating baskets of chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, Peeps, and more. But the real celebration will be found in those churches where God’s people are gathered to rejoice in their Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ; whose death and resurrection have provided the path to eternal life . . . heaven . . . not through the good works of human beings but through His undeserved gift of grace.

The wise would have you believe this is foolishness. No surprise there. 1 Corinthians 1:18, 25 says, “the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” and “the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.” If it is foolish to follow a God who commands us to love others as we love ourselves by feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, taking care of the sick, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, visiting those in prison, and teaching others everything we know about God, His love and His saving grace then be a fool for Jesus. Better to appear foolish to those who deem themselves wise than to appear wise to those who God deems to be fools!

If America is ever to become truly great again, its moral compass will have to be re-established by those the wise call foolish. The question is, as the wise seek to “cancel” the foolish, will the foolish be around long enough to make that happen or will America go the route of other once great nations, destroyed by the foolishness of those who deemed themselves wise?


Karen Lynn Woo is a regular contributor to Purpled Nail and a pastor in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)

Unto Us A Son Is Given

by Wm. Walters


And this too, we know, is a gift come from God—
A glimpse of the gladness of mind in creation,
A glint off the shells on the shore where we play.
We’ll revel in this—and all truths revealed to us.
Love works a wonder once more in our lives;
His name will be Isaac, and we’ll laugh with God.


Wm. Walters is a professor of English and linguistics at Rock Valley College, in Rockford, IL (US). His grandson Isaac is now six years old, and–true to the prophecy of the poem and the meaning of his name–the boy has a knack for making everyone laugh.

Two Squirrels

by Jennifer Novotney


Two nimble squirrels
scamper through the park.

Like acrobats they dash
across the picnic tables and grass.

dancing toward the seeds of life
scattered across the walkaway

stuffing their cheeks full of next season’s hope
soothsayers who bury the future.

Their little, curved tails electrified
flicking back and forth in rhythmic beats

holding precious kernels
between their delicate forepaws

like two prophets exchanging
their gentle prayers for spring.


Jennifer Novotney holds an M.A. in English from Northern Arizona University. She won a 2014 Moonbeam Children’s Book Award for her debut novel, Winter in the Soul. She grew up in Los Angeles, California and lives in North East Pennsylvania with her family where she teaches English and creative writing.

Phone Call

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by Rebecca Villineau


When she died
She came right through the phone
Her voice
Static
A storm
Thickening
Leaves flipping their palms
The wind picking
Up by the sill
I like to believe
She sent a message
In Life, we held silence like bricks
Sometimes
The phone rings
And I’m reminded of
Marigolds
Instant coffee
And my mother calling
Then hanging up


Rebecca Villineau writes and works in the South Coast of Massachusetts. She works full time as social worker in a local hospital. Her writing is inspired by the ghosts that keep entering her poetry.

Meditation on Mark 1:13

by Paulette Callen


“…and He was with the wild beasts…”

He went into the wilderness to fast and pray. After forty days and nights they came as He knew they would and hoped they would not: fears, doubts, desires, despair. His humanness raged within Him. He cried for humanity and for Himself. He fought a human battle with only human weapons.

Ragged and weary, in unproud triumph, He lies in sand, awash in wind and sun, asleep. They come, one by one, and gather, silent as Quakers and just as full: the beasts.

No angel, Jew, or Gentile, but the lion stands in ageing majesty, against the sun — a cool shadow for His rest. Pariah dogs, lupine, devoted, he on one side, she on the other,         lick His face clean of tears and sweat, awakening Him to wolfy grins. The lizard, kaleidoscoping green and brown and rose, scuttles into the shelter of His sleeve, while the locust, God’s soldier, flutters to His knee to rest, all pink and glowing      in the sunset.  The vulture with feathers tucked modestly beneath her like a taffeta skirt, sits, a gleaming black matron, beside the school-girl dove who has followed Him and watched over Him since His cousin’s watery blessing.  The snake, pretty and sleek, coils humbly, contentedly, at His feet, shining like a jewel in the light of the rising moon. The ram, escaped from the safety and bloody end of the flock — gone wild, gone free — stands serene, blinking in the twilight. A desert rat, soft and brown, climbs into His lap, puts tiny feet up on His chest to examine Him, close, with earnest dark eyes and snuffling nostrils. Satisfied all is well with Him now, she scurries away on a private mission. The jackal, shying among the shadows, He calls into the circle.

Who knows the mind of a beast or the mind of God?  Who can tell what flows between?

The lion weeps as He strokes his shagged and scary face. Gripping the grizzled mane, He rises, and they lead Him to water. The rat erupts from a tiny dune with figs for His nourishment from a personal trove. Refreshed, He plays with them.  The dogs, wiggling, eager for games, play tag with Him.  The ram joins in.  The vulture and the dove, silhouetted against the moon, dance and dive to His applause, as the lizard somersaults in miraculous circles between earth and sky. The locust clings to His shoulder, informally keeping score. And the snake, rising in her delicate spiral, sways in soundless harmony to the rhythm of their play. The jackal chuckles, sprawled like a pup on the sand, belly up, feet akimbo, giving in to the joys of the romp. Even the lion remembers some kittenish glee in a mock wrestle with this gentle man.

I thought I heard an echo of something said at a place in the desert a long time ago, where a man went to find Himself and finally, breaking His solitude before His fast, sought the company of animals.  Why He did this is not so hard to fathom. Why does anyone seek the company of animals? For refreshment and companionship. Perhaps this man had deeper reasons.

The echo I hear is this: 

No more scapegoats, my friends. No more sacrifices. No more blood of the lamb on the altar stone. No more dead pigeons. No more an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. I AM the eye. I AM the tooth. Humans are a blood-loving race. (The earth has never cried for blood, nor the heavens either.) Their hunger and thirst for flesh and blood shall be sated. I AM become you. And this is the beginning of the end.

And so, the lion wept.

They came, across miles, some of them, and formed a gathering: the lion, the ram, the jackal, and the locust, the lizard, pariah dogs, the snake, the vulture, the dove (she had never left Him), and the small brown rat….. they were there, on the misty heels of the angel who rolled away the stone, before the Marys, to greet Him in quiet, doubt-less welcome, when He walked out of the tomb.


Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the space she returned to has been made home by a dog.