Wednesday, June 26, 2013

How To Do It


How To Do It


Lift up the seat as well as the lid; don't flush twice.
Hold the plunger upright; press down forcefully.

Whisk with swift, short strokes; keep shells out.
Rest if you must; this will take some time.

Do the floor first; keep bristles flat
to the surface. There is no need to hurry.

Wipe with the diaper; use one hand
to get the new one ready. Hold baby with other hand.

Loosen each lug nut a little; set parking brake.
Don't stand on the wrench unless you want to fall.

The stock should be warm but not scalding; hot stock kills
the yeast. Knead thoughtfully without sweating.

Listen all the way through her thoughts; speak evenly.
Measure your words against her face; silence can be okay.

Experience is a thorough teacher, but a cruel one.
Advice might forestall disasters of ignorance.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Footwashing


Footwashing

(Jesus) wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him. – The Gospel of John 13.5-6


The lawsuit was the last thing Larry wanted,
but his lawyer said he had no choice.
Larry trusts his lawyer, knows that suing people is
just another tool, not evil. But never before
has he had to sue a fellow member of the church. His church.
The congregation that celebrated his children’s births
and stood with him and his wife as the kids grew through
adolescent prank stunts and bad first marriages.
Larry is suing Herb, an old church stalwart, and
Sunday school was strained for a few weeks afterwards.
“It’s only business,” Larry tells Herb, pouring oil on troubled waters.
Herb is a good guy, his grandfather was a bishop,
but he is new to the world of contracts, negotiations,
and fungible loyalties. He knows the Bible,
that Paul warned the Corinthians that lawsuits were a sign
of defeat, that it’s better to be cheated than to go to law.1
Herb doesn’t want to be cheated or to cheat anyone,
let alone Larry, his friend and brother.
Larry knows the Bible, too, but says that Jesus never had to make a payroll.
He says it lightheartedly but means it, believes
that Jesus might have said some things differently if he
were here in an era of hypercompetitive business.
Soon it is Maundy Thursday, time for footwashing and communion,
and the resolution of the suit is so far in the distance that it looks like
a pinpoint on a Northern Plains highway. Herb ends up seated
next to Larry on children’s Sunday school room chairs,
cradling his feet in the room where half the men
are seated with shoes and socks off and pants rolled up, the other half
kneeling with not a little difficulty to wash their brothers’ feet.
Once Larry has rinsed Herb’s feet, they embrace and, since they
are each of a certain age, don’t even hesitate to exchange a holy kiss,
as Paul directs so often. Both weep. The lawsuit won’t stop,
for more than brotherhood rides along with these crying barefoot men.
Yet something bigger is here, cloaked in a strange little ceremony.
What the lawsuit can’t bring, reconciliation in pain, forgiveness
in the middle of brokenness, happens now.


11 Corinthians 6.1-6

Sunday, February 24, 2013

"Who died and left you in charge?"


Another memory of mom, Patricia Frances McMichael Yeakey Stiver.  


 

“Who Died and Left You in Charge?”

“Who died and left you in charge?”
was an impolitic way my mother had
of establishing her interlocutor’s
status relative to her own, and it was
never delivered in a motherly voice,
not even close, but with needles of
exact diction that poked in the most
hurtful way – for her, because she said it
out of hurt, a sense of being perpetually
wronged by the life she had been given,
and it did hurt her, not us, her kids,
at whom she aimed it most often. 


24 February 2013

Throwing rocks at the train


I promise that I'll stop mining this vein pretty soon, honest I will, but there's just a lot more there.  I wrote this in part as an assignment for my advanced poetry class online.  


Throwing rocks at the train


Grandpa McMichael is a railroad cop who goes to train wrecks,
gives dollar bills and cigars to hoboes, and makes sure people
don’t steal stuff from boxcars.
He’s taught me that throwing rocks at trains is wrong.
You could damage cars being carried from Detroit, hit a brakeman
standing in a boxcar, or kill a bum just trying to get away to a new life. 
But today, I am alone on my way home from school.  (I spend
a lot of time alone since my dad left home last year.) 
I guess I’m easily tempted, because when I think no one’s looking,
I chuck a chunk of railway rock at a boxcar. 
I can’t believe how loud it is, but
the only witness is the railroad crossing bell.
When I get home, though, Mom simply says,
“The principal called after he saw you throw a rock at the train. 
Your grandfather is on his way over.”
And I know I’m about to die.

Soon, Grandpa is climbing out of his car, still in uniform,
with that huge .38 revolver on his hip.
I’m ready to go to jail, to be stood
against a wall and shot, but instead
he sits down on the whitewashed rock and stands me,
wobbly on my shaking legs, in front of him,
so he can talk to me.
He doesn’t put handcuffs on me. 
He doesn’t even yell, but I do cry,
maybe out of relief that I’m not going to jail,
but beyond that, I don’t know and won’t
until later when I realize that Grandpa
was being a dad to me. 




20 January 2013