Why do we search high and low,
Only to find nothing?
Why do we travel far and wide
Only to get lost?
Why do we gift and give
Only to be used and stolen from?
Why do we give our bodies willingly
Only to feel shame right after?
Why do we lie to avoid getting in trouble
Only to be punsished worse?
Why do we long for something new
Only to miss that which was old?
Why do we clean ourselves off
Only to get ***** again?
Why do we do anything
Only to know its all for naught?

Let me ask you this then.

Why does a God search high and low
For someone who isn't looking for Him?
Why does a God travel far and wide
To find someone who is lost
Why does a God gift and give
To those who only ask and take?
Why does a God uncover the faces
Of those who feel the most shame?
Why does a God sit with those who lie
Knowing full well they are lying to His face?
Why does a God grow jealous
When we pursue something new?
Why does a God sacrifice His son
To wash us clean of our sin?

Why?
After all we do...
Why?
Love is the reason why.

Chest heaving, eyes weeping,
The tomb blurs before my eyes.
How is everyone else still sleeping
When my Savior doesn’t arise?

Oh, how the doubt roars within me,
His words now seem to me as His rotting flesh,
“I will rise on day three,”
But his body is now stolen, unless…

Dirt clenching onto my dress,
I fling the tears from my eyes,
Trying to decide if… Yes!
There are people by his graveside.

Angels they must be, all in white,
And before I can confirm their existence, they speak:
“Woman, why are you weeping at this sight?”
My anger flares as I try to control my speech.

“Because my Lord has been taken away,
And I don’t know where his body is.”
I attempt to keep my temper at bay,
Turning away to abate my boiling fears.

Then I see the gardener, and a flash of brilliance
Or desperation rises in me, which one I don’t know,
But as I open my mouth to ask about my Lord’s disappearance,
He speaks: “Why are you weeping woman, why such sorrow?”

Again the same question, yet I cannot form
An adequate response; how can one describe
The loss of Him who can calm the storm,
But now has left my world in turmoil at his sacrifice?

My anger reaches the heavens now,
And in irritation I retort, “If you have taken Him away,
Tell me where He is, and I will take him from thou.”
Chest heaving, eyes weeping, I glance away.

But then I hear my name, soft and sweet but firm,
Two syllables, a clear “Mary!”
And I turn
And my unbridled joy at seeing him turns into “Rabboni!”

I ponder for a second what it’s like to feel
Sadness, for in that split second, it’s gone,
It’s been replaced by rejoicing and zeal,
And I resist the urge to leap with the dawn.

How could I have ever doubted?
Of course His words are true,
It’s a reality that must be shouted,
Yet all I can do is stare at him now that he’s in my view.

“Do not cling to me,” he says earnestly
“For I still must ascend to my Father,
And please tell our friends this, for certainly
I ascend to My God and your God, My Father and your Father.”

It was good he said this, for I had forgotten
In my excitement to see my Savior; I’m sure
His disciples must have wondered whether their Lord had rotted:
“I’m leaving right now, my Savior!”

Sandals rubbing into callouses, lungs heaving,
I ran back to town, through the streets that
Once knew me in despair, grieving,
Hardly stopping, for I had no time to chat.

My Savior has risen, he is alive and well,
He has saved us lost sheep who have gone astray,
And although He no longer on Earth will dwell,
He will never allow us to fully decay.

I’m sure when you die he will call your name too,
With a voice soft and sweet but firm and so true,
And you will go be with Him and He’ll make you brand-new,
And we’ll all live forever from our own Easter morning, too.

let’s live our lives
barefoot

let’s live our lives like
small children,
children so precious that their simple presence
evokes tears in the eyes of the most
stoic father,
so precious that the image of them
snoring softly in their Thomas the Tank Engine bed
causes the stressed mother to smile a mile,
so precious that when one of them
pushes back the blonde, wispy hair of the other
the photographer can’t help but laughing as she
captures the moment

let’s live our lives like
children who are not afraid of nails and rocks
in the backyard, but who are
obsessed with finding that elusive
white grasshopper that their uncle
promised was there,
like children who endure countless foot baths every day
in the heat of summer but the pads still blister
and their feet still turn brown
but they don’t care,
like children who have just smelled a flower
for the first time, who have experienced the
sharp pain of a first bee sting,
like children who are in awe as a deer
peeks quizzically at them from above the bush,
tail twitching, eyes twinkling

let’s live our lives like
children who make up odd games that
they remember years later, a complicated one that involves
Patty Cake, jump rope, tag, and somehow
hop scotch and charades as well,
like children who wander away from their house
for many hours, exploring like Columbus,
drawing detailed maps of their small neighborhood,
beautiful crayon stick figures dotting the horizon,
like children who capture and dote on an assortment of
toads, grasshoppers, frogs, moths, and butterflies,
like a child who thinks the worst sin is to
**** an animal that the Lord has made

let’s live our lives like children, with a
loving and unwavering faith in the Savior,
with eyes unaltered by the
whips and thorns of life,
with minds unchanged by the
Judas Iscariot’s of this Earth

let’s live our lives like
small children

let’s live our lives
barefoot

Enigma
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light
and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night,
or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior.

Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?

Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love,
this—our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly
though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up
though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms;
you must soon be waking.

Published by mojo risin’ magazine and in the poetry collection O, Terrible Angel. Keywords/Tags: Enigma, human, angel, paradox, light, dark, alien, savior, faith, passion, pilgrim, child

I don't know where to start
I thought I was done
Being distant, pushing down my feelings
Till they're non-existent

But they're never truly gone, are they?
They're always there, waiting to pounce
For the second when my guard is down
To drain my joy, every ounce

"Take me away from reality, please," I beg
But it turns out reality is just what I need

The further I draw away from my emotions
The louder my heart cries out for forgiveness
For a taste of what's real
A taste of holiness

I'm so sick of feeling
Like my problems are small
For I tell myself it's selfish
To get weighed down by them all

And maybe that's true, and I'm partially right
But it doesn't change the fact that because of it
My days aren't as bright
And my burden's no more light

This mess of confusing feelings
It's all I can do not to scream
To stamp my feet in frustration
Like a child learning what "no" means

This feeling of fulfillment
Yet dissatisfaction
A fear of tomorrow
Yet knowing tomorrow will be just a fraction

Of this life that I must bear
All deserve more from me
Yet no one deserves anything
And certainly not the mercy we all share

"God, why do you love me?" I constantly ask
"For there is nothing desirable in me to grasp."
"Because child, I made you," You say with a smile
"You're my daughter, my friend, though your thoughts may run wild.

I made you to be like this
Although it is painful
For life is a battle
You're among demons and angels

Little do you know, child, of the war going on
For you've only seen a fraction of his army of pawns
There are shadows around you, some of dark and some of light
And you simply wouldn't be able to bear the sight

I've protected your soul from the darkness outside
You're embraced in my arms, it's the place you reside
And although you may face challenge black as the night
Just think of my love, the things I have not allowed in your life

For my hand is upon you, guarding your heart
Your mind is my own, it has been from the start
And though you'll have to face them and go out once more
And though you may come back from the battle sore

You will learn, my daughter, that this is not disaster
It is not permanent turmoil, for it's your heart that I'm after
So do not worry about the day or the night
For where you go I will go, to be a shield and a light."

the annual gift-giving hectivities
in advent time
       when we are

            supposedly

      expecting the birth of our savior
defy traditional ideas
    of quiet meditation
drowning the sense of wonder
with relentless jingles for super discount sales
of things neither we
        nor anybody else
        really needs
even though they suggest we
        and whoever we give those goodies to
would be beyond  the moon

somehow
      Christ
       in spite of all this
gets born