Hey Alexa

“Do you want to say your prayer

before I start the sleepcast?”

I asked my daughter.

“Sure,” she said.

“Hey Alexa…”

Quickly recovering,

she tried again.

“Dear Heavenly Father…”

and on she went

but not before my mind

had taken a tangent

which led to a

post-apocalyptic tribal wasteland:

She is the widowed matron

of a small clan -

children, grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, orphans -

flitting between fleeting senses of safety.

At night, she gathers the young

while the strong stand guard

and tells stories of

lessons from Sunday school

mixed with memories of home.

Both

a creative and loving God

and an electronic communicative algorithm

are equally far fetched

to my grubby great-grandchildren.

“Will they believe

in either

or both?”

I wonder,

trying to recall

when I was 9

if I had folded my arms at church

and recited the pledge of allegiance

or if I had stood in front of the flag at school

and started, “Dear Heavenly Father.”

I’ll have to tell her that story

the day after tomorrow.

Who is driving at 2:34 in the morning?

Who is driving at 2:34 in the morning?

One suspects participants

in some unsavory activities. 

As for myself

“unsavory” suits the circumstance:

An inconsolable three-year-old

non-stop screaming while tent camping 

moved me to drive home at this unholy hour.

Not wanting to permanently wake my temporary neighbors

by tipping the first domino of the toddler alarm,

I whisked the screamer

through the downpour 

barefoot on gravel

into the arms of the carseat,

a device of previously insuperable soporific powers.

Alas, the straps and pads

and even the lulling rockabye of country road driving in the rain

all failed,

so I am left behind the wheel

wondering between screams

if my fellow travelers are steady insomniacs

(or one-night-standers like me)

or if they are demoniacs

(like my son). 

Who is being possessed at this hour 

to eschew beds for belts,

feather pillows for foam headrests?

Those bewitched by

Wanderlust?

White Castle cravings?

A sleep-hating child?

Whoever we are,

maybe not today,

and maybe not tomorrow

but at some point

yesterday

we were the ones

driving our parents

at 2:34 in the morning

crying:

I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes.

But for now,

this rain’s gonna wash a way

for us to snuggle a few hours

in my bed

before he wakes up and asks,

“Where’s tent?”

with an incredulous look on his face.

I can’t  believe it. 

#VirginiaIsForLovers

 

Only this state flag

includes, let alone features,

death - by sword and spear.

Only this state seal

threatens, in no unclear terms, 

death - and conquered crowns.

We rally around

not e pluribus unum1,

ad astra per aspera2,

qui transtulit sustinet3,

excelsior4, dirigo5,

montani semper liberi6,

si quaeris peninsulam amoenam - circumspice7,

or esto perpetua8,

but Death - to Tyrants9.

#VAisforlovers

1: out of many, one (North Dakota)

2: to the stars through difficulties (Kansas)

3: he who transplanted still sustains (Connecticut)

4: ever upward (New York)

5: I direct (Maine)

6: mountaineers are always free (West Virginia)

7: if you seek a pleasant peninsula look around (Michigan)

8: let it be perpetual (Idaho)
9: sic semper tyrannis (Virginia)

Plebeian Extravagance

For our 14th anniversary,

we ate 

at a swanky restaurant.

Though we were dressed up,

it was hard to disguise our rusting 

2007 Chrysler Town & Country

between the Mercedes and Wagoneers.

Sitting al fresco,

pretending not to know our minivan,

I thought of my grandpa

when I saw

rainbow trout

on the menu.

I mentioned my memories

of him fishing for such

to my wife,

and she wagered she knew

people who worked at the facility

that supplied the duck -

not paper pushers or upper management: 

pluckers.

Shout out to Maple Leaf Farms,

Kosciusko County, Indiana.

After ordering an appetizer

of tomato, mozzarella, and basil

as well as duck for her,

I requested the trout,

in honor of my grandpa,

wondering if he would be

impressed or embarrassed

at my $28 fish

compared to what he caught

and gutted and cooked and ate

for almost nothing

but time

in the mountains

and the kitchen

with family.

The strangers in the next table

ordered the $260 bottle of wine

I couldn’t pronounce.

I squeezed a second lemon wedge

into my refilled glass of water.

The single thickly cut tomato,

slabs of soft mozzarella,

and sprig of basil

nestled in seasoned olive oil

was composed mostly

of food he grew in his garden,

as were the beans,

roasted potatoes,

and half of an acorn squash

which accompanied my trout,

relieved of its innards and bones

but not its head,

its unblinking eye peering knowingly past my button-up.

It was the simplicity that struck me

but also the quality,

as if it had come from

my grandpa’s garden and pole.

“This chocolate cake is

almost like my mom’s

microwave brownie pudding,”

she interjected,

“but the ice cream definitely doesn’t touch 

what my dad makes for birthdays.”

I concurred

as I wondered

at the $109 bill,

excluding tip for waiter and valet parker,

who, to his credit,

kept a straight face

as “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” played

from our tape deck.

The cost of temporarily

experiencing a taste of the state

of simplicity, it appears,

is high.

Higher than the cost of living it?

Thank goodness we had a gift card. 

A New Sacrifice

Anymore,

not a literal lamb but a figurative sheep;

instead of unbroken bones, a broken heart;

in the place of a firstling of our flock - 

all 

of our 

heart, 

might, 

mind, 

and 

strength;

rather than unblemished skin, a flawed & contrite spirit;

giving up not the first and best but all of our worst;

sacrificing ourselves 

- not just a symbol of Him -

until we become One, too. 

 

There is Nothing Poetic

There is nothing poetic

about waiting until the kids are in bed

to replace a toilet’s wax ring.

The caulk I applied

a month ago

(after replacing the last wax ring)

is deteriorating

and has me worried that I did something wrong.

There is something comforting

about learning I actually had

installed the former wax ring correctly

but also frustrating

that I am redoing it.

There is something confusing

about thinking I knew why the caulk was cracking

only to realize the root problem

must be otherwise than I thought.

Thank goodness for my father & father-in-law

whom I can call for suggestions.

After yet another trip to the hardware store,

I hope I can resolve the problem

tomorrow.

I hope also that I can have 

something useful to say

when my son

or son-in-law

calls me

years from now,

10:30 at night 

mid-project.

That might be poetic.

 

Mike at the DC Temple Open House

There's a toddler who's sure

all the elevators are gold,

and if you start to walk him up the

stairway to heaven,

he'll ask to push the buttons.

When you explain

it's for the elderly in wheelchairs,

he'll ask you to carry him.

As you carry him 

past the baptistry 

then up the east spire's spiral steps,

dipping your head down to see the reflecting pool below,

he'll ask to go swimming.

Thinking of water will remind him,

upon arriving at each floor,

that he's thirsty;

he'll probably request to drink from the golden water fountain

and ask you to push the button.

Then,

it will be his turn to push buttons.

As he squirms and twists

and talks altogether too loudly near the altars,

you'll tense

and it'll make you wonder,

ooh, it'll really make you wonder,

about Abraham and Isaac.

There's a panicked feeling you'll get

when you look to the west

and see he is striving for leaving,

springing past the stanchions

spurning the signage against such actions,

stopping only when you snatch him.

Being ensnared in your arms again

won't make him happy,

but when he looks into the facing mirrors

in the celestial room,

he might notice his image goes on forever,

which means he'll be

quiet

just long enough to look up and ask

"What's that?"

and repeat "chandewier" slowly.

Then,

he'll be off again. 

Your head will know what it feels like

to sleep on a rock and not to roll off 

as you juke betwixt the multitudes

ascending and descending 

as he takes to this ladder himself.

When he finally reaches the bottom,

he'll probably be tired,

which means he'll be in your arms again

despite the ache in your back.

As he snuggles on your shoulder,

your emotions will drop 

a few tiers 

reflecting at the thought

of forever.

And as he winds on down the hall,

no shadows falling from his soul,

there walks a Man whom you will know;

He shines white lights and wants to show

you

how all inside 

him 

can turn to gold.

And chances are,

once you’re back in the foyer,

he’ll ask to push the buttons 

to the golden elevator

and play stairway to heaven

again.

DC Temple Pic: https://newsroom.churchofjesuschrist.org/article/washington-dc-temple-open-house

Check out the Richmond, VA, Temple Open House: https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/featured/richmond-virginia-open-house