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being written, edited, please return
Yesterday, I trod through the snow, off the beaten path, and gazed upon the river. This would be a private place to rest the body and soul. Standing a while, I decided to sit. Snow was everywhere, covering everything around, above, below. I saw a huge boulder, with a good view, and with hands carved out a seat. Sitting there, I enjoyed the view, the silence, the quiet, the sense of peace and joy filling the body. Traffic flowed on the other side of the flowing river, thought moved through the mind like the current not disturbing the solace and reverie. The words arose alone with the Alone. Yet, this is not isolation, this is returning Home, and here, no one is excluded; yet, returning Home helps us to live Home. So, leaving the river, the river goes with me, and Home too.
Once upon a time a group of tourists, visiting a beautiful land far from home, got on a bus. They each had looked forward to this scenic ride. For some small reason, one person was offended by another person; an argument began. The argument offended a third person, who started arguing with the man whom the former decided was to blame, and this other, in turn, argued back ~ is this already getting confusing, like arguments do? Now, three were arguing. One person at a time, from the remaining, joined the argument. Finally, all were involved in the verbal jostling. No one recalled what started it. The bus pulled in to stop. The trip was over. The tourists were sad. No one had seen a thing on the trip, so busy were they attacking one another, fussing, trying to prove who was right and who wrong. The beauty was missed.
Last night, lying, resting in bed, after a long time in silence, I reached over for Gibran, Goldberg, and Rumi. I read from each, reading poems of Rumi aloud, soft into the night. The mind received the vivid memory of a first introduction to Rumi. I met a friend in Vidalia, Georgia. He told me of this book he much enjoyed, he highly recommended it, Coleman Bark's The Essential Rumi. He told me it was the poetry of a Rumi, an odd name to my ears, one I had never heard. He was ecstatic about this Rumi. I purchased a copy of this just-published tome. I savored it, and savored it, tasting the passion with the mind and, more, heart. I still do. Some moments, apparently insignificant, are revelations, a gift drops into our waiting hands, we say "Yes," and such moments live forever.
As for Rumi, I would quote him in my Sunday messages, this years after first being introduced to his story and poetry. A lovely young woman, in her early to mid-20s, when in Gainesville, Florida, where I was serving as a pastor, would attend our Sunday worship. When she was present a Sunday, she listened to my reading of a Rumi poem. There, in that moment, she too was captivated by this genius of words, this prophet of the heart. One day, I was told of her death. She was killed riding her bicycle, being hit by a vehicle. Many months later, now serving as pastor in another part of Florida, at a meeting of varied persons from many churches, I came upon her mother sitting in the church cafeteria. She spoke of her daughter, and she, smiling, thanked me for introducing to her daughter Rumi. She said she so much enjoyed the poem that Sunday in the worship gathering, and that day began her journey with his words of love for the Divine also. We never know,
I recall shortly after Coleman Barks book
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