Years of Days

I wrote in an earlier post that we must come to treasure our problems, and then seek to overcome them; it is the problems we choose that will make us great.

The poetry problem for me was that I rarely like poetry.  Yes, it's true.  Not that I am a snob, there are times I do like poetry.  And I certainly appreciate poetry.  But enjoying poetry and appreciating it are two different things.  I guess my taste in entertainment is more lowbrow, while my expectations for literature remain high.  So I always have hopes for some poetry that will entertain.  And why can't it be a movie or an exciting television series?  Why can't it make me cry or laugh or sit on the edge of my seat?

Even what is called good poetry is not often entertaining.  Most people share this feeling, and not many like poetry.  They must have excellent reasons not to like it.  Most poets like to blame the publishing industry, but it is the poets themselves, I believe, who can take the blame.  My first problem: I had to write something different than what I had seen.  If God may have actually called me to be a poet, it was because I am the guy who rarely likes poetry and poetry irritates me and because I would have to push myself in a new direction. 

Away from what is called good poetry by the literati, the professors and career writers who are defing what poetry ought to be.   We are told by  some of these at our universities (some of the only people who seem to read poetry now!) that it must be difficult, interesting, innovative, that poetry has to stretch the uses of language to the outer boundaries of previous usage.  Only a select few readers can derive entertainment from these characteristics: college students forced to read are the market.  It has become an exercise of the pure linguistic intelligence; musical, rhythmmic, kinestheticic intelligence no longer are integrated as in past generations, and aparently social intelligence, the sense of what real people might connect with, has blown away on the wind.

Why doesn't the average American pick up poetry?  It just isn't fun anymore.  I'd like to blame the industry, the publishers, but I can't.  People vote for what they want to read with their wallets, and the average Joe isn't buying.  They buy what is entertaining.  Entertainment, with humor and comedy, sometimes a bit of slapstick, is seen in poetry, but not often.  Something that brings tears, a story of suffering that exposes our true selves and leads to greater wisdom, tragedy, in the artistic sense, is not seen much anymore either.  I had to make something fun and not heavy, something light, with human voices celebrated musically, but nothing dense and over people's heads. 

And an EPIC?  Epic poetry... more problems.  Not just the size of the creation, nor the depth of the world needed to sustain a story, though these were certainly problems; there was the problem of committing years of your life to a work.  The problem of being fun had to be faced: epic poetry is so easy for readers to put down; one can read for a couple of minutes and then easily walk away.  Sure , we can read the Divine Comedy and appreciate it, Paradise Lost, Canterberry Tales, Don Juan, The Fairy Queen, The Golden Gate, but we can walk away.  Why can't we walk away from some novels?  Some stories we just can't put down!  The problem I have tried to solve: how to create an epic poem that is very hard to put down. 

So my focus over the years has gone away from heady insights and more into plot and voice set in strict lyrical forms, more focused on the tale than on other poetic elements. It is a story, and a series of stories.  I have become more interested in grabbing people by the hearts and not letting go than mounting a theological or philosophical soapbox, or painting pretty, insightful pictures.  I didn't want to paint pretty pictures or convey little parables, or show off my command of the language, or re-invent English, or, as many poets seem to want, to make poetry that is difficult and challenging.  There is nothing wrong with these aspirations.  This is what most poetry has become.  My struggle was to create something that roars load and long in a reader's mind, something that brings laughter with wit, and draws tears with its revelations and triumphs.

Epic Poetry has always fascinated me, and I have wondered why not many were trying it anymore.  The latter issue I figured out through years of practice.  It is tough to do.  To write any story is hard, but to set one to verse and create within it a real cosmos of meaning, fate and drama, with moments of laughter and pain that move it along, to make characters real for people, flawed and focused on the Lord, has required the work of years. 

It is sad that most poets seem to value the poem that comes like a lightening flash and desire instant acceptance and gratification for their precious child of an hour's work.  We have to polite: you don't tell people their children are ugly.  Everyone expects musicians to have practiced for years their craft, developed their rhythm and skill, before they will have anyone listen.  To become a concert pianist you have to sit for years at the keys before they even let you on the stage, and not many want to do that.  The motion of music, the mastery of signatures and styles and forms requires daily trial and error and failure and successes, until, after years of days, one plays and captivates hearers.  There are few willing to learn language and its music for years of days.  In poetry, there are few who spend the years of days.  That Dante took his whole life to write The Divine Comedy is inspirational for me: nothing is instant.  I see Dante in my mind's eye spending hours each day, writing, editing, perfecting, and doing this for 50 years.  Practice and patience: and people will be reading him a thousand years from now. 

But Melville spent the last part of his life on his epic poem.  Does anyone know it's name?  He was a great writer.  His poem, set in tetrameter, is a heroic and theological masterpiece with dark characters and an easy, rhythmic grace.  It has become a favorite of mine for his technical depth, his blending of the tight verse frame and a wide vision of the world and the interactions of people.  What is this epic's name?  Isn't this the problem he never solved: he wrote an epic he could love, and that those who wanted to work at it, to work at reading it, might also love.  He did not write something that people had to like, something they would be compelled to love. He wrote Clarel.  I love it.  People don't.

Another problem: you have to risk everything on an epic.  It will either work or not.  You give your whole self for your whole life to the work of love and building.  You pray that something beautiful and memorable will come from the years of days.  And it could fail completely.  But it is like marriage.  If it is going to work we have make it work every day and fill it with love and newness and life every day, and then something comes, and we see, after the years of days, a powerful and holy creation has come to life, has taken a life of its own separate from anything we imagined at the beginning.

I hope to finish something people read for a thousand years. 

Swing Crown

This is the crown of sonnets I wrote for Every Heaven: The Tree of Life.  Patricia Livingston, made a child again, is waiting for a wedding to begin in which she is the flowergirl.   She explores New Eden which strangely resembles the backyard of her childhood home and has discovered that touching things brings back to her images of Heaven as she saw it on earth, experiences of true joy, the memories God keeps.  In this sonnet crown, she touches the tire swing in her backyard.

A crown of sonnets, or corona, is a sequence of sonnets linked together by the repitition of the last line of a preceding sonnet as the first line of the succeeding one.  A sonnet redouble, or heroic crown consists of fourteen sonnets of the above structure, with a last sonnet, the fifteenth composed from all of the first lines linked together.  I've tried to follow this structure, though very loosely.

Swing Crown

I’m glad too ya I got that Adam good

I got it so be quiet look John look

it IS my swing from back before Ma took

it to the dump let’s go let’s go come would

you now before the whole blessed neighborhood

piles on it and it breaks just like it broke

back when us six kids on together shook

the Swing Branch loose and in all likelihood

no no it won’t I won’t let it again

so hurry let’s go John you are too much

you turtle move you are so and and such

a slow-poke just like Ruthie said a pain

o nuts my stupid flowergirl dress’ll stain

Ma said no don’t but I’d just like one touch

* * *

Ma says don’t I know how kids like a touch

keep touchin’ my tools I will tie your hands

Ma threatens weakly turns to her car bends

low where a jack is under it to clutch

and crank until a wheel lifts on this crutch

grabs whirl the wrench at hub spins ping and sends

lug ping nuts yank whirl sends ping turns pretends

Pat’s nose is a lug as Pat wipes smears a smutch

she sees of black on her Ma’s face and pinch

feels steel enclose her nose inside the wrench

you’re my nut O ping five thick stumps

of steel are free and Beth stands up hip-bumps

ba-poom the tire from its old home it jumps

from where its tready life was smooth and a cinch

* * *

from where its steady life was a cinch and smooth

Ma bounces the wreath of black phoom-fully whee

and toom-toom dribbles ha toom new and free

bounce feint then to the hoop NBA sleuth

through watch out Jack Timothy Ruth

who fidget on the driveway tentatively

Ma pushes through bad D I’m open see

and mimes a shot two points yah tell the truth

kiddos Ma says you tell no ifs ands buts

where do the good tires go after their ruts

are run to journey’s end the kids’ mouths grope

no eyes wide um huh you dunno don’t mope

the tire swirls down Ma wipes her cheek and smuts

it wider kids’ll give no answer nope

* * *

IT’S why’d  her riddle get no answer NOPE

Ma chokes way low a crow bar bends to club

a stab of thick screwdriver where the hub

meets black lips pop and hits pop stabs pop

pries loose the rubber face that waits with hope

of an afterlife no one knows but a rope

might point the way and as Ma hits the stub-

end of the driver she nods to un-dub

her Patti-cakes you know don’t be a dope

and gazes up grins lovingly up at

her ancient cherry where the answer looms

hung over a backyard tires find their homes

the tree she loves though far too high and fat

loves though the town might hate the flock that comes

to live off it and damns the air with prate

* * *

it gives life to those damned foul birds who prattle

in it but God knows how such big trees need

more than the feathered friends its fruit may feed

our tree wants kids your swingin’ and chit chat’ll

drive those birds hold it a sec there that’ll

do girl Ma pops the trunk open to read

their faces who see where some tires’ roads lead

a rope rope it’s rope for the swing they tattle

hu-mon-gous thick hard coil unlike a twine

this could leash elephants or ships to pier

smudged fists reach wrestle  a forty foot and mine

you lemme hold it hey don’t fight I’ll fire

you from your jobs you fight hush Ruth don’t whine

that is some rope Ma’s angels grab the tire

* * *

it is some rope my angels grab the tire

they have and form a neighborhood parade

around the farm house to the huge tree stayed

but only a lonely towering black spire

grown taller than low fruit pickers require

they stand and gawk how high should it be made

Ma spreads an end of rope where the tire is laid

and loops which branch that one O no that higher

Ma ties it good and tight sits down and plants

her feet against the doughnut marked her pants

her whole self hauls against the knot she placed

gru-unt the kids come scurrying like ants

at honey to help too late for Ma says faced

to her tree hi sighs O my what a waste

* * *

we want her high and Ma ties to her waist

the other end of the rope and her head snaps

up its trunk where to tie what branch perhaps

that one points at the shed high thick and braced

for weight of little angels chased

their swing back here Ma breaths deep wind and slaps

around the trunk a hug just like she wraps

Pat sometimes when she’s goofy but grim-faced

this time and grips and pulls her legs wrap hard

and push and Ma herself above the yard

has never till now climbed and yet she makes

good progress till a Bethlehem-thigh breaks

rough tree skin free slips freezes and then aches

upward Pat’s Mother reaches around wood scarred

* * *

up wood another reach Pat’s Mother’s scared

come back grinds herself up whole flesh fierce-bound

to rough bark where her soft skin bloodily ground

to wood leaves spots of  red from hands legs pared

peeled shining scrapes this first adventure shared

with them a wounding one and Ma has clowned

around at times this one time now has crowned

them all for Pat for dangers Beth has dared

please no Ma Beth’s good angel has not seen

her so injured so high and dangerous

o please Ma has a frown who’s never been

so up before all for a swing for us

she barely straddles their branch in the green

good whew the highest best branch there no fuss

* * *

this’s good Ma sighs yes best branch Pat don’t fuss

but Ma huffs hard as slowly she unties

her waist end then she freezes there and sighs

a breath toward the earth where kids discuss

how high the branch that she must crawl down was

that rope a forty foot don’t pull it why’s

she staring down at us googlie-eyed guys

and Ma has jerked the rope Pat says because

she’s afraid jus’ climb down Ma but Ma cries give

a hand kids grab the tire that’s good you raise

it overhead get your hands up as I’ve

heard Pastor tell you do when we give praise

get those arms up kids stand like cows and graze

or lift and get a swing if I survive

* * *

Pat thinks what does that mean if I  survive

she hasta been a tomboy Ruthie says

Ma gasps now kiddos LIFT everyone prays

and lifts and up to Heaven thin arms drive

like Boom good holy Pastor says to revive

the droopy heads bowed low at Church Sundays

and O they lift it knot up and it weighs

so much but push harder O they strive

together upward Heavenward till taut

and firm the rope goes it’s the heaviest

thing angels ever felt together caught

on praying hands and everyone now crest

and crown of hard curse burdens angels blest

to help to hold until Ma ties its knot

* * *

they help and hold Ma ties until it’s not

the burden of thin arms ha there it floats

good magically off marked fingers look coats

of road the signs of victors never thought

it would end her stained angels gush she got

it bearing gifts no more the offering notes

now sung and there received from arms and throats

from cars’ hard axles to cherry altars brought

the end it floats the tire swing gently turns

still smells like journeys run the long hard burns

of asphalt into treads brought to a stop

but it rolls sideways turns no tire could hope

those bound to steel staves and fixed engine churns

like this slave roped with Ma still at the top

* * *

freed from the rope Ma still is at the top

good thing done kids that was so good however

says she and seems about to cry kids never

should do what I just did climb here you’ll drop

and promise me I will watch and I’ll chop

this tree down don’t cross fingers nor get clever

just promise if okay that is forever

Pat hears Ma gasp and looks to see Ma  flop-

swoop off the branch O screams as her back angles

a head first plunge from right side up to slaughter

Pat throws hands over her mouth her breath strangles

but Ma’s legs flip past her head she has caught her

hands in her top knot where she swings and dangles

gotcha  she laughs at them that coarse harsh plotter

* * *

fool-djya she shouts again the rope course plotter

hand under hand climbs down and slips a peek

through strained arm pits at Pat who hears rope speak

its first word bearing Ma its sneaky knotter

it sings her to the tube till she is squat there

legs bowed on its round top to test a break

as weight new lowered makes each fiber creak

Ma Beth breaths deeply and smiles at her daughter

you were scared I heard you Pat says no

her eyes wild no I knew that you was lying

did not Ma bends her knees seems to be trying

to push the tire from under herself slow

at first her weight pulls bends against rope flying

with her and good Ma makes it turn and go

* * *

with her and good Ma makes it go and go

in-er-tia she breathes with a grunt and push

mo-men-tum Ma coughs straining through her smush-

face pulling hard the rope when she swings low

then easy she stands at the high end’s slow

fa-zoom they watch her on the good swing woosh

the children hear her laugh as though the rush

of tire shoves breath through her but cannot know

momentum’s meaning what is understood

Pat shares those watching her fly on the ring

and this is Heaven Ma cries barreling

through air and laughing till they cry she should

give us a turn and they tackle the swing

Glad to ha yep we got that that’s damn good

* * *

I’m glad too yep she got that Pat said good

Ma said no don’t but Pat had had a touch

of life cinched to a tree that was as much

a riddle as the answer yep allowed

its touch gave life not mere words prattled proud

by John but rope of angels in her clutch 

and wasted time swung high the loss of such

time reached with mother past this old scarred wood

no fuss Pat sighed toward the branch Ma fought

her way up to that day what did it mean

the branch survived and held its ties its knot

not broke free at the top still there I’ve been

fooled ya of course the rope’s a joke some plot

her good Ma made it go and she had seen

Problems: Our Most Valuable Possessions

Problems, problems, and more problems!  We scratch our heads bald, we let the anxiety become a looming mountain, we get the hernia operation, we try to push problems away or fight or flee. 

In the end we will discover our problems should have been treasured!

Everyone heroic or truly virtuous that I have ever met in my life has overcome problems or is facing their problems head on.  Great human beings embrace real problems; and their problems are what give them greatness.  When I meet people who say they have no problems I feel kind of sorry for them.  How can a person grow heroically without them?  People who push away their problems or those of others face a life of mediocrity.  What would Martin Luther King Jr. have been without Jim Crow and the insufferable oppressions of the Southern United States, or Mother Theresa without the destitution of Calcutta?  What would our historically prominent political and religious leaders have been without the massive issues they faced head on?  Yes, we hear people lament that their favorite politicians have to face the times we are in now, but these times are perfect for one who wants to be remembered.  Problems define us.  A time that needs great solutions will make the true leaders stand out and make their humanity shine; can we imagine a Lincoln without the Civil War, or FDR without the Great Depression?  I tell the kids at my school, almost all of whom live below the poverty level in a very hopeless neighborhood, all of whom try to feed themselves spiritually from a bankrupt culture: identify and celebrate the problems you have, embrace the problems of injustice and despair you see around you!  I tell them: overcoming your problems and those of your community is what will make your life magnificent.  Most people turn their backs on these kids, and not many teachers have what it takes to work with them.  This is mostly because they cannot treasure the problems the kids bring.  But those who let the problem of poverty in young people define them shine the light of grace in the world.

Years ago, I chose to help poor families in the inner city with a school that would provide them medical training in Certified Nurse Assisting for free, because I knew I could give them a better life.  That is what Christ wanted me to do.  He gave me this problem as a gift.  I am helping kids, by the grace of Christ.   The problems are why I own a school in the inner city.  The problems are why I work for the poor.  The kids bring me lots of problems, each day, each hour of each day.  I pull my hair out, I am disrespected by those I want to help, I deal with their rage and fear and feelings of inadequacy, I discover with them their greatness.  Their poverty goes deeper than family finances: there is an entire culture of poverty in America, one that is growing, and it is emotional, and intellectual, it involves human skills which allow for opportunity, a lack of social abilities that the middle class takes for granted but that are simply out of the reach of some children.  I have so many kids monitored by CPS or living in group homes because of family poverty, not having a home, someone to whom they might belong.  The teachers at my school and I cannot turn our backs.  Where other schools in Arizona are failing, charters whose owners are pocketing most of the money and not putting it into classrooms, charters that have given up on the dropouts even though they enroll them, we are raising expectations and putting money into the classrooms.  Some charters teach automotive for the boys and cosmetology for the girls to increase their numbers; we are teaching students medical assisting in pharmacy and Certified Nurse Assisting because that is where kids will find the jobs and a real future; yes, the math and science are hard, but we refuse to allow failure.  A big problem is despair: we help kids dream.  A big problem is failure: we create a system where they cannot fail and we irritate kids and families until the kid is made to work and succeed.  Problems, oh yes!  We have come to love them.  We will either fall on our faces during the Arizona Tea Party and go bankrupt, as kids are the last priority on Arizona's list, or we will overcome that problem too.  I work in a public school, and Jesus works with me there, and so I have to trust.  I think that is why Jesus impressed people with who He was: not as a magician or wonder worker, but because he embraced those that others thought cursed by God. 

On the other side of my life, there are are also problems.  I wake at five in the morning.  I read the scriptures and pray.  I start to write.  The writer who says he or she has no problems is probably a sad writer: what would we be as thinkers and makers withough committing ourselves to some real problems?  We have to change ourselves, our world, our limited views of life.  We have problems and they challenge us.  And the greater the problem, the better for us. 

In my private life, I committed myself to this problem: create a living, entertaining, Christian epic, that people would not be able to put down, and by which they would see how our Lord can transform lives.  In it, celebrate the Word of God that lasts forever, and the Truth and the Life in that Word Who reveals Heaven itself (Anagogical reading in the Holy Spirit).  I also wanted to make a spirituality for family life.  In a homeless society that values power, possessions and pleasure above persons, and has traded the sacredness of other human beings and God for idols, this last was the greatest problem of all.  The family is being crushed by America, and it needs help to stand.

But a real problem: to be a Christian epic lyrcial poet.  Christian and epic and lyrical and poet.  What a mess is that combination!  Who wants to read poetry?  Not many want it, anymore.  And among the literati that do read poetry: who wants poetry that rhymes?  It's usually bad stuff.  Only a couple of memorable epics are written each century, and the writing has gone to prose.  And a Christian world view?  Literature in America is, for the most part, the catalogue of the destruction of forms of Christian community and morality and the celebration of human liberty: to exercise power in adventure, to wallow in pleasures of the flesh, and to acquire possessions, these are hallmarks of the new American spirituality!  To be a Chistian, with epic lyrical and poet?  Somebody shoot me.

I should talk about these problems as I have faced them.  These were some good problems.  I'll start with the poetry problem in my next blog, but, again, there were three: the Christian epic lyrical poetry problem, the problem of a family spirituality in a homeless culture, and the Christian problem of bringing myself and other people to Jesus.  Great problems.  Over the last ten years, the poetry problem has defined my vocation, and the problem of the family occupied the earlier part of my adulthood.  And bringing myself and people to Christ has always been a solution more than a problem.

Every Heaven: The Tree of Life, an Introduction

Every Heaven, The Tree of Life is published as an e-book. It begins the epic journey of a struggling married couple through Heaven.  My writing, you will find, is rooted in scripture and traditional Christian spirituality. This first volume weaves into the journey numerous children's stories and novellas, tales I have struggled to develop in sermons over the years for listeners. I thank God that I have been able to celebrate my love of Christ and His holy word, and to explore Christian allegory through this work. I didn't want to give these stories out one at a time, but all at once, give the whole enchilada to enjoy.

You can download the book for free at: Every Heaven: The Tree of Life or click the image in the side bar.

The title, Every Heaven, comes from a line of Robert Frost ("Astrometaphysical"):
My love for every Heaven
O'er which You, Lord, have lorded
From number One to Seven,
Should be rewarded.

I have always liked Frost's poem of a person who stumbles and falls from looking up too much, who might receive "undue renown" for this focus, but hopes to arrive in Heaven in spite of his failures and successes. To be clear: my book's title does not refer to multiple Heavens after this life. We will live in God, one God, living and true, and, as Frost indicates, one Lord lords over every Heaven. Every refers to all of the small glimpses of Eternity within this life, gifts of God we are given by the Lord, and it celebrates how every one of these is gathered together from our lives into the memory of a loving Lord. Heaven does meet earth, Eternity changes time, and God shines through even the most un-heavenly appearing crosses of our lives: celebrating these moments is what Christian poetry should be about, at least for me.  We will be celebrating these forever!

So this first volume focuses on childhood in Christ. Why? Our Lord told us clearly that we will not see the Kingdom, will not have the power to perceive every Heaven, unless we become like children. And He did not make it an option. You must become like this child, was what He said. I have tried to see Heaven through the eyes of a child.  It is not easy for us adults.  But it can be done, can be learned, and must be learned.   This is not necessarily a children's book, but some of the tales are appropriate for kids.

Every Heaven, The Tree of Life includes:
*   An introduction to Millertown and the Central Street Church, it's colorful Pastor, and its worshipping community;
*   The conflicted couple John and Patricia Livingston, who, at Church one Sunday, are given the opportunity to explore Heaven. They take it, although they run into surprises along the way and are helped by an unexpected guide.
*   Narrative poems that celebrate childhood in Christ, our new innocence through grace, with numerous memories of childhood, such as a sonnet crown of a mother and daughter hanging a tire swing, conversations of a flower girl and rig bearer at a wedding, and numerous small revelations through child-play in a garden.
*   The fates of Adam and Eve, what happend after Christ offered the world the fruit of the Tree of Life and brought salvation.
*   A retelling of the Christian folktale of Jesus and trees as a novella in verse: "The Tree of Life." This is a traditional folktale with several incarnations, most recently retold in Angela Elwell Hunt's, The Tale of Three Trees (Lion, 1989). I've known many ministers who have retold this story over the years with different versions, and the beautiful simplicity of Hunt's prose has lended itself to elaboration for those. After years of telling it myself, my own retelling has evolved.
*   "Andrew's Search: the Hidden Manna" This is based on the Gospel of John, Chapter Six, and tells the story of how the Apostle found the lad with five loaves and a couple of fish in the crowd of five thousand, and what the Lord did with his gifts. It is a slapstick comedy with a lot of nonsense verse, wild characters, and a strong message about charity; there is also a beautiful grace before meals in it, set in lyrical verse.
*   "The Ghost of Richard Brey: An Escape from the Second Death" A cautionary tale of how our worship on earth is preparation for worship in Heaven; this is a comedy of a lost soul wth only foul things coming out of his mouth, who must learn to give praise to God, the ultimate meaning of life; rated PG.
*   "Venus Fly Trap" The tale of the humblest plant in Paradise among the prouder flowers and the angelic hosts who are snatched up by it. This one is both fun and outrageous, and kids love it.
*   "Cheruboom" The bruisers who were left to guard the Tree of Life in Eden unfold the story of the Fall and of Salvation: of two trees, two gardens, two choices, and two deaths, with one fiery Sword that divides hearts, Who is at the center of all history.
*   An angel who struggles to tell her account of the Resurrection to a group of kids, a boy who is too fun to be merely human, the journeys of lost children finding their way back to God are some other tales from Every Heaven: The Tree of Life, and move the one story forward into the next volume.

For the entire series of volumes, I've attempted both a natural and a Divine progression. The natural progression is from childhood to adulthood and relationships and marriage to family life and all of these flow into Christian community and worship. Volume I celebrates Christian childhood first, and is meant to move into Volume II, Their New Names in Stone, which explores a marriage in Christ and spousal healing, and then Volume III, The Morning Star, which picks up the cross of parenthood and the struggle of family by re-imagining the Christmas journey of the Magi, and the Holy Family's flight into Egypt. The last, Volume IV, Pillars of the Temple of God celebrates worship and Christian living in community.

In terms of the couple's progress through Heaven, the story travels from the New Eden, the Garden of Paradise into Christ's Bride, the New Jerusalem, and finally to the Temple of God and to the Throne; however, Hell's possibility and pain is also on the tour at various points. The challenge was to re-create Heaven as scripture gives it, that wild Heaven given in the Apocalypse with its challenges, battles and visions, its Victors and villians, and to connect that vision with the rest of the Gospel, which also presents God's template for Eternal Life and Eternal living for people here, on earth.

This first volume is a little on the sweeter side, compared to the rest, but it too has some edginess. Enjoy! I've been encouraged to start putting the second volume, Every Heaven: Their New Names in Stone, on this site canto by canto, and I may give it a try before publication.

Family Grace Before Meals: from Andrew's Search

When I was a kid, my family used to pray, Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts we are about to receive of thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen. It was... functional. I have heard some compliments for this grace before meals from "Andrew's Search," a story in Every Heaven: the Tree of Life. As Jesus divides the loaves and fish there, he prays:


"Father, bless all these gifts that our family lifts
to Your Throne with our thanks in this prayer.
We all truly love You but make this love more true
through our caring as our meal is shared.
Loving Lord, make us able to see You at our table.
By your Grace, give us peace when we're done.
Visit us, heal the hurt, feed us here with your Word.
Father, please, make Your family one.
We pray this daily bread takes us where Your Son's led,
that together we break bread in Heaven
when love is face-to-Face and we sing the true Grace
with Your Son and Your Spirit. Amen."

It may seem hard to learn, but it also has a lot of rhyme that will help, and it sets a nice tone for a Christian family meal. Enjoy! (Please, only private use: don't publish!)