Jeff Reed And The Estuarial Way Of Jesus

God is the perfect poet. ~Robert Browning

If a plan can succeed without God, it wasn’t his plan in the first place.

But we forget that.

We read, for example, “Love your enemies.” Experts that we are, we think, “That’s impossible. Only a show of force, only a strong defense–or clever offense–will keep my enemy from destroying me.”

So, we look for the loop-hole.

• Jesus didn’t mean that literally.
• Jesus didn’t last long, did he?
• Jesus gives us an impossible ideal so we will appreciate his grace.

You doubt me? How many of us have an index card with the words, Love my enemy today taped to our bathroom mirrors? Or, sticky-note reminders on the back door,

• Take up my cross on the way to school
• Die to self in the big meeting this afternoon
• Overcome evil with good during evening commute 

Few, if any. Common sense says it’s not possible to obey.

Jesus And The Estuary

Jeff Reed, a poet friend, has written a series of  21 poems entitled Estuarial. The overall premise: when wildly different elements collide, (like fresh and sea water in an estuary), an unlikely community (rather than the chaos we expect) often emerges.

But our culture is hostile to unity. The pull is ever stronger to stay divided. We ignore the promise Jesus made, Blessed are the peacemakers,  for they will be called children of God. 

But Jesus meant it. When, despite divergent cross-currents, one person reaches to another, God will provide the peace. Jeff’s poems dip a toe in this truth: God’s children will be recognized in the estuaries.

Jeff has graciously shared three of the poems. Savor them–you’ll see more with each reading.

The Plumber to the Shoe Salesman

Do you know the world
is leaking? Can’t you tell it
by the squeaking of

your tennis shoes upon
the hardwood floors that will
be ruined by this wet?

I cannot keep up.
If I move faster
I arrive at next

before the last is fixed
and find the following flood
swallowing up my span.

Have you waders that float?
I need to walk on water
or find someone who can.

The Arborist to the Soccer Mom

Each one has a Latin
name which I cannot
pronounce as I should.

But I know how to grow them–
good soil, sun and shade,
deft with the pruning blade,

though I cannot predict
all the coming contours–
which limbs need attention

when and where to cut–
until the time’s at hand
on the way to tall,

always watching, tense
at sudden sprints of wind,
at each inevitable fall.

The Hair Stylist to the Highway Patrolman

The license on my wall
testifies that I
am to make beautiful

the messes that I meet.
That keeps me going.
Were I only to snip

the snarled and wash away
the oil and grime and quit
before the shaping, I

would despair. For hair
will insist on breaking
outside the boundaries set,

drunk on its freedom to frazzle,
reckless in the thrill of
fleeing the barrette.

Photograph by Melanie Hunt