Atonement for an Unsolved Murder


In the heart of a golden barley field
lies a man, staring up at the clear sky.
The sun and the wind wash over him,
but he does not blink. The side of his head
has been beaten in -- now soil and blood
and skull are home to happy ants.

The elders of the nearest town come out
to meet the man. They bring with them
a heifer -- an unworked, unyoked heifer.
They walk her past him and into an untilled valley
beside a flowing stream. With the image
of the dead man's half-head gleaming
in their front minds, the elders hold the cow.

One elder takes the heifer's head
into his elder hands, taking in the feel
of her textured face against his palms.
He pulls his gaze away from her two brown eyes.

For one moment, two moments, there is silence
as the elder takes hold now of the smoothened branch
that has been prepared for this occasion.
With two hands he lifts it high above his head.
The branch stands against the blueness of the sky. Then --
the wood comes down hard on the innocent heifer,
down hard on her virgin neck, down as hard
as it could come, down -- hard enough
to crack the silence and the smoothened branch.
The neck of the heifer breaks. Her head hangs,
her knees buckle and she falls.
But her eyes do not close.

All of the men look away, eyes open
toward the moving stream. They take
the running water into their hands;
they wash their hands over the fallen
heifer whose neck was broken in that valley.

And they pray: "O God! You see. You know.
Our hands did not shed this blood. Our eyes
did not see it. Forgive Your people, O LORD."

And the bloodguiltiness is forgiven.

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A strange post, I know. The section heading in my Bible for this passage in Deuteronomy 21 was crying out to be the title of a poem, a play, a novel, a hardcore rock band... So this piece is what has come of it from my own pen. Feedback?

Probably we would eat pizza.








I have a friend who is really hurting, but I can't do much to help. I pray for him, I offer encouragement, but I can't fix him or his problem.

I hate this feeling.

I wish that he was a little kid. If he were, then I would ask his mom if I could take him to the park. I'd buy him ice cream and let him beat me at checkers. I would ask him to sing me a song that he wrote--which I would be endlessly impressed with--and I'd make one up to sing back to him. Probably we would eat pizza. And then at the end of the day, before I took him back home, I would have a serious talk with him and try really hard to know the right thing to say to give the kid a little perspective and some courage. I'd probably talk about how you have to forgive people (sometimes A LOT) and how he really is good enough.

Too bad he's not a little kid.

There's nothing worse than a terrible marriage, and nothing better than a great one.



The man that I hope to shelter all the days of my life

My husband is three miles away and he's coming home in a half hour, but I called him just to chat. At the close of the conversation (twenty minutes later) I realized that it's kinda funny that I phoned him even though he's so close and he'll be home so soon. But I don't care.

I have come to realize that it is upon the little courtesies that marriages rise or fall. The small acts of service, the few words said or not said, the gentleness of the touch, the knowing looks--this is what builds a sweet atmosphere in the home, what makes the relationship sweet and nourishing.

My friend Star is a great lady--creative, compassionate, fun--but she hasn't yet learned the secret to being a great wife. I often wish that I knew how to tell her that the difference between her struggling marriage and a fantastic one may just be the difference between a complaint and praise. If she knew the power of her words and how her husband longs to hear that he pleases her, that she's proud of him, then she may come to know the hidden delights of a joyous home. I'm not sure that Star realizes how much her husband Steve needs her, how much any man depends on his woman for strength and courage and safety. It might mean the world to him if Star could pretend to be excited at the boring discovery he has made. He may blossom into a new man should she dare to praise him without any stipulation or amendment. He might be more the husband she longs for if only she would welcome him home with open arms, letting her heart be his mourner's bench and her mouth be his cheering section.

The world is lonely for man, and a loving wife is much to be treasured.