Perhaps it seems incongruent to speak of one you know so well with glowing words. I, who day in and day out, know his weaknesses, endure the frenzy, observe his frailty, can say in all honesty that I live with a poet. Yes, he is a pastor. Yes, he is a musician. And yes, he is husband, father and friend. Yet in and through it all, he has the poet’s eye.
I’ve known he was a poet for many years, perhaps before he even knew, or was willing to admit and stand fully inhabiting that calling. To be a poet may sound lofty. But Shakespeare’s description is rooted and tangible–one who sees from heaven to earth, earth to heaven, and brings forth the shapeless that he sees into shapes we can recognize.
His poet’s eye has certainly seen a lot in his years as a pastor. Death, brokenness, pain and suffering, alongside the joys of baptisms and weddings, keep a poets’ feet firmly planted on the earth. His singing heart opens him to a music that comes from somewhere else, calling him to live in rhythm with its beat and lyrics. It is not an easy task to stand every Sunday holding heaven and earth, trying to help us, as well as himself, to grasp them both and then body forth into our weekly lives, the beauty we’ve collectively seen. Yet he takes up the mantle, the poet’s eye as well as the pen, daily.
I’ve been in the lovely front-seat position of observing him inhabit this poet’s mantle more and more in recent months. It is giving our days a different shape as we, together, labor to turn the beauty of heaven and earth into shapes on a page. Though he gives this airy something a local habitation in words, and I in image, we both walk with the name pilgrim, our feet on the earth with all our weaknesses and frailty, and our eyes glancing to heaven and back.
With you, dear poet husband, this journey is indeed a fine frenzy.
To read some of his poetry, visit backwardmutters.wordpress.com.
In case you are unable to read my writing up there…:)
The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven.
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream