Capernaum —The disciples went out and got into a boat, but all night they caught nothing. John 21:3 by Dan Behrens Seaside village, Capernaum, With her growing garrison Of Herodian troops, Eclectic Commercialites And native fishermen, An agrarian trade post Along the way of the Sea, Or the Samaritan’s pilgrimage Toward Mount Gerizim. Then there are her streets And all her Galilean children— A James, a John, Thomas And the custom’s chief, The house of Peter— and at least one other, Brothers, turn to her boats Like their fathers did At daybreak, and push out Away from all the shores That crush them. Their rigging Pitched portside, their tears Netting nothing but silence And a splash of stars Hardly hanging on overhead. These few small boats Drifting into the arc Of some forgotten story. All her forgotten stories Of feasts and family, Of sabbath prayers and miracles, Her screaming crowds, Her silent sufferer—Jesus. Capernaum, so light and lost Among the nations, a lonely lamb At the edge of the earth, Or the sea rather, or perhaps Even those distant hills Where the swine fell Just beyond your reach. Or like when our sweet Saint Peter fell at the sight of waves, His one wild step Into everlasting life, Cut free— for one mere moment at least— From all these boats We so eagerly turn to.
Author: Evergreen Foursquare Church
Flight, Kate
Flight, Kate by Dan Behrens Hallway's a runway, A glidepath For my one-year-old’s Roundtrip From kitchen to closet. Little legs, little mind All wound up For attention. Revolution— Down and back And down again. Her laugh as loud as liftoff. So small a world She and I A never-ending flight.

Patio Pavers
Patio Pavers by Dan Behrens More cinder than stone, Four dozen patio pavers Lay behind our tool shed, Misplaced, abandoned, Exposed and melting away Under the long linger of rain— This heap of garden bricks That once hedged off roses, Retained a lofted green bed, Perhaps encircled a school of Koi Or encamped evening fires For a family who lived here. Now unearthed, I scrape, wash, and stack These moss-coated slabs Erect as an Incan altar Beside our broken gate, Like something conjured Out of the womb of earth, A small tower of fidelity I’ll later use to reset The sagging porch, A near nod to whomever Kept this yard before me— Her hands. His dirt. Their Eden. This evening, I’ll cut the grass, Gathering Lilac clippings, Toss some fertilizer And set upon these neglected stones To help us turn the corner, To hear again the ancient utterance Of new birth, the miraculous Marriage of symmetry and chaos, Like Babel's tower in her infancy Before the scattering and the falling apart, Before our creative language severed, Our sacred union wedged To the far reaches of earth.
The Release of St Peter
The Release of St Peter —Acts 12:6-19 by Dan Behrens There is that story among all the Acts of the apostles, where the house of Mary is itself a house of prayer— a lighted city above the valley of the world. Fervent believers praying inside fervently praying, believing, while outside in the street new men find themselves walking about. New men. Free men. Unrecognizable men under the dark of night, under the arm of the empire, under the Spirit of God. Still, how little is made of that servant girl Rhoda, and all that was accomplished through her at the gate— this magnanimous release of St Peter, and the train of the church thundering through the ages.
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