Day 4: Transition

(transiens) “passing over or away,” present participle of transire “cross over, go over, pass over, hasten over, pass away,” from trans “across, beyond” (see trans-) + ire “to go” (from PIE root *ei- “to go”). Meaning “passing through a place without staying”

I’m catching up a bit on the November Poem a Day Challenge.

“Transition,” to me, does not sound appealing;
It reminds me of friends who have gone or are leaving,
It reminds me too much of the lingering pain
Of those whom I love and am grieving.

Transition has too often been used to describe
My friends who lie in beds hospitalized,
Whom I visit with, counsel, and pray;
But who in the end, transition and die.

“Transition” speaks of a lightness of being
That life is received not grabbed for keeping,
Is held with palms open till it goes away,
Billows in fullness but like a cloud, fleeting.

I long for the Time when transition goes away
And Time says, No hurry. Have a seat. Stay.

© Randall Edwards 2021.

Only Questions

After this year’s Hutchmoot Homebound, Rabbit Room‘s online conference, an opportunity was offered to participate in a collaborative art project called Pass the Piece. The project randomly pairs two artist. One begins a piece of artwork and sends it to the second artist to complete. I received a piece from artist Dawn Waters Baker titled “Living in the Land of Uz,” and I responded to her piece which you can view and read more about HERE.

Just this week, I sent my Pass the Piece artwork to a visual artist who works with a variety of mediums. A dear and patient friend with just the right tools has helped me to create something to serve as a palette of sorts upon which my friend also engraved a poem I wrote which serves as my part of this piece. (Thank you Rick!) I do hope that artist to whom I’ve sent my piece can work with it. I can’t wait to see what she does with it.

It may be no surprise to those in the congregation I pastor, but I’ve based my poem on Job which has been the subject of sermon series as of late. Job is a book with which I have had a familiarity, but it, just like suffering in general, is not something I can readily get my head around. I think I’ve gotten a better handle on Job, and I hope I have a more honest and faithful and hopeful understanding of suffering. The poem I wrote is based on Job 38:1-7 which reads,

Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:
   “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Dress for action like a man;
   I will question you, and you make it known to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
   Tell me, if you have understanding.
Who determined its measurements—surely you know!
   Or who stretched the line upon it?.
On what were its bases sunk,
     or who laid its cornerstone,
   when the morning stars sang together
     and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

I have no answers, Lord,
Only questions.
Like, why come with a storm
Into the chaos of my storm?
How is one to know which is the help,
Which whirlwind is caused by sin,
Which rescue or finish me?
And why have you stood off 
I have no answers,
Only questions.

No, I was not there
When you laid the foundation.
It was not by my skill or strength
That it was made square and plumb.
I did not stretch out a line its length
To measure Your wisdom and love.
I did not pour into the earth with my hands
The footing upon which
Every last thing that stands
Now stands.
I did not mark the depth, breadth, and height
Of Your cornerstone’s wisdom.
I did not lay it in place
By it make all true and right.

Nor did I choose the keystone
Which holds the arch, fills the breach,
Holds in place the pillars of sky,
Holds all these things leaning together,
Even the answers just out of reach
As I lean towards You,
One Whom I thought I knew,
One Who is now unknown,
But where else can I go
With my questions?

What was it like
When the morning stars sang
In the first day’s, pre-dawn light?
What was the sound
Of the song which You taught?
Who led the heavenly band?
Who called the contradance
Who led the grand 
March, the real and swing
of the Allemande
Right and left?
How did the cosmos resound
When the sons of God shouted for joy?
What was the noise
When the lifeless void
Gave way to the dawn--
The break of day?
What was that like:
Sound filled with sparks,
When delight became Light?

I only have questions.
Who are you, who now comes
To me in the ruin of ash,
To the dust of the death in which I sit?
What do you know of loss,
What to you did faithfulness cost,
And will I ever see the point of this?

© Randall Edwards 2021

Now There Was A Day

The following is a step towards the culmination of a project sponsored by Rabbit Room called Pass the Piece. If you’d like to view what has been so inspiring for me, you may access the content of this year’s Hutchmoot Homebound through this weekend (Oct 28-31) beginning Thursday, HERE. (Note: You have to pay for the content, but it is so worth it.) You may never have thought you’d ever read a sentence like the one you just read. “Hutchmoot Homebound”? I want to challenge you that if you don’t know what you just read to “be curious.” There will be payoffs. If you do get access to the content, check out the Pass the Piece pages in the website’s Art Studio. It will bless your socks off!

After the Hutchmoot weekend in early October, a collaborative art project began in which artists were paired with other artists (much like a Secret Santa gift exchange). Each participant drew a name and for that drawn name, the artist drawing the name was to make something to pass on a piece of art to the artist whose name they drew. The receiving artist would then add to, augment, complete, respond to, you name it… the piece of art they received. Having participated in projects somewhat like this, I know how inspiring they can be. There is something about receiving and responding that resembles the surprise of grace. And, much like grace, the collaboration and responses don’t merely double the efforts, they exponentialize them. That is, the effort doesn’t merely become a multiple of efforts and creativity, but the end the product feels more like an exponent of the two.

At any rate, I was fortunate enough to have been paired with visual artist Dawn Waters Baker whose website you must visit and whose speaking engagements you must view. You will be blessed by her take on art and faith. You can find her online at

Through a bit of messaging back and forth and some personal discernment, Mrs Baker settled on Job as the subject of her piece which is titled, “In the Land of Uz.” In her painting, Dawn uses both color and imagery to communicate both the profound sadness of Job as well as points to the reconciliation at the end of the book. You can view the piece and read some of her comments on her Instagram page HERE.

In order to share both the artwork and the poetry I wrote in response to her work, I created a video in which you may view her beautiful painting and listen to the poetry.

Lastly, I just need to say how grateful I am to Dawn and her thoughtful engagement with a difficult subject like the book of Job and for her generosity in sharing such beautiful talent and art. My being able to work through and respond to her work has exponentialized blessing in me, and in a season which has felt so austere, this feels abundantly lavish. Thank you, Dawn.

You may view the video and poetry it inspired below.

Collaborative art project between Randy Edwards and Dawn Waters Baker
Act I

Now there was a day
In the land of Uz
When everything I loved 
was taken away,
And as the sun went down
I sat on the ground
Of this dried, dead wilderness
Of desert brown--
Dry as my eyes
That cannot cry anymore.

And here ‘neath this leafless tree
I wonder if I will ever be 
Whole again, if I would ever want or live to see
Another day.
The sky turned from yellow-orange to red,
And the crimson gave way
To the darker hues of violence--
The violet, black and blues
Of the beating I’d taken that day.
What did I do for this?
Why was I stripped?
Is leaving all that is left,
To mark one by one a death and a death
And another death, another leaving?
Is grieving the only way 
I’ll remember my love 
For those who died today?
I thought if I clung to you
That you would keep me from the Beasts
Of grief and fear.
Is that not true?
What good then does clinging do?
What’s the point if you won’t keep me
From these things?
If you will not shield me with your limbs
Lean over, cover and shelter me?

© Randall Edwards, 2021
Pass the Piece Project 2021
Ekphrastic poem in response to 
“In the Land of Uz”  © Dawn Waters Baker 2021, 6x8 oil on aluminum panel
Act II

Now there was a day
In the land of Judah
When the Love who is everything was taken away.
And the sun went down
On a mother who fell to the ground
Outside the walls of a dried, dead town
of desert brown--
dry as her eyes 
that could not cry anymore.

And here ‘neath this cruel tree
She wonders if she will ever be
Whole again, if she will ever see him 
Alive someday.

The sky turned from yellow-orange to red,
And the crimson gave way
To the day’s darker hues of violence
The violet, black, and blue
Of the beatings they gave him that day.
What did He do for this?
Why was He stripped,
Made into a game by those who bet for all he had left,
While she counts each cry, one by one
Till his last breath?
To them, she was just another mother grieving.
Is grief the only way 
She’ll remember Love--
The Love she bore and who died this day?

I never thought that I would see
My son murdered so ruthlessly.
In all the years I never thought in my heart
That this would be the part He’d play,
That of all days, this day,
Would become His wedding day.
How could I have known when I asked
That He was waiting till the last
So that on this tree
Stretched out like a vine
He would give himself as the best wine
For me.

© Randall Edwards, 2021
Pass the Piece Project 2021
Ekphrastic poem in response to 
“In the Land of Uz”  © Dawn Waters Baker 2021, 6x8 oil on aluminum panel

There will be a day
When the Love worth everything
Will return everything taken away.

There will be no fading light.
As life rises from the green ground,
That which was dried and dead shall teem with life
And every tear found, wiped from our eyes.

There beside the River, ‘neath a boulevard of trees,
We shall walk in an arbor of peace,
In the shade of leaves which fall
In healing on you and me.
And in that dappled light we shall see,
See, as He sees us.

The sky breaks with the red and orange-yellow of day, 
The crimson calls to us:
Rise, O Sleeper. Rise! Awake!
And the darker hues of the violence,
The violet, black, and blue of beatings taken
Will slough off and be shaken away.

Did He who was hanged on the tree
Do this for you and me? The One who still bears those scars?
Will we, the blessed meek, find everything ours?

Stunned by this bliss. In silence we’ll wonder,
What on earth did we do to deserve this?

There it will be asked of us, Do you see?
That all which you bore was borne by me?
That what you were left to do
I did not deny myself?
That I too was not kept from those things?
That on that tree I clung to you,
And by it leaned in love,
Leaned over to cover and shelter you
And hide you in me.

© Randall Edwards, 2021
Pass the Piece Project 2021
Ekphrastic poem in response to 
“In the Land of Uz”  © Dawn Waters Baker 2021, 6x8 oil on aluminum panel

Love Is Not Strength

This poem is based on 1 Corinthians 13 and in honor and memory of a friend and friends.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Love is not strength
Though it is patient and kind.
Not that it doesn’t desire
Or burn hot as fire,
Yet it does not quit.
It takes a seat to the side, and there it will sit
Through time’s tides and troubles. It
Does what it can
And with you stands
Ready to help, paying no mind
To impatient demands.

Love does not shine.
It does not put me first or over other’s climb
Or grab with greed, yelling,
Mine. Mine. 

Love cannot keep you from grief
But only makes sadness more certain
Only makes the inevitable hurting
Of goodbye sure.

Love cannot keep others from leaving.
It cannot make them stay.
Love is not enough
To keep any from going away.
It cannot keep.
But of those wrongs, the slights,
The thoughtless words said in jest, 
The deeds that were nothing near the best
One could be?
Love keeps no record of the wrong
Whether they happened today or time long
Since gone.

Love cannot heal. It cannot make anyone well.
If they are sick and dying,
It’s not like some spell
That can magically make them right.
Though if you love, love just may keep you awake
Night after night,
After night.

Love makes no demand.
It does not have to have its say
Which means that things may not go your way.
And so love oftentimes weeps
Or grieves what it may not keep.

Love takes no delight in the cruel
Or wicked things which others say or do,
But love rejoices in the true.
And when seeing the truth
Love bears all things,
And in so doing
Carries the weight of waiting
For the other to come ‘round
Or for the time when what was lost
Is at last found.

Love cannot keep, make, or do,
Yet it believes all things which means
He still believes in you.
Yes, love may be blind.
It cannot see the hope.
(Who hopes in what they can see?)
But with hope in faith
Love looks down the drive,
Expecting any moment to see you.
You, who were thought to be dead, alive
Walking up to the house.

Love is not strength
Though it endures all things:
Whether fearing the grave
Or the pain of death’s sting.
Love never fails,
Is on time, never late.
For it always hopes, always trusts,
And waits and waits
And waits…

© Randall Edwards 2021.
This poem is for Christ’s church. If it is helpful, please feel free to copy or reprint in church bulletins, read aloud, or repost. I only ask that an attribution be cited to myself (Randall Edwards) and this blog (

Hard to Bear

A good friend shared this quote from Elisabeth Elliot’s devotional, A Lamp Unto My Feet.

“Someone who is suffering as a result of his own foolishness or failure may read these words. These griefs are hard indeed to bear, for we feel we might easily have avoided them. We have no one to blame but ourselves, and there isn’t much consolation there. Sometimes we imagine that we must bear this kind of trouble alone, but that is a mistake. The Lamb of God, slain for us, has borne all of our griefs and carried all of our sorrows, no matter what their origin. All grief and sorrow is the result of sin somewhere along the line, but Christ received them willingly. It is nothing but pride that keeps me from asking Him to help me to bear the troubles which are my own fault. ‘Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world,’ take away mine.”

It has continued to be of encouragement to me and so as to work it in deeper, I’ve taken the quote and re-written it as a sonnet.

These griefs and sorrows are indeed hard to bear–
This bed of my trouble in which I must lie;
Had I simply avoided the obvious snare,
I’d be holding the pearls I’ve trampled in this sty.
The troubles I’ve made are mine and mine alone
To silently bear (suck it up) make no plea,
Any help of relief I must pay out on my own
I’ve no one to blame, pass the buck, just me.

Ev’ry grief and sorrow came somewhere from sin,
And Christ received them all and willingly bore
All our sins no matter what their origin
Only pride keeps you from going, to humbly implore,
“Lamb of God, who the sins of the world takes away
Take the troubles I’ve made; please, take my sins today.”

© Randy Edwards 2016
artwork: Unknown