Overheard

College girl:
Last weekend I got drunk at a party .
Four boys forced themselves on me.
It makes me feel so dirty, you know?

Friend:
I know.

The conversation moved on then.
For my friend in the cafeteria,
Hearing this casual retelling of
Gang rape by the strangers at the next table,

What succor was there to offer?
For this girl, someone’s daughter,
For those four unknown boys, sons of someone,
All living and acting in darkness and pain?

What would you do, if the hearer was you?

Family Dinner

Studies show that family dinners
Offer benefits that outweigh the cost.
Tonight we may have disproved that.

One son stayed comatose on my back.

One son finished his meal
Before I had started eating.
He jumped around the table on one foot
Until I sent him away.
He cried on his bed.

One son, a good feeder, finished his plate,
Then helped himself to more,
Not by asking politely for seconds,
But by reaching over his brother’s plate.
Twice.

One son finished most of his pizza, then,
Overcome by too much smoothie earlier (?)
Went to the bathroom and, without closing the door,
Threw up loudly and long, more than one would expect
A young belly to hold.
Then he tried to describe the experience for us.
While we were still eating.
We sent him away, too.

One son sat in silence.

I’m glad there is more to family than family dinner.
We’ll try again.
But maybe not tomorrow.

Beelzebub

The Gospels say that Jesus cast out devils.
The Pharisees accused, “He casteth out devils
Through the prince of the devils,”
Which Jesus logically shot down:
A house divided against itself cannot stand.
That seems obvious enough.

But why would the Pharisees have made that logical lapse?

Maybe they simply wanted to connect Jesus with Satan,
One they didn’t trust with one they knew lied.

I wonder, though, if they had the same idea
That many do still, that God had done it all,
And to change a person, even to cast out devils,
Was somehow working against God’s purposes.

That’s part of the story of Job, after all:
Satan torments Job, and the friends attempt to persuade
Job that God is in it and it’s all Job’s fault.

It seems clear to me that Jesus is on the side of
Devil-free health and wholeness.
Sign me up.

Non-Sense

“Life doesn’t make sense” makes me feel better.

I would like life to make sense.

But in a world where a 14-year-old’s
Illegitimate pregnancy results three decades later in
Thirty-seven illegitimate grandchildren,
While I have lovely Christ-follower friends denied a baby,
I don’t think there are words adequate to explain this.
It doesn’t make sense.

I don’t understand why a couple of suburbanites
Would be called to start a farm.
What a foolish allocation of resources—
Financial, educational, agricultural, emotional.
It doesn’t make sense.

Some parents die decades before their children marry.
Some parents linger in a state of living death,
Consuming resources long past what is comfortable
For either parent or child.
It doesn’t make sense.

And let’s not get started on mental illness, autism,
Birth defects, tsumanis, and other acts of God,
Let alone acts of man like human trafficking, torture,
Or even the simple divorce.

None of these make sense.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all.
Amen.

Grandma's Mirror

Shortly before puberty, I walked
Past Grandma’s hall mirror,
Just as I had every day
During every summer visit.

I stopped to check my hair
And suddenly realized that
There was no getting out.
This was my body and I was stuck.

At the time, this was one of the
Most terrifying thoughts I’d had.

My Grandma is now more than 80
Years older than I was then.
“Who is this old woman in the mirror?”
She wonders. “I don’t feel that old.”

The age of her spirit doesn’t match
The age of her face in the mirror.
Her spirit is still stuck in a body running down.
Terror seems like an appropriate response.

Zechariah's Answer

Zechariah asked, “Whereby shall I know this?”
The angel rebuked him for believing not.

Zechariah was certainly not alone in questioning.
Hebrews lists faithful folk who lapse:
Sarah who laughed, Moses who fled,
Barak who feared, David who murdered.

And so we come to Zechariah who asked
For a sign. And he was answered:
The organ of his asking dried up.
A sign immediate, unmistakable.

Zechariah, who had been resigned to live out
The rest of his life, suddenly faced with
A new life.

How overwhelming, to welcome a son in his twilight years
Like Abraham.

I’ve always assumed the silence was retributive,
Just recompense for asking a stupid question of an angel.
But I don’t think it was, or at least not only.
There is gentleness here.

Zechariah left his angelic meeting
With a promise of a son, a sign to prove it,

And a silence to ponder.

Without Regard

Zechariah questioned the angel’s
Good news: “Whereby shall I know this?”
Because, practically, those loins were dead.
He was struck dumb.

Mary questioned the angel’s
Good news: “How shall this be?”
Because, practically, those loins had not yet lived.
She was answered.

Don’t hide behind some easy explanation
Like she had faith and he didn’t. In the text,
They ask the same question, with the same objection:
“Pardon me? Physically, this won’t work.”

Enter in to the uncertainty of dealing with a God
Who works his purposes without regard
For our understanding or approval.
He’ll deal with you as he will.

Cutting Teeth

Caleb’s been cutting teeth lately.
There is something about a baby’s screams
That gets under my skin in a unique way:

Helpless, furious, no holding back.
We don’t scream like that post-infancy.
We learn to modulate our emotions.

Christ said that, “Except ye be converted,
And become as little children, ye shall not
Enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

I’ve heard that explained, babies have trust
That their needs will be provided. Or,
Babies don’t worry about the law.

I can see that. I wonder, though, about
The honesty of crying out when in pain.
Maybe we need to relearn how to scream.

Confession

The great Auden wrote a poem to two friends and ended,
“That within the circle of our affection
Also you have no double.”

Could this not be said of every friend?
That each holds a unique place,
And no two are identical?

Since childhood I have known I have rapacious wishes
In friendship. I want more than
An assurance that there is no clone of me.

That’s obvious. I want a poem to me to end,
“That within the circle of our affection
Also you are my favorite.”

I’m not saying that’s healthy.

Last Lines

A magazine posed the question:
What is your favorite last line?

First lines are memorable:
In the beginning, God.
Call me Ishmael.

But last lines? After all the drama and emotion of the text?
Still important. Maybe.

My Dad’s response was published.
“Father had always said grace before meals; always the same twenty-five words, and the ritual was always the same. Mother would look around the table to see that everything was in readiness; then she would nod to Father. That night she nodded to me, and I became a man.”

My response was not published.
“Thus was the end of Hector, breaker of horses.”

Five Birth Days Appointed

First son.
We were ready to close on a house.
I was concerned I’d be in labor
And unable to sign papers.
A week early, four days before signing,
Contractions. A full day of lollipops and
Walks, a dinner with friends, lots of stairs.
Then six hours of pain.
The child that’s born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

Second son.
I wanted a palindrome date, 12/21.
That came and went.
I wanted a December birthday for the tax refund.
That came and went.
Grandparents were waiting.
Great-grandparents came to town.
Nothing.
In desperation, I acknowledged my inability to change,
My foolish pouting over dates and times,
But please let the baby come before the plane
Carried the Greats away.
Next morning: contractions.
Five hours of pain.
The full family greeted him.

Third son.
Though I didn’t know it till later,
The one day all month that
My friend, my midwife, and
My midwife assistant were all in town
And rested. I needed all three.
Five hours of pain and done.

Fourth son.
Late and then later.
Contractions start and stop.
After my earlier upset about no palindrome,
My surprise at the bounty of God:
08/08/08.
Two hours start to end.
“It was a beautiful birth,”
The midwife said.

Fifth son.
Provision: lovely house.
Provision: midwife arrived in time.
Provision: same friend present as first son.
Provision: guitar played over boys as they slept.
Provision: perfect timing in the midst of much upheaval.

Sometimes God’s hand is hard to see.
In the births of my sons,
I can see his hand.
It is an extra grace.

Manet's Olympia

Perhaps the most obvious example
Of the value of a liberal arts education
Came my freshman year
In creative writing class,
When a pony-tailed student,
Pretentious, read aloud his title
And I wondered, confused,
Why the mountain of the
Greek gods was made of
Mayonnaise.

The Five Love Languages

Words of affirmation
Gifts
Quality time
Acts of service
Physical touch

A friend said, “I love them all.”
She both loved them and lived them.
I know. She lived with me
And loved me.

My roommate, my heart-friend,
Thank you for showing me
Not to fear the ones I don’t
Understand, but to love them, too:

Both love languages and people.

Super Bowl

My freshman year of college,
The home team Broncos
Played in the Super Bowl.

We watched, fortified with
Every food I desired:
Pink and white frosted Mother’s cookies,
Doritos, caramel corn, soda.

It was an intense game.
And although the Broncos did win,
In the end, what I remember most
Was my best friend screaming,

“If the Broncos don’t win,
We’re all going to die!”

Then there was a pause as she considered
This statement that seemed rational in the moment,
Before she amended, more quietly,

“Someday.”

Oh, did we laugh!

Sports: it’s not just mob identity,
Blood lust, snacks, or escape,
But also adrenaline rush,
Giggling with friends
And screaming for joy.

A microcosm of life, yes?

Bartimaeus' Cry

“Lord Jesus Christ,
Son of David,
Have mercy on me.”

So said blind Bartimaeus,
Who, when shushed,
Cried out all the louder.

He persevered and
He was healed.
Thanks be to God.

“Lord Jesus Christ,
Son of David,
Have mercy on me.”

So say I when all is dim.
Lord, master, I am your servant.
Jesus, deliverer, I call you by name.

Christ, Messiah, atonement.
Son of David, fulfillment
Of prophecy, word became flesh.

Have mercy, compassion,
Forgiveness
On me, your creation, your body.

I persevere.
I can see.
Thanks be to God.

Hymn Humming

When we awoke to the random fire alarm
At 4am, there was no sign of smoke,
But the dogs were in the trash
Just outside the window.

It seemed better to head off the
Strewing, so I cleaned up the mess.
An owl screamed next door.
It was dark and cool, with fireflies dancing,
Not a bad way to spend a quarter hour.

As I walked past my one remaining hive,
I was surprised by the volume of hum
Radiating into the night.
Are the bees always this loud, but
Ambient noise obscures their production?

I prefer to think this is an extra pleasure for the awake ones,
A hymn of praise for May and flowers and coolness,
Too much glory to finish celebrating just because
The sun went down.

Creative Output

A piece of me goes out onto the paper.
Unlike a journal entry that simply is,
And dwells not in the realm of good or bad,
Right or wrong, a poem is more personal.

I’m not used to being so vulnerable.
I’m not used to needing reassurance
That my writing is okay, my thoughts okay.
Because a poem can be both bad and wrong.

I hope mine aren’t.

Hero's Rest

Lancelot, disgraced, spends seven years
A hermit, working with his hands.
Then he goes on quest.

He finds a house, constructed stone by stone,
With a crypt behind, waiting for
A true hero of England, Lancelot.

I think about the relief for this penitent.
There is noble work yet to be done.
There is a perfect place waiting for him.

Jesus told his followers,
“I go to prepare a place for you.”
I, too, have a perfect place waiting.

Angle of Repose

Although I would not recommend
The novel that shares a title with this poem,
The final thought stays with me.

The angle of repose, not so obvious as
A horizontal line.

Rather, two lines angled together,
Touching.

Each offering the other support, comfort, rest.

I think this is a variation on a theme I've heard before:
“Bear one another’s burdens.”

Field Trip

When I was little, my dad took
Me and my grandpa and my aunt
To see the Queen Mary.
This ship, in the grand aspect of Titanic,
Was docked and open for visitors.

We admired the ornate first class service,
And the less impressive second class.
I have a vague memory of third class,
With bunks in tiny rooms deep
In the dark belly of the ship.

My Grandpa sailed on the Queen Mary.
With an understandable desire to be connected with finery,
I hoped he had gone in first glass grandeur.
“He started as a third class passenger,”
My aunt told me, “But he was such a good
Pianist that he was invited to sail in second class.
It was quite an honor.”

This vague memory from three decades ago
Rings false today. Why would piano playing,
Even good, somehow move him to second class?
Did a wealthy patron of the arts sponsor his berth
Because recorded music was yet hard to come by?

And why was this refugee from Nazi terror
On the Queen Mary to begin with?

Another piece of family history fades to oblivion,
Except for this vague memory that rings false.

"Healing Tonic"

With a reputation as an earth mother,
My friends were shocked to find soda in my house.
It’s been years since we bought any, but
When we party, we celebrate,
And hot dogs with well water seemed not quite special enough.

“Will you hand one over and say,
‘Here’s your cancer juice!
Oh, and have a cigarette’?”

All this made me laugh,
And feel happy that I am not entirely
Predictable.

But the last laugh came
When I looked at my droopy, sick son
And brought him a Coke as a healing tonic.
When I was little, it always worked for me!

Haiku

White fireflies sparkle
Delightful in trees and fields
Christmas lights in May

6575

We’re moving in May.
We’re moving in June.
We’re moving in July.

My carefully curated collection
Of friends is dispersing.

I renew my resolve
To make the most of every opportunity.
For many friendships, no more meetings
Than I have fingers. So few chances
For fellowship in this lifetime.

And even for those sons who live with me,
The number of days from birth to eighteen is
Finite: 6574 or, if lucky, 6575
Depending on birth year and leap year.

Make the most of today. You won’t get it back.

Introduction

I have a friend who met my book collection
Before he met me.
He read through the titles of classic works,
Recognizing most, and thought,
“I’m going to like this person.”

I knew nothing of this prologue
When we introduced ourselves,
But was struck, almost physically,
By his joyful smile that said,
“I like you and am going to like you more.”

Usually introductions avoid naked delight.
We are less exposed, more cautious.
That seems prudent. After all,
You never know when you’ll meet an ax murderer.
And yet

I wonder now if we met people, made
In the image of God, with joyful expectation
In our eyes instead of self-preservation,
If that would show more Christ.
After all,

That’s how he meets us.

Not Alone

Alone on the farm this week,
I have one additional task:
Milk the cows. Time-sensitive,
As cows like a schedule, and the flies
Grow rapidly worse as the morning wears on.

I left you, my youngest, asleep and well-fed,
And hoped that, should you awake alone,
A brother would hear and carry you.
I wouldn’t be gone long.

But a bull had joined one cow
(How did he get past the electric?),
And the main milker had gone missing
(How did she dodge the line?).

By myself, I could not manage both electric wire
And put pressure on the cow to move.
Unlike dolphins, I could not make my wishes known
Telepathically. I tried.

And so, with no cows to milk
And much time elapsed, I ran up to the silent house.
You were sitting on the floor, playing with your
Current favorite toy, a piece of gravel.

There were tears on your cheeks, evidence
That getting from bed to floor had been
Traumatic.
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry you had to make that transition alone.
I’m sorry I can’t be in two places at once,
That no one wiped your tears as they fell,
That your cries and fears were unanswered.

And yet … you were silent, and playing,
Unharmed and at peace.
You were not alone.
You were answered.

Scorn

Such an ugly word,
Scorn. Related words like contempt,
Derision, worthless, despicable
Only increase the ugliness.

Jesus was laughed to scorn.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke all record this moment,
When the miracle-worker, the healer,
Nay, Life himself went to a dead girl

And said, “Not dead, but sleepeth.”
One expects tears at a death, and sorrow.
But derisive laughter to show contempt?
Do the Gospels have many moments more ugly?

Jesus heals her, of course. Those laughing at him,
Mocking him, believing him worthless …
How did they feel when his healing the dead
Ended in resurrection?


There is a more ugly moment,
Predicted long before Christ carried his cross.
One expects sadness and horror when seeing a bleeding man,
Near death, not derisive laughter.

“All they that see me laugh me to scorn:
They shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying,
He trusted on the LORD that he would deliver him:
Let him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him.”

How did they feel when the trust of the soon dead
Ended in resurrection?

Jesus, we’re sorry you had to dwell among us,
Profane, confused, ugly people that we are.
Jesus, thank you that you dwelled among us,
That our faithlessness could not stop

Resurrection.

The Annunciation

Mid-Eighties.
My parents would have been about thirty,
With three young children,
Living in a shack so squalid
The kitchen cabinets blew open
When the Santa Ana’s blew.
Cost of living: outrageous.
Support: always lacking.

I was young, and was shielded from much
Of the hardship and struggle that
True poverty brings,

Though I once asked my Mom why she
Felt compelled to use up every last
Bit of salt dough for ornaments,
Even though none of her children
Or grandchildren were still enjoying it.
“Did you live during the Great Depression?”
I asked, bemused and a bit annoyed.

Weeks later, she reminded me,
“Our time on support was almost
Exactly as long as the Great Depression.
It formed me.”

Just so.

My Dad had one week off. With a tiny budget,
Camping was the option available,
And they had heard that Monterey was nice.

Six hours in the dependable brown Corolla,
Stuffed with five persons, food for a week,
Tent and supplies strapped on top.

It was summer, and hot, and after six hours,
The baby was wet and we were all a bit sweaty
And grumpy, ready to stretch and be outdoors.

And we arrived to find no room.

I wonder about this moment.
Was this simply one more minor frustration?
Or did this seem like the culmination of
A few years of bewildering setbacks?
How close to despair did that moment bring them?

But that is their story, not mine.

This is mine.

Surrounded at the park entrance by other cars,
Filled with other disappointed travelers,
Dad went to see what he could do
(Probably suspecting rightly that there was nothing.)

A man came to Mom, announced,
“I’m leaving a day early. Once you’re in,
You can renew as many days as you want.
Have a good time.”

The wonder of that moment,
Transformed from shelterless to
Chosen.

The wonder increased when the site
Proved to be the nicest in the whole camp.
(Of course we looked—if you’re going to be in
A miracle, might as well explore how extensive is
The good and perfect gift.)

Why us?
Ha! Why not us?

We have a prodigal father.

The Right Answer

A boarding house brother once said,
“Amy Joy, I don’t think you ever sin.”

He wasn’t kidding.

Filled with confused thoughts of
Sins of omission and commission,
And dead sure that I wasn’t perfectly
Christ in every word, thought, and deed,
I vaguely muttered something like,
“You have no idea,” then

Spent years looking inward, weighing
Motivations, thoughts, actions.

It was nasty, exhausting, brutal,
But I wanted to be like Christ,
And any price seemed too little.

A friend said to me one day, “I think
I’d rather just look at Jesus.”

A new thought. Look at Him, not me.

A preacher said to me one day,
“If you can’t save yourself,
Why think you can perfect yourself?”

(For those who speak Christianese:
You didn’t justify yourself;
You can’t sanctify yourself.)

That was freedom.

So was my house brother right, and I don’t sin?
That’s not the right question.

I am the righteousness of God in Christ.
That’s the right answer.

A Gift

“I have something for you
That can fit in my hand.”

Red cheeks, sweaty hair,
Beatific smile shines above

Dirty striped red shirt.
Stained fingers uncurl

Around my gift: a strawberry,
Almost ripe.

Falling Asleep

Lately I’ve been trying to catch myself
Falling asleep. This is harder than you might think,
Because it requires paying attention
When my mind is letting go,
A paradox in life.

I like it when I catch myself
Floating away. E.M. Forster said that
Novels do not tell well the reality of
Birth, food, love, sleep, death.

If I can catch myself falling asleep now,
I wonder if it will make the final sleep
More recognizable. Perhaps.
That would be the final paradox in life.

(Un)Romantics

Not many people can say they got engaged over the phone.
But it was February already, and if we wanted a summer wedding,
My parents wanted an official proposal before planning.

I knew he was meeting with my parents,
But somehow still was completely surprised when,
In a brief conversation in the five minutes before I led a Bible study,
“The meeting went well. Will you marry me?”
An astonished chuckle, a yes, and then my girls were arriving.

I didn’t tell them until study was over. We were in Hebrews,
And I wanted them to focus.
All of this is so very us.

For the next month, I was engaged without any visual symbol.
I flew to meet his parents for spring break, and expected a ring
At any moment. This lasted from Friday through the whole next week.

He tried to show me a favorite spot he’d had ten years before,
But new owners had put up fences, blocked it off.
We went then to Sutter’s Mill, where gold was first discovered.
He pulled out something unexpected, a slip-cased,
Hardcover set of The Lord of the Rings.
I’d had my eye on it a year.

Behind The Fellowship of the Ring was my ring.
All of this, too, is so very us.

We aren’t romantic, but we like what we like
And we like one another. It’s more than enough.

Poor in Spirit

Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit:
For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

I was taught that I needed to empty myself.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,
For they get to make themselves poorer still.”
What perverted gospel is that?

If God created me, is there not something
Uniquely me that, if destroyed, makes the world less?

It makes no sense to call myself God’s creation
And then seek self-annihilation.
No good news there.

Jesus was never poor in spirit.
As the Scriptures show, he teaches,
Touches, heals, weeps, eats, drinks,
Loves.

He is never less than fully himself,
And in him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily.

Jesus was rich in Spirit.
If he lives in you,
You, too.

Bachelor Party Tales

Back before 9/11, anyone could

Pass through airport security and

Go to wander the concourse,

Watch the planes.

When a man was about to be married,

Phil and friends dressed him in a

Superman costume, with an unexpected

Addition.

At the airport, they tried to go through security,

But Superman couldn’t get through.

A man with a metal-detecting rod came,

Checked him out.

Superman of any type is not something you

See every day. But this Superman had

Balls of Steel, BBs sewn in the area of

The crown jewels.

I heard another story, where friends

Blindfolded the groom and stood him up

And took turns shooting him with a

Paint ball gun.

“We laughed because he acted as if

It really hurt him. All good fun,

Until we saw his back the next day,

Bruises everywhere.”

I’ve heard stories about Phil’s own bachelor party.

Boulder lacked public nudity laws,

And, as I understand, safety laws as well.

One hurting friend

Stood up in the back of a truck,

Exercising his freedom. I wonder if

The driver suddenly glanced in the rearview mirror to see

The crown jewels.

This is all funny. It was less so when

The best man picked Phil up overhead,

Something he’d done in college

Regularly.

But he was weaker, Phil was heavier,

And he dropped Phil like a stone

On some river rocks.

“Sorry, man.”

And so Phil entered matrimonial bliss,

Purple bruise from shoulder to elbow.

The few ribs broken made it sometimes

Hard to breathe.

I think about these stories, in wonder

At the <em>cojones</em> of the first man,

To brave the stares and try to enter the airport

As Superman.

I wonder about the second man,

Why he stood there, taking the shots,

And didn’t rip off his blindfold and

Charge his friends.

And for my husband, whose story I know more:

I wonder how he managed on our honeymoon

To row the boat against the wind,

To play tennis.

I am in wonder still.

No Resolution

Isaiah wanted a duck.
We live in the country, and a pet duck fits.
So, among a box of chicks, one small mallard duckling arrived.

Have you ever seen a duck up close?
The drakes have the reputation for fineness,
With their green heads and noble bearing.

In the bird world, the ladies lose the plumage war.
(Depending on your perspective: their
Camouflage helps hide them from predators.

Perhaps a worthwhile trade?)
But up close Mrs. Mallardy was a beautiful duck, with an
Iridescent blue band of feathers on the tip of each wing,

Usually hidden, but revealed at times.
The speckled brown feathers on her breast
Were thick and warm, downy and soft.

Isaiah could catch her and carry her around, his little pet.
This idyllic scene lasted half a year, until a dog attack
On a rainy January day killed Mrs. Mallardy.

I had never seen my child really grieve.
How much I’d rather grieve myself,
Than watch my child weep.

Needing an escape, we went to watch Beauty and the Beast.
The movie terrified the boys: wolf attacks and
A scary Beast were probably best avoided on a day

When such an attack played out in real life.
I had not remembered. The suburbs have no context
For predation and animal terror.

I was horrified to find that this duck’s death
Plunged me in to dark despair deeper than I had ever known.
If His eye is on the sparrow, why not spare the duck?

Had I lost all sense of proper perspective?
Despair for a dead marriage, or a dead child, or a dead spouse,
Those all make sense. They are extreme losses.

But I feel like I failed at grief.
I was devastated by nothing but the death of a duck
And my son’s tears.

Yes

One Sunday, our friend spoke “No” in every language
He could think of. They all sounded like “No.”
Short, cut off.

Then he spoke “Yes.”
Si, Oui, Ja, Aye.
These sound expansive, open.

Linguistically, I don’t know that his argument worked
(Though clearly I found it memorable).
Not all languages match the sound with the meaning.

But we celebrate Christ Jesus our Lord. And
All the promises of God find their Yes in him.

I will never leave you nor forsake you.
Yes.
You shall find rest for your souls.
Yes.
The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Yes.
For I know the plans I have for you.
Yes.
My grace is sufficient for you.
Yes.

Nightly Blessing

In middle school, I would stay up late and read
Nancy Drew and suck the salt
Off pretzels (even though I’d brushed my teeth already).

If a child is going to be sneaky,
It could be worse.

When I’d hear footsteps on the stairs,
I’d click off my light and try to
Regulate my startled breathing,
Pretend to be asleep.

My Dad came nightly,
And stood in the hall in the midst
Of his four children (three asleep).

“The LORD bless you and keep you.
The LORD make his face shine upon you,
And be gracious to you.
The LORD lift up his countenance upon you
And give you his peace,
Through Jesus Christ our Lord and our Savior.

Sleep tight, kids,
Mommy and Daddy love you.
We’ll see you in the morning.”

My parents did a lot of things right.
This was one of the best.

Going Home

When the doctors knew Grammy was hopeless,
They released her home to die.
Without drugs for diabetes, she was given two weeks.

Phil went to visit, as did most extended family.
They had a weeklong celebration.
“She looks great. We’re having a great time.”

This was August.

We drove out in early December.
Her hospital bed filled the dining room.
Death was near.

Phil whispered, “Still so beautiful.”
And she was. Her eyelids flickered.
That was the last response I saw.

A day or two later, I was sitting on the sofa.
Gramps went to the bathroom.
And his two daughters said to

Their mother, “We’ll take care of him.
Go now.”
And she went.

Timing

On my fourteenth birthday,
My Dad prayed for me at
Breakfast, in our family tradition.

“We were surprised by this
Blessing, and apprehensive at first.
But we had no idea how blessed we’d be.”

I’d known my parents were poor.
I’d heard the story of miraculous provision
Surrounding my birth.

After listing all the needed items,
God provided first
A toaster. Extravagant and unneeded,
Not on the list.
And then God provided the rest of the list.

I knew my first cradle was a drawer.

Yet somehow I had never connected that
That poverty also made my conception
A mixed blessing. Grateful for new life,
Overwhelmed with how to provide for that life.

It felt like a sucker-punch.
I was not a wanted child.
I was a burden.

With some surprises of my own now,
I can see that my Dad’s prayer was nothing
Except honest.

God’s timing is not our own.

Might as well get used to it early.

The Woodpecker Fallacy

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc,
That fallacy that says
“After this, therefore because of this,”

Like the woodpecker story I heard,
Where the woodpecker pecks a tree
And lightning strikes, destroying.
“Look at the power I have!”
Thought the foolish bird.

I would, perhaps, feel the same way about prayer.
I prayed for something and
God did it.
How foolish to say, “Look at the power I have!”

Except
God, you tell us “the effectual fervent
Prayer of a righteous man availeth much”
(And I assume that is true for women, too).

So is it a fallacy to say that answered prayer
Happened because of prayer, if God himself
Tells us that prayer works?
How foolish to disbelieve God’s word.

And yet we know that we cannot make even one hair white or black,
So, in truth, we have no power on our own.

Maybe it is more like this:
God marks the tree the lightning will strike,
And nudges the woodpecker there.
Obediently (unknowingly?) the woodpecker
Pecks the tree God strikes.

God does it. The woodpecker helps.
(And maybe it’s not like this at all.)

God doesn’t need our help, but he wants it anyway.
And we get the gift of working with God.
To God be the glory.

Rejoicing

I’ve known sorrow too deep for words.
That comes out as groaning. And that is right,
Because the Spirit groans, too.

But this joy that is too light for words—
What sound is there that is holy enough,
Rejoicing enough, rich enough?

Lacking the sound on earth, we say with the angels,
Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving,
And honor, and power, and might, be unto our God
For ever and ever. Amen.

The Lasts

We celebrate firsts, because they’re obvious.
First tooth, first step, first kiss.

But how rarely do we recognize lasts.
Last time holding a son during worship.
Last time helping in the bath.
Last time reading Go, Dog, Go.

I doubt we’d celebrate these anyway,
Even if we knew.
The big griefs are painful enough.

Orange Dahlia

A friend remarked that I reminded her
Of an orange dahlia,
A flower I had seen once
And a color I avoid.

I like the layered look of a dahlia’s petals.
I like their charming Mickey Mouse-ear shape.

I’ve never met a person whose favorite
Color is orange. That honor goes to
Blue, pink, purple.
And yet orange is needed, too;
It offers interesting contrast.
And it is far more rare in nature than
Blue and green.

So, multi-dimensional, charming,
Interesting and rare.
Fine.

I asked her, some years later,
If I was a still an orange dahlia.

“No, now I think of you like a shimmery rainbow.”
At the time, I thought that sounded better,
More complete. Biblically meaningful, even.

As if a person can be summed up so simply.

It's Like God Just Said Yes

One translation says, “You have not because
You ask not.”

I’ve asked a lot of times and not always received.

Why not ask again? There was a thing I wanted for a friend.
I felt like I could ask, but should not expect.

It’s not fun to ask and feel a stone-faced response.

And in the immediate, there was nothing but
More disappointment.

How much disappointment could any one bear?

Less than a fortnight later, the sorrow
Changed to bewildering joy.

Above and beyond all we could ask or imagine.

Praise his name.

New Day

My bedroom windows have overlooked:
A ragged backyard,
A basement window well,
A tree and street,
A dumpster,
A driveway.

And then, most cruel, a bed blocked one window
And an ugly storage trailer loomed ten feet away,
Enough for light and sky,
But nothing green and nothing beautiful.

When we planned our house,
We chose the room by the front door,
An arbitrary decision. It could have gone either way.

What joyful surprise that first morning,
To a pink sunrise over the far hill
That I could see from my place on the bed.
The sun came up.

From ugly fake wood boxy blue
To pine-covered hill and radiance of
New Day.

Birthday Bubbles

Effervescent, iridescent, translucent, transitory.
Sibilant words all, to describe something so
Magical.

A single bubble looks lovely, but
A cascade of bubbles is magnificent.
The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Almost nine years ago, we first blew bubbles on
A birthday. Grandparents, parents, grandson,
Celebrating the fragility of life with
Gleaming orbs in the gentle dusk.

Another state, another birthday,
I watch out the window as four sons dance in the bubbles
In the afternoon sun and shadows.
Some blow, some clap and stomp.
All laugh with the joy of the day
And the togetherness.

Each himself a bubble of life.

Effervescent, iridescent, translucent, transitory.
Magical.

Not Lungs

Little towhead,
Freshly washed,
Turns away,
Hands on
Bare bips,
Asks, “Are these
My lungs?”

Bougainvillea

In May 2001 I lived my favorite day.
My hair golden, long and curly, I wore a
Baby blue sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts.
We were visiting in Northern California.
Phil had worked all week, but now it was the weekend.

We spent the day together, laughing and talking.
We walked a path along some water.
The sun-drenched bougainvillea,
My favorite throbbing pink, pulses in my memory,
A vibrant given by God,
Even as the baby I carried then
And lost a few weeks later.

Guidance Counselor

I had tried to register for courses,
Annoyed to have no guidance, no support.
Finally I met with my advisor.
It was our first and only meeting.

She cried and said,
“I lost my husband in a climbing accident.
It was unexpected. Forgive me.”

Was she apologizing for the
Social inappropriateness of her tears,
Or my delay of registration?

I ask now, why was she at work only a week or
So after her husband’s death?

And what could I have offered, a face among myriad,
A single meeting?

I prayed then. I pray now.
God, be with the hurting.
Be with us all.

Tub Issues

I have tub issues.
As a young mother, I read how Andrea Yates
Drowned her five children. The prosecutor
Took out a stopwatch and the courtroom
Silently ticked off the ninety seconds of struggle
That each child would have put up as her hands
Held them under the water.

Monstrous.

Then I dreamed I drowned my son.

A friend reassured me that all mothers have
Such nightmares. We just don’t talk about them.
No wonder.

Even still, I didn’t bathe my son for a year.
The vivid image of our ugly peach-colored tub
In the background of my tiny son’s face, and my hands,
And the water over all.

Like I said, I have tub issues.

So it didn’t bother me too much to leave
Our tub behind. Chronically dehydrated,
Even a short soak leaves me scarlet red,
Stripped of oils and protection. And I don’t
Much like the chemical smell, of chlorine
Or flowers or bubble bath.

But this was a sacrifice for Phil. Given to migraines,
He soaks away toxins, eases sore muscles.
So often during those fifty-two months, I wished
He had a hot bath sanctuary to slip into.

And now he does. No longer peach Plexiglas,
He soaks in an antique cast iron claw-foot,
Appropriately weighty, with good energy.

How strange, to have grieved the lack for so long,
To suddenly find that what we have now is better.

Is this a metaphor of heaven? Or just another example of
Over-consumption? Truthfully, it’s probably both.

Servants

Until I lived without servants, I did not
Appreciate them as much as I should have.

I thank you, servants, for how you ease my life,
And I call you by name:
Dishwasher.
Washer.
Dryer.

Unexpected

I read a favorite book aloud to the boys
All day. The power went off in the evening.
We couldn’t figure out why.
Phil went outside into the stillness.
Later, the boys followed him.
One, two, three, four.

I watched out the window
As an unexpected gust hit out of the still air.
It picked up insulation, long boards, and
Dropped them down like a Dr. Seuss drawing,
Raining blue board and lumber on my sons.

No chance to dodge a twelve foot 2x12 falling from the sky.
Cowering won’t help. Nowhere to run.
I watched, aghast.

My Mother used to say, “It’s a miracle any of us survive.”
Today, that miracle: one, two, three, four.

Almost Fourteen Years

We’ve never been an introspective pair.
But how bemused I was to note I have
No poetry in mind for this farmer,
My husband, sons’ father, creative mind.

All my readings and rejoicings with words,
Nothing jumped out at me as apropos?
Is my man such a mystery to me,
Even now, after almost fourteen years?

Or have I simply reached a place of trust?
I can confess a crush and he laughs and
We talk it out. I want to be perfect.
He wants to be like Christ. He has chosen

The better part. He cherished me, showed me
Christ. There is no mystery here. Good thing.

Trampoline

I learned about grief today.
It was more visceral than I realized.
More lasting than I had conceived.
I wanted to get away.

But I have sons, and responsibilities.
I wanted nothing more than to jump on my trampoline,
Violently, repetitively, angrily.
But instead I held my son.

In the end, we jumped together,
The baby curled up against my body.
Silent, his body tensed with each landing.
Too unkind. I fed him. He fell asleep.

And then I jumped, violently, angrily, repetitively.
I threw myself on my back
And saw my feet against the sky.
And ended up on my feet,

Unhurt.

Life is not a trampoline.

July 11, 2012: Passed Over

Phil, man of God …
Passed over.
Others preferred before.

Desiring more ministry …
The same calling remains.

Tend the land. Tend the sheep.
Love your wife.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

And yet it must be.

God doesn’t give more than we can handle.
Does God give us less?

If so, how does one say,

“I think I’m ready for more than you’re giving?”
How does one choose to wrestle with God?

I think God does the choosing.

July 11, 2012: Hard Soil

Our first soil test came back. Composite 3 out of 100.
Mathematically, we could have been infinitely worse.
But in any school, that’s a failure.

Three years now, we’ve blessed the land.
Manure. Compost. Worms. Wood chips. Spoiled hay. Minerals. Manure.

The land gains in richness, fertility, health.

I wonder if God cries over his hard soil.
For the weeds.
For the wild plants.
The unproductive.

It’s not easy being a gardener.

July 11, 2012: This Is a Hard Life

Before we moved, all I read were the benefits.
Family together, loving, working, earning.
Create beauty.
Color, smell, sound, feel, taste … LIFE!

And.
Avoid extracurriculars. Avoid electronic brain vacuums.

All those single homesteaders made me wonder, though.

Three years (in a few days).

A string of dead animals.
Orange slick clay, now burnt siena. No longer shiny.
Grasses grow. Some orchard trees.
A pump house (siding falling).
Partial skeleton of a metal building. (Good foundation.)
A tractor, a chipper, a trailer.
Two construction trailers, an RV, a metal barn.
A little greenhouse, not air tight.
A big greenhouse. Well, at least the metal.

Blood (but not too much).
Sweat. Gallons from Phil. Pints from me. Drops from sons.
Tears (all mine, I think).

A list of failed enterprises.
Broilers. (Heat stroke. Dog attack. Heat stroke. Dog attack.)
Pigs. (Who wants to pay extra for soy-free feed? Oh, and the freezer broke.)
Eggs. (Foxes. Hatchery-spread disease stops all laying.)
Sheep. (If they don’t die at birth, they die in infancy.)
Market garden. (Poor soil. Pooped out. Bugs. Weeds!)
Berries. (A thousand raspberry plants with no berries.)

A list of hope.
Garlic. (Apparently “marginal” soil doesn’t produce well. So we’ll improve it.)
Milk. (Cow dies. Calf dies. Don’t conceive. Don’t produce. Don’t despair. Plant comfrey. Feed minerals. Keep trying.)
Fruit. (Find the right apples. Graft the right apples. Enjoy the colors, the look.)

Rich in character, in friends, in the presence of God, in companionable marriage.
Rich in stories (not all of them good.)

May 5, 2012

Why write poems, when so much has been said so well?
Because the world remains new and exciting.
What Frost and Berry and Dickinson saw and experienced
Is only partly mine.

I see the world my own way.

I live on the land. I walk on the soil (not dirt, my son, age three, corrects me).
My dog, so sweet, so needy, paws red clay into my leg, my clothes.
The soil stays in me. My clothes, my shoes, always red.

My hands run red in all sinks: airport, friends’, church. The soil sticks to me.

The soil is in me. I have cried for the animals, the crops, the trees,
That the soil cannot, will not support.
And yet it supports me.

When the animals don’t grow, the crops don’t grow—I grow.
The soil gives: proper perspective.

The death of a tomato plant, the death of a chicken: disappointing.
A life lived in anger, fear, hatred: horrifying.

A rooster’s call, after presumed dead: redeeming.
A scion joined to a rootstock: rejoicing.