Pierced Ears

My Dad’s rule: pierced ears when twelve,
Some form of bat mitzvah, coming of age.

I spent the five years prior
Skirting the spirit of the law:
Taped paper clip chains,
Taped pop bead patterns.
Did such creations improve my looks?
I thought so.

After a time, some took pity
And gave me clip-ons.

I remember one got lost once,
When I was with friends
Near the Botanic Gardens’ Japanese bridge.

My mother, shopping sometime later,
Came across a junk basket, with random items
Each a quarter. Inexplicably, she looked through it

And found a matching clip-on earring,
A little kiss from a God who cares
For a little girl’s vanity.

Half-Birthday

Most celebrate a birthday.

In Disney’s Alice in Wonderland,
The characters sing,
“A very merry un-birthday to you,”
Which could be sung every other day of the year
Except one. The half-birthday.

When I was young, when asked, I would answer
Precisely my age. After all,
Twelve and a half is not the same as twelve.

And while I realize most women don’t wish to own
Their age past a certain point,
I prefer my thirties to my twenties,
And am pleased to distance myself, at least a bit,
Both from that painful youth and
From the assumption I am already in my forties.
That’s my husband, not me.

I am now thirty-five and a half.
I own that additional half year with joy.

Slumber Party

Three boys decided to sleep on the floor tonight.
One wants the door open partially, to let in light.
That opening affords the baby quick entrance.
Peals of joyful laughter stream constantly,
Increasing in volume until the baby is screaming
With delight at being with his brothers
In this dark room on the floor.

With such unanticipated gladness,
How can anyone enforce a schedule?
And why would anyone want to?

Sister on the Way

I remember, shortly before my fifth birthday,
Driving through the heartland of America in winter.
My Dad, recently unemployed, had taken a temporary job,
And we had stopped for Christmas at my Grandparents’
Before driving on. But the drive was not smooth.

We pulled over and my Mom did something out the door.
And again.
The third time, my Dad said, “I think that confirms it.”
Morning sickness had come, and my sister was on the way.

Why do I have a clear memory of the frozen corn stalks
And the thin layer of ice over all, that single impression,
When I have no clear memory of my sister for months and years?
Are the memories of pacifier and giggles actually my own,
Or simply overlays of photos in the albums?

My sister was younger enough that our worlds didn’t mesh
Comfortably until she was in college.

They mesh comfortably now.
I am thankful.

Winter Coming

The night air had a sharper feel it,
So I put the baby in footie pajamas.
Last time he wore them,
His proprioceptive understanding
Was not formed, apparently,
But now he could see that the
Green cuffs were on his wrist,
The blue foot coverings on his feet.
He touched wrists and feet repeatedly,
Soaking up his expanding knowledge of self.

Then, snuggly warm, he slept well.
I woke in a chilly room and knew
Winter is coming, even without
The thermometer’s precise
Fifty-six.

Creation

One might say,
“I feel dirty.”
God formed us
From the dust.
I think it’s safe
To assume
He knows our
Dirt.
And loves
Anyway.

American Flag

I started throwing up on Capri.
I staggered through Pompeii.
We left earlier than expected
And drove to Rome, that paradise.
And I threw up and threw up,
And got the runs, until I felt like
A spigot flowing out of every orifice.

We went to the hospital and received
The diagnosis: food poisoning
And bambino.

I had taken a test before we left.
It was negative, so I had blithely
Drank my way through two weeks
Of more wine than ever before or since.

But now I was sick and didn’t care
About the Sistine Chapel or
Michelangelo’s Moses,
Let alone Pisa or the Cinque Terra.
I just wanted to be home.
So we flew standby as soon as possible.

And when we landed at Dulles
And I saw the American flag,
My heart leapt for my homeland
As it never had before or since.

I Have a Voice

If I hadn’t destroyed my voice
By cheering at summer camp
Until I developed nodules,

And if I had confidence and
I could actually make my voice
Match the tune in my head,

I would like to be an opera singer,
If only so I could sing
“O mio babbino caro” in the shower.

But I have nodules, no confidence,
And no ear. So what an unexpected joy
To find, after fifteen years,

That my flute can sing for me,
With better dynamics, vibrato,
Control … and a three octave range.

Arrogant Braggadocio

Phil has an opinion on everything.
He likes to think and talk.
If you disagree, challenge him.
But tell how you got to your position.
He would be happy to change his mind.

“This is the mark of true humility,”
Said a friend. “I’m so glad,” Phil replied.
“I think most people perceive
Arrogant braggadocio instead.”

It is interesting to consider that
Humility is not insecurity,
Nor silence or retreat.
Rather, willingness to listen,
And change.

The Deeper Meaning

We can ask questions today
About things we didn’t even know yesterday.

A person could receive a blow to the head
And become an entirely different person.

Man’s height of a meter is about the midpoint
Between the size of the universe and the subatomic particles.

Modern physics theorizes the unifying principle,
The interconnectedness of all things.

The position of the earth is uniquely situated
To be able to observe the universe.

A heart transplant patient gets a heart
And experiences different dreams and memories.

Does all of this mean anything? Maybe we should just have
Humility as we look at what we don’t know.

Trajectory

“If I look at who I want to be in the future,
My trajectory needs to change if I’m to be that person.”

It’s an interesting thought.
If I mostly like who I am now, is that simply grace?

Or did I start my trajectory well and have been
Resting in a parabola of constant acceleration ever since?

Yes to the first.
No to the second.

Do what you’re convicted to do today and every day.
Then you’ll be who God wants you to be, now and in the future.

Chesapeake Bay Sunrise

The first night I stayed in a guest house
On Chesapeake Bay, I was startled
To waken, stressed, and see the water out the window.
Then the sky changed and the sun rose.
It remains one of the most beautiful things I have seen.

I slept five nights more in that bed,
And missed the sunrise every time.
I had stayed up late, talking to siblings,
And was ready for more rest.

I think I’ll take the single perfect sunrise memory,
With the late night fellowship,
Over five more sunrises,
Just to try to relive
The glory.

Some things needn’t be repeated.

First Sunrise

At summer camp the year I was twelve,
They had a sunrise hike.
I had never seen a sunrise.

We climbed up a small hill and sat on boulders.
After a time, a thin line of sun appeared.
I stared, fascinated, as the line grew,
So much more quickly than I would have guessed,
So that the sun appeared to leap up, far faster
Than the slow rise of bread.

The passage of time shouldn’t surprise me still,
But it does.
Every time.

Vacuuming

Maybe it was just the four year hiatus,
Or the fact that I have but one area rug,
But every week when it’s time to vacuum,
I get excited.

The wool carpet sheds like an animal,
Covering my house in maroon tufts.
And though many of them come up in the mop,
The real payload is in the vacuum canister,
A dusty mass of fibers,
Like an enormous hamster.

This probably is on the same level of twisted pleasure
As popping zits.

Peek-a-Boo

Playing the flute this week,
I glanced down to see Caleb
Sitting, holding Phil’s dirty t-shirt.
He smiled and covered his face
For a moment. Peek-a-boo!

I smiled and returned to playing.
A few measures later, I stopped.
What was I thinking?
My son will be nine months
Only a few more days.

So I sat on the floor and he hid
And revealed. We laughed.
Shortly, he grew bored
And crawled off, and I returned
To playing, filled with delight.

An Encourager

My tendency, as a realist
(Some might say pessimist)
Is to remember the failures.
How much effort and money
Have gone to dust.

“We’ve been here five years.”
Abraham said with amazement,
“And look how much
We’ve accomplished!”

July 26, 2014

Caleb and I sat on the trampoline
At twilight. Five years ago, I held Joe
And we walked onto the land for the first time
To stay.

Tennyson said,
“Though much is taken, much abides,”
And I think that’s an apt summary
Of our half decade.

Makes Me Smile

I made a meal for some folks I didn’t know.
I did the same again the next night,
But now I knew the folks. One said,

“I was so glad when I saw your face again,”
(And had he ended there, what a perfect pick-up line)
“Because I knew you’d bring good bread.”

Weeks later, I still smile every time I think of that sentence.
But could we dare to say the first part to our friends,
In full sincerity? Or would that expose the heart too much?

Church Question

A woman said, “When in church,
Two people sit next to each other.
One had the best week ever.
One had the worst.
How do we make space for both?”

Come in prayerful expectation.
Worship Jesus. Invite the Spirit.
Let the joyful remain humble;
Let the grieving receive truth and healing
And peace.

Paul said it more simply: Widen your hearts.

Blackberry Lesson

I went first to the east side of the blackberry patch to pick.
Fermented, formless, bug-infested, bitter, small berries, all.

I wonder: the west side berries get late afternoon sun,
Soaking in the warmth until night.
Is that the difference? The east side loses daylight early?

Not to find an allegory under every vine,
But I hope that I face the Son until night,
That I may offer sweet fruit to all who come.

Dragon Train

Isaiah likes the baby well enough,
But even as a baby, Isaiah fast outgrew
Gurgle talk, so they have little interaction.

Today I heard a cheerful voice:
“Get on the Dragon Train!”
Caleb sat on the blue dragon blanket

And had a ride around the house,
Courtesy of big brother. Even from a baby,
Laughter is clearly understood.

The Things They Carried

Until friends share, they come to me unknown.
Then sometimes I hear stories so horrible,
The words would singe the printed page.
How do I make space for healing?

Thanks be to God, I have a space.
Thanks be to God, Jesus is the healer.
When friends hurt, I can point to him,
And he takes and carries the hurt.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Sending Flowers

Every once in a while,
I get to send flowers.
A miscarriage.
The anniversary of a mother’s death.
An unwanted divorce.

These are all sad things.
But I confess that on delivery day,
I have gladness just imagining
The truck bringing
The unexpected bouquet.

Berry Harvest

As I walked out to pick blackberries,
I startled a cardinal and two indigo buntings.
I barely avoided touching a honeybee.
The dog came around to see what I was doing.

Green vines draped in front of me,
Tall green weeds behind,
I picked the sun-ripened berries,
And ate some and saved some and lost some.

This was what I once expected farming to be:
The natural world around, with
Delicious fruit in abundance, and
Minimal maintenance, needing only harvest.

So, with this first taste of what I expected from farming,
What to do? Claim it as a harbinger of good things to come?
Rage that a half decade has passed,
And all we have to show are some ephemeral berries?

Or maybe I could spend every waking moment
Rescuing every possible berry, until I hate the outdoors
And my life. No … I think I’ll eat what I please with thanksgiving
For this gift given, and no expectation for the future.

Not a Trick Question

“Mr. Gooch threw a football with me.”
Oh, did he teach you the right way to throw it?
“Well, I don’t know if it was the right way.”

Haven’t we all taken tests where the question asks,
“True or false: The AMA Journal noted that
In Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling,
As God reaches to Adam, Eve waits with others
In a shape that looks like a brain,
Showing graphically that all things come
From the mind of God.”

And we’re left wondering if the real question
Is whether the name of the Journal is correct,
Because the rest of the answer is so obviously true.
Just how tricky is this professor?

My son, I simply wanted to know if you had any teaching
On football throwing. Let’s avoid those trick questions.

The Louvre

We reached the Louvre an hour before closing.
The beautiful glass pyramid of I.M. Pei greeted us.
We had one destination, the Mona Lisa.

Racing up some stairs, I was stunned
To suddenly come across
The Winged Victory of Samothrace,
A sculpture even more magnificent than her name.

Full stop.

Even now, I can feel the gasp in my body.
Even now, my pulse quickens.
Such majesty, such beauty, simply there, in a stairway.
No other tourists stood there gawking.

After a moment of awe, I moved on
To the Mona Lisa.
It was fine.

Hope

We use “hope” in an uncertain way, usually.
I might hope for a Cabbage Patch or a raise
Or good weather for a party.
Maybe I will get it. Maybe I won’t.

When the Bible speaks of hope,
It’s different. The promise of what is to come,
What we hope for, is certain,
If not yet realized.

Surfeit of Blackberries

Have you ever had surfeit of blackberries?
I didn’t think it was possible.
But after my earlier bowls of broccoli soup,
And fresh peaches,
My stomach was roiling enough
That a half hour picking and eating was sufficient.

There are plenty more berries.
But, for today, this belly is done.

Good thing tomorrow comes soon!

Skitter

I held Caleb’s hand as he balanced.
Then he dropped my hand and,
Stiff-legged, took four sturdy steps to me.
He repeated these steps dozens of times.

“I like to watch him skitter across the floor,”
Said Abraham, and gave him a hug and a kiss.

Gathering

At a concert, the boys sat in the last row.
I stood behind, bouncing the sleeping baby.

The open door to the venue was at my back,
The assembled believers arrayed before me.

And I thought of friends in far countries,
Who wonder about security for their gatherings,

Wonder if this is the day that they show up
And face gunmen, intent on destruction.

Of course, attacks happen in America,
Though not usually for religious reasons.

I prayed for protection, then moved to the side,
So my baby was not the first target in sight.

Prayers of Protection

A teacher said, “I pray daily for my family,
That they will be delivered from the evil one.”
I don’t want to hear that.

When we moved, I prayed for protection every day.
One day I didn’t, and something happened,
So bad I have blocked it from my memory.

Who wants momentary forgetfulness
To be the opening for attack?
No one needs that pressure!

So I quit altogether, preferring no prayer
To the guilt that I caused something bad
By my imperfection.

Five years later, I can see that classic human response,
A swing from one extreme to another.
If I can’t pray perfectly, daily, I won’t ever.

Now, flipping through my story of those early months,
I can see that there was no lack of hard things.
We had head injuries, animal issues, persistent poison ivy.

So although I prayed, life still happened.
And even if I pray daily for the rest of my life,
My loved ones will all one day die.

Perhaps that is the ultimate deliverance from the evil one.
God is at work. I can choose to participate.

Life

Does life begin at conception?
I can’t say certainly it doesn’t.

“The life is in the blood,” says Leviticus,
Which would mean life begins
Eighteen days or so after conception.
Personally, I like this line of thought.

I have heard the argument that the unborn
Isn’t a person until survival is possible
Apart from the mother,
The cancerous growth argument.
Can there really be two people, if one cannot exist
On its own? Cut away the cancer, the growth,
Without question or concern.
If we are all simply a mass of cells, this makes sense.

Without agreement on the nature of life itself,
How can we have agreement on how to love
The mother and, perhaps, the unborn?
And how can we even approach this, gently?

Give us wisdom, God. We need it.

Tantrum

Computer power cords are not good for teething.
Caleb wishes they were.
We tell him no.
He sobs.

Who of us likes to be corrected?

Mirror

As the postal worker drove to work,
Her side mirror exploded.
Shocked, she drove on.

Later, a friend came by. “I saw an eagle
Lying dead in the road just there.”

Did the bird dive for food, but connected
With a speeding mirror and death?
Or was something else at play?

Flute II

When I quit playing the flute,
The summer after my freshman year of college,
I really quit.

I started listening to classical music around then
And realized that flute performance wasn’t
My idea of easy listening.

So I decided I didn’t much like the sound of the flute,
Or the cliché of a slender blonde girl playing the flute
(Don’t they all?), and walked away.

Sixteen years later, my mother told a story.
We were on a houseboat on Lake Powell
And had stopped for the night under a rock overhang,
A natural amphitheater.
I played the flute under the stars, resting on the water,
Surrounded by no one, and my mom thought,
I have arrived.

The next week my sister said,
I would fall asleep listening to you practice
And think, My sister is amazing!
I was surprised when you just gave it up.

Did I know this? If so, I had forgotten.

Flute I

I don’t usually think I’m lacking confidence.
So I was surprised to look back and find
My high school self lacked confidence in music.
Because I spent a large amount of time
Practicing the audition piece until it was perfect,
I assumed I had cheated the system,
Created an illusion of exceptionality
Where none actually existed.

I look back now on what I played,
And wonder at my self-effacement.
I played music with thirty-second notes.
I played long tones ten minutes a day,
And the entire circle of fifths.
I could transpose in my head two or three intervals,
Play music with any amount of sharps or flats,
Sight read reasonably well,
And, if given time and space, could sometimes
Play simple music by ear.
I could tell, sometimes, what specific notes
Were sharp or flat, and adjust accordingly.
Songs I performed, in a wedding, at church,
The national anthem at the state swim meet,
Were all so easy.

I say this not to brag (at least not much),
But more in astonishment that despite all that,
I didn’t think I was very good at the flute,
That any acclamation was a fluke
And actually undeserved.

Rest

The baby woke me at five.
I usually rise and work or write
Or otherwise use my time
Profitably.

Today, though, I realized that rest
Might produce a different sort of
Profit, a cheerful mother,
So I went back to sleep.

July 20

Five years ago today we left Boulder.
It had taken us most of the day to finish
House-clearing, but by evening,
The dump runs were done, the accumulated
Detritus of seven years compressed and stowed,
And we drove out.

Phil and his Dad were in the truck,
Towing the car. His Mom and I were in the van
With four sons and sufficient food.
Eight Lykoshes on an epic trip across the country.
We knew when we left we would not return.

Not Always a Foodie

My freshman year of college,
I ate five grapefruits and drank Diet Coke
For breakfast every day.

After freshman year,
I ate frosting straight out of the can.
I craved Doritos and Twizzlers.

My junior year I lived in a boarding house.
There I learned that Parmesan was not always a powder.
Nor was garlic, actually: it grew in bulbs. Who knew?

Married after junior year, I learned the hard way
About sauté, and that if you freeze the five pound
Ground beef block, you won’t get a single pound out easily.

Unusual

I had a lovely sheltie.
He had a lot of hair.
I brushed him very often,
Gathered what was fair.

I talked on the phone for hours,
And kept busy on the call;
I spun that hair with a spindle
Until I had many a ball.

My grandma didn’t want them;
She had projects enough to enjoy.
But my cousin knitted a poncho,
A scarf, and slippers for my boy.

Second Chair

I was second chair flute my senior year.
I was good enough for All-State Band,
And alternate for All-State Orchestra,
(They only took three or four).

But first chair eluded me, firmly held by
The boy with the golden flute.

He’s Principal Flautist for
The Denver Philharmonic now.

I won’t feel bad I didn’t oust him.

Compliments

The drunken bum on the bus said,
“You’re cute as a bug’s butt!”
Which obscured more than it clarified:
Just how cute is a bug’s butt?

A mother at my brother’s cross country meet
Snagged me: “You have beautiful hair,”
Which just confirmed what I already suspected.

Some compliments aren’t only verbal,
Such as the wry look my band director gave
After my senior year audition, and the
Statement, “You’ve been practicing,”
Which was obvious to us both.

Or the horn-honking, arm-waving greeting
When we first saw a friend again after years,
Which made us feel like we’d come home.

I Will Survive

I loved a boy who didn’t love me.
Every week I would put on Gloria Gaynor’s
“I Will Survive” and let the disco diva
Tell again my story.

Staring

I sang in my elementary school choir.
One competition, we sat onstage the whole time.
A cute, dark-haired boy caught my eye.
I stared at him, and kept staring.
He noticed. Nudged his friend.
That friend nudged another.
The circle of uncomfortable children
Expanded, concentric circles in a pond.
When we left, hands pointed to me: There she goes.
Notoriety from a half hour focus, so socially askew.

I have heard that the Medievals believed that the eyes
Sent out beams, and that those beams could
Entwine. How quaint.

And yet … that stare was not nothing.
The power in that look surprised me.
And I’ve never tried it again.

God's Economy

Matthew, the hated tax collector, in league with the
Occupying Romans, writes his Gospel for the Jews.

Paul, the Pharisee of Pharisees, apostle to the Gentiles.
God doesn’t allocate resources the way I would expect.

I would prefer efficiency, a straight line.
But perhaps I should take comfort that the record shows

Anything but, preferring relationship, lives poured out,
Time, forbearance, surprise.

The Paperclip and the Ship

The first year we were married,
I woke Phil, urgently.
“Take this paperclip. It will save the ship.”
I vaguely remember his fingers,
Vainly trying to grasp what I offered.
“I can’t get it.”
“That’s because it’s imaginary!”

His sarcastic, “Oh, okay!” woke me fully,
And at first I was annoyed.
But then we laughed, and continued to laugh,
For years. Just how was that paperclip supposed to help?

He went back to sleep, and I got up
And finished A Passage to India
And started Death Comes for the Archbishop.
So a week’s worth of satisfying reading
Converged around sleep-talking.

I’ve forgotten much in fourteen years,
But this I remember.

Dance Party

After days inside, hiding from sun
And humidity, we had energy to burn.

Before books and bed, we put on dance music
And went out back, into the perfect summer dusk,
With cow and calves grazing the grass down slope
And one sunlit, perfect cloud amidst the darker sky.

Baby on my back, we rocked as best we could,
While Joe kicked like a donkey, lively, but
Completely divorced from rhythm or sound.
Isaiah found two sticks and beat overhanging branches,
And Jadon, after a short stint jiving,
Vanished into the trees.
This was all good.

But the best moment came when,
Flying around the house, bare-chested
Abraham arrived, with his hooded monkey blanket
Streaming behind, ear-to-ear grin,
Ready to dance.

No Words

There was nothing to say and no words with which to say it. (The Squire’s Quest)

Some griefs run
Too deep for words.

Gold

Driving to church one Sunday,
We passed a truck in flames.

“Your love is like fire
That burns for all to see,”

We sang minutes later.
“Let this fire consume my life.”

I cried then. God, my life
Is that burned out truck.

Instantly, a vision.
A wall of flame, with a

Gold ring flying out to me.
Not destroying. Purifying.

Spiritual Exercise

I heard an interesting exercise.
Fold a paper in half.
Write five things that annoy
You about your spouse.
On the other half, write your response.
Throw away the spouse’s part.
Meditate on your response.
That’s you. Ugly.

I wonder: what if you took a paper
And wrote five things
You love about your spouse.
On the other half, write your response.
Because that’s you, too.

Is there a reason we always focus on the ugly?
Is there no place for celebration of the light?

Motivation

Pilate ostensibly put Jesus to death
To prevent insurrection.
He needed to squelch any who were
Not a friend of Caesar.
“King of the Jews” seemed a good excuse.

But then there comes this damning
Statement, that he knew that the chief priests
Had delivered him for envy.
He understood the true motivation,
And fought it, impotently.

How did Mark comment so assuredly
On Pilate’s knowledge? Solely through
The Holy Spirit? Or was there a witness
That Pilate talked to, some journal uncovered?

Or was the motivation of the chief priests
So transparent to all that it would be
Impossible to miss?

Maybe a lesson comes, besides the obvious
Don’t envy:
Your motivation isn’t as secret as you think.

Not Quite Impossible

”Twenty minutes,” he muttered. “In another twenty minutes the flood tide starts, and then we won’t be going anywhere but back to the dike. And those storks will go under. Kid, if you ever rowed, row now.”

In a story, the author sets up
An impossible situation. Almost.
There remains a thin hope that the chain of events
Leading to this moment will end
Not in disaster,
But success.

A thin hope.

And so books tutor me in faith,
That the delicate orchestration
Wrought by a Master Storyteller
With but a thin hope threading through
May end in success
In my story, too.

Musician

A musician I know lives a minimalist
Life in Brooklyn. Apartment, no family,
Few possessions. And music.
Music for work and music for hobby.
He does what he loves, every day.
He is doing what he wanted to do since
Elementary school.

In elementary school, I wanted to be a nurse
Or a teacher. The nurse idea fell flat
When I fainted watching the blood pool in the
Gap where my baby tooth had just been.
And the teacher idea … I came close, I suppose.
But is that my passion?

More than the musical ability,
More than a life lived doing what one loves,
I think I most envy the
Knowing
What he wanted for his life’s work.

Chez Amy's

Boulder’s Chez Thuy restaurant
Has the best escargot.
And Berkeley’s Chez Panisse
Has the best of everything, I’ve heard.

Our first year of marriage,
Phil traveled to New York routinely.
He would rappel buildings,
Check facades to prevent terra-cotta
Ornaments from manslaughter by falling.

He flew out early one morning.
I expected him back the next day.
That night he called me:
“Guess where I’m eating tonight?”
Manhattan has no lack of fine dining.
The list of guesses was long.

Then came an incomprehensible garble:
“Chez Amy’s … oh, that darn cat!”
And the blue Honda Civic pulled in.

He said later he had parked right outside,
Hoping to make a dramatic entrance.
But the cat, curious or affectionate,
Jumped up on the roof just before
His grand entrance, ruining the delivery
Of the line, but not the person.

I remain amazed that my company and cooking would be
Preferable to an extra night in Manhattan.

Quiet Times

Driving recently with three sisters,
I broke a lull with a question:
“Do you have quiet times often?
I don’t.”

One replied, “Sometimes. I usually
Pray more than read scripture.”

One then gave a shout of laughter.
“You mean biblical quiet times!
I thought you just meant generally in life,
You don’t stand for times of quiet!”

Apparently I haven’t changed much since senior year
When I clinched the title
Most Talkative.

My Circle

Grieving over who I have been,
Fearing who I still am,
I asked a friend to pray.
“I am not a servant.”

And she laughed!
The best sort of laugh,
Not in mockery,
But in disbelief.

A laugh that said,
“Of all the possible reasons
I might have been asked to pray,
This is the last I expected.”

And she prayed!
The best sort of prayer,
That covers with grace
Human imperfection and heart hardness,

That speaks truth about who I am
And my place in my circle,
With knowledge of me
And my life, that reaches back years.

Servant's Heart

A prayer minister said that the most vital thing
For a prayer minister is to have a servant’s heart.

I’ve thought about a servant’s heart for years.
Pre-teens, I overheard my mom and aunt discussing
A younger cousin: she had a servant’s heart, always spotted
Where the need was and went to fill it.
I don’t remember whether my own lack in that area was explicitly
Noted or made conspicuous by the lack of praise directed my way.
Truly, I had no servant’s heart.

My grandma, that same visit: “Amy always knows
What she wants and goes and gets it.”
She saw me at most two weeks a year,
And pegged this essential part of me.
Decisiveness hardly meshes with a servant’s heart.
Jesus, after all, emptied himself and took the form of a servant.
I noted how I would like to be filled, and went and did it.

Two decades later and more, I think about my heart.
I’m still not a servant.
Some people, when they ask if they can help,
Actually mean it. Not me.
If I’m going to give of money or time, I want it to be on my terms.
I generally still know what I want and seek to get it.
I’m just old enough now to know that I don’t always succeed.

So does that rule me out for prayer ministry?
Or will God use a misshapen vessel like me?

Nun to Her Minstrel Friend

I have prayed hourly for you, my dear friend.
To see you alive is like seeing the face of God.
-Brangienne to Dinadan

Most authors marry off their intelligent females and males:
Beatrice and Benedick, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

Even unintelligent couples marry:
Cosette and Marius, Cinderella and Prince Charming.

The thrill of the chase, the eventual acquiescence:
There’s a reason comedies end with a wedding.

So it comes as a surprise when intelligent Sir Dinadan
Proposes to equally intelligent Lady-in-Waiting Brangienne

And she turns him down. She goes to a convent.
He travels the world as a minstrel. They are happy.

When couples marry, there is little to say about the rest of life.
Who wants to read the minutia of stitches and dishes,

Struggling to pay the bills and occasional arguments?
We all know happily ever after is a euphemism for maintenance.

We see Dinadan and Brangienne a few more times.
He visits her. As friends, they talk for hours.

Who’s to say the author made a poor choice?
Perhaps the true comedy comes when the girl says no

And they all live happily ever after.

Four Days' Happiest Thoughts

It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Organic peaches by the case.

An invitation to watch a World Cup match.

Revisiting The Wheel on the School.
Wonder that turns to action. Redeemed relationships.

A surprised statement: “You made food enough
To feed an army while I was just standing here!”

An unexpected thank you with a sense of humor.

A self-described white ninja, sometime prairie girl,
Visits. When told they will soon leave, says,
“I would like to leave when I’m fifteen.”

Sons sharing blackberries with me, with friends,
With each other.

A supermoon visible out my bedroom window.
(Having a bedroom window. Even just a bedroom.)

Incidentals

I’ve been thinking about incidental growth.
In the core of me, my spirit follows God,
And I hope that any decision I make
Would not change that.

But the outer circles of my being
Are contoured by choices.

Low maintenance by personality and marriage.
Verbal and visual, by birth and inclination.
Hospitable by marriage and training.
Cheerful, perhaps, by circumstance and personality.

Growth in one direction precludes growth in another.
I wonder, though, how a different-contoured me might be.

Elvis

One year for Christmas,
Preferring a slow rollout
To a single-day barrage,
We opened a gift a day
The week before.

We listened to Elvis’ 30 #1 Hits
Without cease, and slowly put together
The three-pack of Thomas Kincaid
Puzzles, frustrating in their
Minor chromatic variations.

Considering this remains one of my
Favorite Christmas memories,
In this case, the memory,
And not the stuff,
Is the more important gift.

Lawful

Jesus, prepared to heal
A withered-hand man,
Met resistance.

Would he heal on the Sabbath?
“Is it lawful to do good, or to do evil?
To save life, or to kill?”

The Law made no prohibition
For healing.
And heal he did.

The Law did make prohibition
For killing. Immediately
They went and plotted to kill him.

Even for the sticklers,
The Law brings no life.

Almost Verbal

Caleb orates. Besides “da,”
Used for “dog” and, maybe, “dad,”
None of his syllables are intelligible.

And yet his phrasing is natural,
His focus steady,
His volume unsurpassed.

We are yet in the period of grace,
Where he does not expect to be
Understood, and so he practices,

Without the tantrums that come
Later, when the thwarted expectation of
Minds meeting overwhelms.

Different System

When the Israelites offered sacrifices,
They followed the Law and
Brought the animals annually to the
Levites.

We are covered with a sacrifice,
Once for all. Our high priest is not of Levi but of
Judah.

Different tribe, different priest,
Different system.
Grace.

The Son of God

Mark opens, “The beginning of the gospel
Of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

The reader knows who Jesus is from the beginning.
God from heaven declares Jesus his Son ten verses later.

We watch for anyone else to clue in.
Jesus calls himself only the Son of man.

Unclean spirits recognize him and fall down before him.
The Transfiguration: God again speaks: My beloved Son.

The high priest asks if he is the Christ,
The Son of the Blessed. Jesus says plainly, I am.

Jesus dies. The Roman centurion says, “Truly,
This man was the Son of God.”

The demons and the Roman get it right.

Mechanic and Plumber

Although both are needed,
What a crummy way to spend a life:
The best outcome they can offer is simply
To return a car or pipe to the state it
Was before the break or leak.

Dido

When the plane took off from Paris,
I was listening to Henry Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas,

An opera of great beauty. Dido, abandoned, sings her lament,
Her intent to die.

The sun was setting, giving the dirty air an orange glow,
As the soprano grieved, and I grieved, too, leaving the city of light.

She Hath Done What She Could

Jesus told his disciples that he was going to die.
They manifestly did not understand.

A woman poured ointment of spikenard on his head.
Jesus understood: anointing his body for burial.

It’s hard to fathom a year’s wages,
Forty thousand dollars, spilled out. Extravagant.

In the face of common sense anger, Jesus rebukes.
“She hath done what she could.”

She could believe what Jesus said.
And as he faced abuse, taunts, crucifixion,

The smell of her belief went with him,
Anointing his body for burial.

Out of Seven Billion People on Earth

As we prayed for an unborn babe at a shower,
One prayer began, “Out of seven billion people
On earth, I get to be one of this gathering of 25.”
Chosen, distinct, set apart.

I like that thought for any gathering,
Or none. When I read to my sons:
Out of seven billion,
We six are sharing this book.

When visiting with a friend: we two
Have fellowship. When worshipping,
Or shopping, or learning: feel chosen. Even
Alone, I am sanctified and with my savior.

Flowers

I spent a month once, asking God
Each morning what he would have me do.
The first week, maybe first day,
I was compelled to bring flowers to a friend.
Well, she was barely a friend, one of those
People a bit more than an acquaintance,
But not an intimate in any way.

It was Sunday, March. After church I left my
Spouse and son and drove to Costco,
Bought a bouquet. My call on the way
Went unanswered, as did my ring
On the doorbell. So I left the bunch
Inside the screen, hopeful that no one
Would take it, that it would not be crushed,
And drove away.

I got a call later. “Was this lovely surprise
From you?” I’m sure I said it was.
Looking back, the answer should have been,
“Hardly.” And I heard

The backstory: Valentine’s Day had been
Dark. “God, there is no one to bring me flowers.”

And now I had a friend indeed.

Why have I not asked God every day since then
What he would have me do?

The Propriety of Blessing

“God, bless you, friends,”
Said one beloved brother as we left.
The sweetness sank deep.

Now I say it, too. Could not
This hurting world
Use more blessing?

And I sing over guests as they leave:
“The LORD bless you and keep you….”
Parents, pastors, young friends, old.

So I was taken aback to read that
“The lesser is blessed by the greater.”
So Melchizedek blessed Abraham.

I wasn’t trying to make a statement
Of my comparative worth!
But now that know, what do I do?

First Step

Nine months ago, we met Caleb.
Today he took his first step.
Five weeks and more he’s pulled up
To stand, pushed a chair as a walker,
Shown desire, strength, balance.
But when all visible support vanished,
He sank down. Never fell. Just gave up.
He lacked belief.

Today, after ten seconds of free-standing,
He stepped out with his left foot, then
Sank down again, slowly.

I wonder: I am in Christ, his Spirit in me.
I can walk in holiness.
But do I? Or do I look at my flesh,
My feelings, and sink down, slowly,
Lacking belief?

George and Martha

Two hippo friends, named for the first president
And his wife, live out 35 short stories
In our picture book collection.

I read them when I was a girl, and laughed
At George’s mostly innocent sweetness,
And Martha’s feisty, fierce friendship.

I have never grown tired of the pictures,
The silliness of a hippo on a tightrope
Or high dive; of a booth photo gone bad.

After dozens of rereads, the stories
Still make me smile: soup in loafers,
Cuckoo clock in laundry, revenge.

Most books end up either too sweet or,
More likely, too mean, too dark. To strike
A humorous balance of sweetness with an edge:

Genius.

Commandments

We know the two greatest
Commandments in the Law.

Love the Lord your God.
Love your neighbor as yourself.

Jesus gave a new commandment.
Love one another
As I have loved you.

So.

Love as we love ourselves.
Or love as Christ loved us.

The former was glorious.
But the latter exceeds in glory.

I choose it.

Return to Bondage

Are you religious?
No.

The Latin root means
“Again bind.”

No return to bondage for me.
I’m free.

High Priest Sitting

The high priest served his God.
Blood sacrifice daily.
Always standing.
Work.

My high priest offered
His sacrifice once for all.
Then he sat down.
Rest.

Hard to Hear

In Hebrews, the Lord corrects those he loves.
Of course. Transform us, please.

And he scourges those he receives.

What?

Take a whip of three leather strands,
Strike the body thirteen times,
Thirteen times,
Thirteen times.

What parent corrects their children like that?

More: the children corrected
Are not young.
God scourges his adult children.

What context could possibly make that reasonable,
Let alone palatable?

I desire the peaceable fruit of righteousness,
Which is easy to say and pleasant to hear.

I’m not so sure about the forty stripes
Minus one.

First Fruit

Eight years and a lifestyle ago,
We ate blackberries off the vine.

Three years ago we planted.
Three years we waited.

First blackberry tasted.
Ephemeral sweetness.

The fruit of the vine now in me,
A branch of the vine bearing fruit.

Chutzpah

A Jewish teacher described
Faith as
Chutzpah.

Shameless audacity.
Impudence.

I come to the throne of grace
With confidence
Because Jesus is my high priest.

So is that chutzpah
Or just

Sensible?

Church

I read that the early Christians
Didn’t have church once a week.
They were the Church.
And they met daily.

This explains why Sunday morning
Doesn’t feel like enough.
And why I feel deflated after
My brothers and sisters leave.

I do wonder, though:
How did they swing daily meetings
Financially? And were there
No introverts in 30AD?

Edelweiss

My friend gave me pressed flowers,
Delicate and arranged in a flat bouquet,
Signed and framed.

She thought about my decorating style,
The colors I prefer,
While she selected my gift.

I love my Edelweiss. It gladdens my heart.
But even more I love the thought of my friend,
Four thousand miles away, thinking of me.

Song of Ascent

When worshipers ascended to Jerusalem,
They sang Songs of Ascent.

When do we ever sing as we walk?
It’s rare enough just to sing.
A few of us get five songs on Sunday morning,
Standing in place.

After several hours of worship in a pasture,
The light was fading.
To guitar accompaniment,
We walked up the hill singing.

“Our mouths they were filled,
Filled with laughter.
Our tongues they were loosed,
Loosed with joy.”

The Bible says that Jesus was moved with
Compassion, that he felt it in his bowels.
Ascending while singing felt like that.
So deep, “profound” hardly touches it.

The Best Party

We threw a party. We invited friends.
It had all the makings of a great time:

I was so tired all I wanted was a nap.
I never get headaches and I had a headache.
I almost burst into tears while mopping the floor.
Phil hadn’t realized the length of the guest list
And was totally overwhelmed when I told him.
The boys fought all day long.

We have this treasure in jars of clay
To show that this all-surpassing power
Is from God and not from us.

Our party was from God and not from us.

Children played in the creek and
Went crawdad hunting.
They swung poi balls
And set off smoke bombs and waved sparklers.

Friends brought food.
Friends brought instruments.
We sang for a couple of hours.
Then we talked and snacked hours more.
We enjoyed wine and kombucha and beer and bread.
A few pyromaniacs roasted marshmallows for s’mores.
The introverts sat in dim lighting and discussed doctrine.
Three women left with beautifully done nails.

Everywhere I looked was peace and joy and fellowship.
This was from God and not from us.

The Fourth of July

Fifteen years ago, we spent the 4th
With our friend Little Lindsey.
We watched fireworks,
Went for a run at midnight,
Sat up talking until 3 in the morning.

An hour later we got up to bring her
To the airport. As we drove away from DIA,
I said, “Thank you, Phil. I’m sure you had
Something better to do on your day off.”

“Better than serve someone
In the name of Christ? I don’t think so!”

Love entered where there had been
Only interest and affection ten seconds before.

Fourteen years ago, we spent the 4th
With my siblings, in our new house,
Days after we returned
From our honeymoon.

I commemorate the 4th, but it’s about me
And you and serving our God
Together.

Daily Bread

I once read that for centuries no one knew
The meaning of the word “daily”
In “give us this day our daily bread.”
They assumed it was some extra-holy word.

Finally “daily” showed up in a trash heap,
On a shopping list. Some housewife had demanded
Not day-old bread, but “daily” bread.
She didn’t want yesterday’s food.

I love that the word is common, plain.
The Gospel for people like me.
I love that the bread is fresh-baked.
We don’t rely on yesterday’s good.

Direction

As a long-time Christian,
I have read charismatic prayer books
By people whom God directs every step
Clearly. Ask God a question, get a straight
Answer.

My experience of God is not so easy.
No crazy eight ball clear direction.
At times I’ve asked, and been confounded
By the lack of response, left to stumble
In confusion, concerned I’ve made a wrong choice.

But maybe even wrong choices aren’t always wrong.
One friend, sure he made a mistake,
Heard clearly, “It’s better this way.”
Did God simply redeem the wrong choice so it was better?
Or was it the right choice all along?

Currently, I prefer the idea of clarity
Enough. Is there a direction that has more peace?
Go there.
Practically, this means, “God, my day is yours.”
And then I live my life.

Burnt Match

Smoking flax shall he not quench….

A used match, shaken out
To prevent finger burns,
Is not much good.

Jesus takes that barely smoking match,
Disposable, useless,
And doesn’t douse it,

But protects it, restores it.
Do you need gentleness?
Receive. Jesus.

Farming?

I.
I feel entirely unsuited by education,
Physicality, personality, and passion
To farm life.

I studied literature, art, and music.

I don’t like being hot or cold.
I like exercising on my own time,
In ways I can measure improvement.

I don’t much like animals.

I like reading and writing. I like God.
I like my husband and sons. I like my friends.
I like tracking time and finishing projects.
I like learning and cooking and baking
And entertaining and laughing and music.

Not one of those scream “farming” to me.

II.
Phil is well-suited to farming.
With a master’s in construction management,
And a few decades of engineering experience,
He prefers the rigor of outdoor life to
Sitting in front of a computer.

Physically, he can lift astonishingly heavy things.
“I don’t know that I’m superman, but I’m often
Surprised at how little other people can do.”

And his problem-solving skills never cease to amaze me.
If a solution doesn’t offer itself immediately, I give up.
Phil keeps thinking until he figures it out.
As he does every time, without fail. It’s uncanny.

He has the patience to deal with escaped cows.
The tenacity to carry on with a project despite set-backs.
The curiosity to research how to do things.
The big-picture mindset to see how the parts fit together.

III.
I suppose the trick is to see how
We both can use our gifts and passions
When they are so widely divergent,
In a life that is unusual.

One Red Shoe

It seems hard to believe today,
But there was a time when my son
Was the best-dressed child at church.
He had tiny red Gap shoes
That set off every outfit to perfection.

The University of Colorado felt dark.
Friends attended; friends worked there.
I went to prayer walk the campus.

Pregnant, I pushed my son in the stroller.
It was tiring. Hard to focus. Felt pointless.
I ended up not making the full several-mile
Loop, but caught the courtesy shuttle.

It was then that I noticed that one red shoe
Had gone missing.

I never tried again.
Was the missing shoe a spiritual attack?
It felt like it.
And, if so, it worked.

I hear Christians say that if you are not getting
Flak, you’re not in the battle.
But by nature I don’t like battle. At all.
I don’t like competition.
I prefer swim practice to swim meets.
I don’t even like games!
Let me watch charades, not act charades.

But does a missing, well-loved red shoe even count as battle?

Is this a confession?
Perhaps.

Some parts of my life feel pathetic.
This is one.

Sell the Cow

When we were first married,
We didn’t have much money.
Blind tenor Andrea Bocelli
Was coming to town, and tickets
Were pricey. Phil bought them anyway.
Responsible me struggled with that.

I had read an anecdote in
Reader’s Digest years before.
A farm family heard that the circus
Was coming. To travel and buy tickets
Required that they sell their cow.
They did. And they remembered
That circus, with joy, the rest of their lives.

We went to Bocelli, and sat in the cheap seats
High above. From the moment he opened
His mouth for the opening “Ave Maria,”
The glory of the sound enveloped me fully.

Sell the cow.

I Had No Idea

As we pulled up to the land for the first time,
A friend had just called to welcome us.
While I exclaimed happily on the phone,
Jadon got out. Within minutes, he was crying on the roof.
Stinging sweat bees made his life miserable.
I had no idea. The West has no sweat bees.

In less than an hour, friends with chainsaws and
Moral support arrived. “I’ve not seen a hillside so
Covered in poison ivy,” said one.
I had no idea. The West has no poison ivy.
We had all tramped through it.
I would keep my baby in a carrier all day
Every day for several years. No place to set him down.

We went to dinner with our friends. “Is this a crab spider?”
I asked. “No, that’s a tick.”
I had no idea. The West has no ticks.
I killed the one, but when my three-year-old
Complained that night he felt crawly,
And I found dozens of miniscule ticks under his undies,
I just had him go to bed in the nude.
We had no changes of clothes in the tent, and a trek to get them
Was one task too many.

Did I mention that it rained that night,
And Jadon, sleeping under an open tent window,
Woke in a puddle?

Welcome to Virginia!

Ambiguous

When Jesus says,
“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s,
And to God the things that are God’s,”
He draws a distinction between
The coin with Caesar’s image and
Man with God’s image.
That’s the obvious reading,
And perhaps the correct one.

But I wonder: is anything actually
Caesar’s?
Just how subversive an answer is this?

Largo

In Handel’s day, castrati
Were the rock stars.
Don’t pity them.

Composers wrote love duets
For two sopranos.
In recent decades, women in drag

Performed. Today, a few
Men control their falsetto
And produce astonishing

Beauty, such as
Handel’s “Ombra mai fu.”
Flipping through my old

Flute book, I found this piece.
It had meant nothing to me
When I had played it in high school.

Now I play it, and the background
Chamber music plays in my head.
Such sounds that fill our house!

Summer Heat

Summer has seemed more gentle than most
Thus far. Outside it’s in the 90s,
But even without air conditioning,
Our ambient temperature stays in the 70s,
And with ceiling fans, it’s not bad.

I was thinking about the last few years,
Though, how I would go outside or to the RV
For two or three meals a day,
And the sweat would run down my nose
And drop onto the counter or the floor.

It’s hard to cool down after working in
Three digit heat. Cold showers helped.
Historically, women cooked over fires
In summer, so I could hardly complain.
That said, I am extra thankful now,

For sweat-free food.

Busted

The leaders ask Jesus about his authority.
After he confounds them with a question
About John’s authority (from heaven? Or men?),
He tells a pointed story about a man who plants
A vineyard and lets it out to tenants
Who abuse and kill the servant rent-collectors.
Foolishly, the man then sends his son,
And the tenants conspire: “If we kill the son,
We’ll be the heirs.” Kill they do.

The story is shocking.
What tenant thinks, “If I just kill the son,
I’ll be the heir?” What man assumes
The authority of his son will be heeded,
When his servants have all been injured or killed?

Most telling, though: one could almost excuse
The chief priests for killing Jesus: “They didn’t know.”
But this story makes it clear both who Jesus was—
The Son—and that they cared not,
And killed him anyway.

The foolishness of God is wiser than men;
And the weakness of God is stronger than men.
Thanks be to God.

Shakespeare Easy Reader

For one son, reading has not come easily.
Art is more his thing.

So I was startled today to hear him say,
“I hate you, and all Montagues.”
Romeo and Juliet in graphic novel:
The provocation.

“I’m reading the fight scenes.
Let me read one to you….
I bite my thumb at you.”
Who chooses that for their first free time reading?

Good choice, son.
Thank you for sharing this moment with me.

Piano Duets with Baby

Halfway through “Moonlight Sonata,”
I stop using the foot pedals,
Lest I trample chubby fingers, exploring.

Then those hands played bass,
While I kept going, doggedly,
Through Beethoven’s lyricism.

It wasn’t the normal sound, this new
Constant rumble underneath
Familiar patterns. But it was

Companionable. If God is at work,
I wonder if we sometimes come and
Play bass, changing the plan.

If so, he must laugh at the silliness of
Our music, together. And feel
Happy we’re playing with him.

Delight

Last year, Joe built a guitar of Duplos.
Since then, he’s wanted a real one, but small.
One arrived last week, with only
One string. Daily he lamented
How few sounds he could make.
New strings today, and plenty of sound.

But the real story is not the budding musician.
The real story comes just before.
The delight on his face,
When he realized his daddy bought strings,
His requests were heard and answered.

I’ve thought about tears stored in a bottle.
They have substance. It would be possible.
But there is no way to store such delight.

A photo might capture the facial expression,
But not the physical change of posture,
The intake of breath, the freshness
Emanating from the joy.

Some things one can only witness.
And rejoice.

Hummingbird

Fifty-nine months I’ve lived here,
And never seen a hummingbird
Until today.

It looked in the kitchen window,
Looked in the dining room,
Flew by the living room,

And was gone.
Come again, precious guest.
Bless my home, my life

With your presence.
I say the same to you.
Come again, precious guest.