Early Art

Abraham at five would make a single line
Across the paper and tell me
That Buzz Lightyear had just flown off.
Fifty pages a day, sometimes, until
He went through a ream of paper,
A box of reams.

At six, he drew stick figures. Stick figures
Doing everything conceivable.
Some of them wore hats.
Looking back, I can see the development:
A curved line to suggest a hill
Behind the snowman;
A striped stick figure that I know is Hobbes.

I pulled out his stack of early art today,
And he went through it all for the first time
In years. Paper after paper, examining each
With the eye of a developing artist,
Patient with the artist he was then,
Not discarding the whole stack in boredom,
But rescuing fewer than forty sheets
From all those hours of diligent effort.

Anything at All

On Christmas, I allowed myself to
Do anything at all.

And I was surprised to find that
I didn’t make cinnamon rolls

But instead played
Bach for an hour or so,

And found colorful scraps of paper
And pasted them in a book,

The kind of art I feel competent doing,
A mash-up of pictures and colors I like.

At the End

At the end of Jake’s life,
Suffering from dementia,
A friend asked him
If he remembered that he
Had been a POW in Japan.

Incredulous, Jake shook his head.

The friend asked if he remembered
Being a missionary in Japan.

Alight now, Jake spoke passionately
Of his love for the Japanese, for his Savior.

Forty months of torture left
No permanent mark,
But the love of Christ shines
Through dementia.

Fill your mind well.

Average

The three boys in the next room slept through it all,
Until Joe’s first cry. Then Abraham awoke.
Phil took him downstairs, to the room right below,
Where his parents had also slept through it all.

For years I felt like a superior woman,
Giving birth so quietly the sleepers around me slept
Undisturbed. Until a midwife said, “That’s common.
During a homebirth, everyone is the best they can be,
As they welcome the new life. So some sleep deeper,
If that’s what’s needed.”

With those few words,
I am relegated again to just an average woman.

Sensitivities

Since Lent, my face has been red, inflamed.
My sister figured out that it was not a breakout,
But a rash, symmetrical, around my mouth.

I have tried for nine months to determine
The dietary cause. Some foods, on eating,
Make my face flare instantly.
But which one item in the multigrain chip?
Which one food in the locally made kraut?
Which one nut (or two) in the granola?

I finally gave up, and paid the big bucks
For the precision of bloodwork,
Teasing out the intricacies of sensitivities.

I learned the results today. Of the foods I eat
In a given year, I list the ones now restricted,
For three months to forever,
In order of the personal grief,
A lament, of sorts, for the foods that
I shall not enjoy.

Cow’s milk/butter/cheese
Spelt
Cane sugar
Pinto Beans
Cabbage
Cocoa
Apples
Maple sugar
Soybeans/tamari
Vanilla
Sesame
Basil
Parsley
Zucchini
Cashews
Blackberry
Goat’s milk/feta
Dates
Mango
Honey
Pecan
Beet
Grapes/Raisins
Black beans
Sardines
Strawberry
Cayenne/red pepper flakes
Cucumber
Pear
Plum/prune
Radish/horseradish/mustard greens
Spinach
Cantaloupe
Cloves

A Thing of Beauty: Advent XXV

Among specific requests for Christmas, I asked for
Something pretty. This is open to interpretation.
And my aesthetic is personal and pronounced.

I opened a small piece of art
Made in Uruguay, with a quote handwritten
That translates, roughly,

Because after everything I have understood
That what the tree has visibly in bloom
Thrives of what is buried beneath.

I finally understand
That I see a tree’s flowers
Because of what is buried, unseen.

And I sat and cried
Because this is so resonant with me.
My aesthetic is known.

Watching: Advent XXIV

Caleb climbs onto the window ledge
And looks out at the animals
Drinking, grazing, loafing.
“Cows,” he tells me, beaming.

These animals have been beasts of
Sorrow, frustration, disappointment
For me.
And yet, as they close out their tenure here,

I feel the regret that Caleb’s delight
Will no longer be right outside the window.
But that’s the way of the world:
No unalloyed joy.

No birth without death.

Myrrh: Advent XXIII

Wise Men brought
Myrrh. Affliction.
Burned during a funeral.
Used to embalm
(As Nicodemus brought,
Three decades or so later).

Also mingled with wine
To stupefy, sometimes called
Gall. Offered to a
Dying Savior
(Three decades or so later).

Think bitterness, suffering,
Death.

This gift, a prophecy at
His birth.

Frankincense: Advent XXII

Wise Men brought
Frankincense. Holiness.
A sweet savor, put on the
Offering and the
Priest.

Just so.

Think prayers, devotion.
Also used of the Song of Songs
Lover. His smell.

This gift, a prophecy at
His birth.

Gold: Advent XXI

Wise Men brought
Gold. Wealth.
Also a symbol of
Divinity:
Think golden calf,
Ark of the Covenant.

This gift, a prophecy at
His birth.

Look: Advent XX

We were studiously spelling,
Or reading, or playing,
When Abraham said,
“Look!”

Hundreds of small black birds
Flitted from one side of the clearing
To the other,
Until the sky seemed to shimmy.

We could have kept spelling,
Or reading, or playing,
But instead we took the time to
Look.

The Star: Advent XIX

There are various explanations of
The Wise Men’s star:
A supernova,
Or maybe the confluence of some planets,
Or perhaps a comet.

But whether because the date is off,
Or because it would be challenging for a supernova
To direct a traveler the short distance
Between Jerusalem and Bethlehem
(Let alone to a single house),

Some wonder if the Wise Men followed
A vision, personal to them.

I like the idea of a supernova
Somehow propelling urgency to travel.

But I also like the idea of a mass
Vision among Wise Men,
A light that they alone could see,
That caused them to leave the known
And travel into the unknown.

Extended Family: Advent XVIII

I have known that Elizabeth and Mary
Were related,
That the two women blessed
With such unexpected pregnancies
Had each other for mutual support.

But it wasn’t until today that I realized
I have always pictured Mary and Joseph
As only children.

But that is probably not very likely.

How odd to imagine what it would be
To be Jesus’s cousin,
Or maybe his uncle or aunt,
A child surrounded by so much drama.

Would they have appreciated that
Connection
With the Messiah?

Or would they want to avoid
All the awkwardness
Of an illegitimate birth,
A fleeing, returning?

Mourn: Advent XVII

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

I have liked the idea that this verse speaks of salvation.
Recognize your sin, mourn, and then …
Comfort!

And I recognize that this verse doesn’t say,
“Blessed are they that mourn,
For then they’ll get to mourn more.”
That would be unwelcome.

And yet I think again about what I’ve heard,
The more precise translation of makarios:
Happy. But not just happy. More like,
“You are in your happy place—
Right where you need to be.”
Mourning is right where you are supposed to be.

What craziness is this?

Because this world is broken.
Because there isn’t a better response.
Because after mourning, comfort comes.
Because God’s ways are not our ways.

Waiting: Advent XVI

My friend got engaged today,
And I went up to the surprise celebration.

Usually when I visit that house, I park in the driveway.
This time, I knew I would have to park along the street.
I am not a confident park-er.

I turned up a side street and pulled over,
Grateful to have found a spot open,
No need to parallel park.

As I walked up the road, a voice called:
“Excuse me! Where are you going?”
“To my friends’ house, around the corner.”
“You can’t park here. Park across the street.”

So I got into the car again, and turned around,
And maneuvered so that I wouldn’t have
Trouble getting out later. Relieved, I got out of the car.

“You can’t park there, either. You need to back way up.”
So I got in the car again, and backed up,
By this point almost in tears,

Because I had no desire to frustrate this woman,
But nor did I have any desire to be badgered
For something that wasn’t actually wrong.

And I suspected that if I had black skin,
I would have been welcome to park anywhere,
And the racial divide in this land makes me sad.

So I cried all the way up the road to the party.
And I cried in the car as I drove away.
And I wait for the restoration of all things.

Even no more possessiveness over street spots.
Even no more broken relationships.
Even no more unnatural terror of parallel parking.

Some days the waiting hangs heavier than others.

Advent XV

On December 13, we start
The Twelve Days of Christmas in Virginia.
We have done this for years,
Finishing, with a flourish,
“And a Cardinal in a Dogwood Tree!”
Every night from now until Christmas Eve.

And I think about how much pleasure
This silly book gives us,
How we look forward to it each year,
The laughter and the goofiness
And the celebration of place …

And maybe I can enter in to that
In Bethlehem, a place filled with
Shepherd’s laughter
And the goofiness of a Savior’s arrival.

Resonance

Once, when camping at Sequoia,
The ranger asked a series of questions,
To determine how many years folks had returned.

One couple was there for the thirty-fifth time.
I shuddered at the boredom that must entail.
Why not try thirty-five different parks in that time?

And though I still (mostly) fall into that same camp,
I had a glimpse of what might be appealing
About traveling the same road repeatedly.

When the Spanish Dancers came out in The Nutcracker,
In their marvelous red and black outfits, with fans,
I started weeping with the memory of two years ago,

When two sisters performed this dance
In their entry way, simply because I asked.
Later, when we went to the performance,
The older met my eye as she ran out,
Enormous grin, as if to say, “Isn’t this a scream?”

It was, for me, a vivid overlay.

I cried through that whole song,
Remembering the sweetness of our communion,
The passage of time,
The beauty of my young friends,

And how much I miss their mom.

Beauty: Advent XIV

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

Three years now we have gone
To a small theater to watch
Our friends in a short, creative version
Of The Nutcracker.

When my friend, the Snow Queen,
Came out, I found myself
Unexpectedly
Stifling sobs, at the great beauty
And poise and grace.

I am not usually brought to tears
By appearance.

Harsh: Advent XIII

Then Joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily.
But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the LORD appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.

The angel of the LORD could have appeared
Before Mary was even found to be pregnant.
That would have spared Joseph a good deal.

Instead, he went through turmoil and pain:
Unwelcome news,
An unbelievable explanation,
A painful interlude of trying to determine
What the right course of action might be.

And in the midst of all this churning thought
Comes the freedom of a dream.

Profession

As we sat in Bible study tonight,
Joe asked me how to spell “Jesus.”

He kept asking for the spelling of other words,
Until he had this message for me.

JESUS IS THE SON OF GOD.
BY Joe
BY THE WAY, THat IS
true.

Breakthrough

Joe and I have struggled on,
Month after month,
Year after year,
Trying to master the first
Twenty-six letter sounds.

He would read them on one page,
Only to forget them on the next,
And any booklets he got through
Were always a combination of
Guesswork, luck, and memorization.

Yesterday, he read about four sentences.

Today, he read eight new sentences,
A full booklet.
And asked for another one.

After he finished that, I was thrilled.
Incredible. What a difference a day makes,
To read without guessing,
With some hesitation, but mostly confidence,
With techniques he figured out himself
To jog his memory.

Over the years, he had read twenty-two of
Twenty-seen booklets.
With the two more today, now he had read twenty-four.
Only three to go.

When he saw that, his eyes sparkled.
“Let’s do them all!”
He said, enthusiastically.

And he did.

Joseph: Advent XII

The greatest honor in a Jewish man’s life:
The birth of a firstborn son.
Joseph gave this honor up
To God.

And he did not know Mary
Until after God’s child was born,
Allowing her womb to deliver
God’s son.
Later, his children.

Cheeks: Advent XI

When the baby first wakes,
Those immediate kisses
Are unique.

After his cheeks have relaxed all night,
There is no muscle tone,
No smile or chewing muscles flexed,
Just incredible softness
Beneath his bleary eyes.

I like the later-in-the-day kisses, too,
But these first are precious
Because they are so ephemeral.
How many more mornings will I get?

But then, could that not be said of all:
As we spend our days beneath the expanding sky?

Round: Advent X

A song for three or more unaccompanied voices or parts, each singing the same theme but starting one after another, at the same pitch or in octaves; a simple canon.

Most of us have enjoyed the satisfaction
Of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,”
Sung in a round; a simple tune
That, with company, becomes
Complex, beautiful.

Perhaps this is a picture of life
Together, all of us following the same Savior,
Where the multiple voices make something
Complex, beautiful.

Avail Yourself

We once took in a child for a time.
It was rough.

In the immediate aftermath,
God comforted me that I,
Broken caregiver,
Was still his beloved child.

In later years, I asked again:
What went wrong?
And the reply: There were riches
That you didn’t avail yourself of.

"Open in Silence: Advent IX"

I would like to open in prayer. We will begin with silence.

The gathering fell silent,
A space of stillness and peace.
The tension of the morning eased,
And in its place: gratitude, readiness.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

And in the stillness, God speaks.

Chimes: Advent VIII

Mild, these late fall days,
I sat outside, alone with God
For a few minutes of peace.

And across the distance
I heard the sound of wind chimes,
Like church bells, gently ringing.

Come to the house of the Lord.
Enter in. Rest. One day your longing
Will be swallowed by sight.

Make

Write a poem,
make a meal,

And what is made
Will be better than

What is not made,
Even if it’s not perfect.

Art

Art for me has always been a failure thing.

Exhibit: third grade tears in class over the imperfect star
To top my construction paper Christmas tree.

Exhibit: my only B in high school—
Drawing and painting 101.

I love art. I just don’t do art.

So when the opportunity came to create a collage,
I hardly expected anything to emerge that brought joy.

But as I looked through the collection of images,
I realized I am old enough and know enough to know what I like.

Hokusai’s Mt. Fuji print.
A candy pink feather.
Audubon’s bird painting.
(Even better: a blue bird, though not a bluebird.)
Anything iridescent.
Gold pens.
Fruit.

If I take things I like, and combine them,
It makes sense that I will like the end result.

And I did!

Ah, Education

The pastor of the host church host opened with prayer:
“We will begin with a time of silence.”

And we did, centering.
Then he thanked God.

The professor offered a meditation on the time of year:
A season of contrasts: rest, but unsettled;

We celebrate a birth
That we know ends in torture and death.

The cold weather comes in January and February
But all that time, the light is increasing.

She offered an invitation on the time of year:
Take the time to examine your life’s blueprint to see if you need to adjust.

The professor had packets of poems for all.
(She prepares these collections for each class:

Poems of insomnia, poems of opposites.
My friend has a full set from a class, a gift.)

We looked, then, at two of the poems in the packet.
She read them aloud, mentioned

That we enjoyed a “cold reading,”
Special, as it only happens once.

We talked about hot spots,
The places that jumped out.

(And unlike my college experience,
She offered additional insight into every comment.)

Next we did two directed five-minute writings:
Keep writing the whole time. Engage the brain.

One on a time when you felt close to God.
One on a time when you doubted.

Then she introduced a form of poetry I had never met:
Erasure, where the poet takes extant text

And removes much to create a new work.
We looked at multiple examples, beautiful, accessible.

Then a detailed explanation of the process we would follow,
Providing us newsprint and practice paper,

Linen paper for the art itself, fancy pens,
And a slew of interesting visuals from calendars, journals.

We had the time and the space to create, or maybe co-create,
A little sanctuary on a Saturday morning in Advent.

An incredible array of gorgeous creations
Emerged all over the room.

And as I left, I thought back to my college poetry class,
Where the professor clearly didn’t care much,

Stated that a bus schedule could be a poem,
Offered naught but a Norton Anthology.

A season of contrast. Thankfulness for this moment.
Sorrow that this could have been my education, and was not.

Do Not Be Afraid

A friend invited me to an Advent poetry workshop
With her professor, whom she loves.

So I found myself out early,
Driving beautiful back country roads,
Listening to The Messiah.

The closer I got, the more resistance I felt.
Am I a workshop person? (Not normally.)

But I pulled into the last parking spot,
Took a deep breath,
And went in.

Extant Text Erasure: Advent VII

Heaven and earth
gaps

Man and God
bridge
only through an act of grace

Yahweh gives
inherently deficient humans
redemption

I shared some emotions and thoughts
I communicate Art

Respond to crucified Christ suffering

Messiah
suffering horribly

The Voice of Gold: Advent VI

And Kumalo had not know that his friend had such a voice. For the voice was of gold, and the voice had love for the words it was reading. The voice shook and beat and trembled, not as the voice of an old man shakes and beats and trembles, nor as a leaf shakes and beats and trembles, but as a deep bell when it is struck. For it was not only a voice of gold, but it was the voice of a man whose heart was golden, reading from a book of golden words. And the people were silent, and Kumalo was silent, for when are three such things found in one place together?

And this golden voice reads
A promise of Advent.

I the Lord have called thee in righteousness
and will hold thine hand and will keep thee
and give thee for a covenant of the people
for a light of the Gentiles
To open the blind eyes
to bring out the prisoners from the prison
And them that sit in darkness
out of the prison house.

And the response is a response
Appropriate to Advent.

And the voice rose, and the Zulu tongue was lifted and transfigured, and the man too was lifted, as is one who comes to something that is greater than any of us. And the people were silent, for were they not the people of the blind eyes?

In the Light: Advent V

Every prayer seemed long to me at that age, and I was truly bone tired. I tried to keep my eyes closed, but after a while I had to look around a little. And this is something I remember very well. At first I thought I saw the sun setting in the east; I knew where east was, because the sun was just over the horizon when we got there that morning. Then I realized that what I saw was a full moon rising just as the sun was going down. Each of them was standing on its edge, with the most wonderful light between them. It seemed as if you could touch it, as if there were palpable currents of light passing back and forth, or as if there were great taut skeins of light suspended between them. I wanted my father to see it, but I knew I’d have to startle him out of his prayer, and I wanted to do it the best way, so I took his hand and kissed it. And then I said, “Look at the moon.” And he did. We just stood there until the sun was down and the moon was up. They seemed to float on the horizon for quite a long time. I suppose because they were both so bright you couldn’t get a clear look at them. And that grave, and my father and I, were exactly between them, which seemed amazing to me at the time, since I hadn’t given much thought to the nature of the horizon.
My father said, “I would never have thought this place could be beautiful. I’m glad to know that.”

In all the thousands of books I have read,
This remains, for me,
The most luminous passage.

Think of the boy and his father,
Standing in a graveyard,
Between the two great lights …

And I caught my breath to realize
That we, too, stand in a graveyard
Between the light of the first coming

And the light of the second.

God/Time: Advent IV

On this side of the Incarnation,
We look back to Christ’s coming,
Look forward to Christ’s return.

God in our past.
God in our future.
God in our present.

Christmas Music: Advent III

In middle school, I listened exclusively
To Christian radio. That meant, from Thanksgiving
To Christmas: all carols, all the time.
And every fourth one was “O Holy Night.”

To this day, I have a visceral reaction that that song.

And I grow grumpy that we spend somewhere around
A twelfth of our Sunday worship
On the small repertoire of Christmas classics.
“Look! A little baby!”
Great.
Whatever.

So it has surprised me,
Full of antipathy for those few overplayed songs,
To find several friends who love Christmas.

Except, I’ve learned, it’s not Christmas, that day of celebration
(And, usually, some dashed expectations).

It’s Advent, season of longing.

Four Hours a Day

Years ago I read a homeschool
How-to book that recommended
Reading aloud to the children
Four hours a day.

Now I love books more than most,
But that is still a tremendous amount of time.
I occasionally managed,
But mostly I failed.

I realized recently that
Audio books might be the answer.
No longer do they require
Changing a disc every hour or so.

I can order entire books for some bucks,
And the boys listen all afternoon
While they draw or build or play.
The impossible became possible.

Mimic

When I last mopped my bedroom,
I moved Phil’s slippers out from their place
Under his dresser.

I was mopping under the wardrobe
When I unexpectedly came across
Caleb’s little moccasins.

This might have been coincidence.
But I watch how Caleb watches Phil,
And I suspect this was another example of

Daddy Mimic.

Eight Miles

When the doctor designed special shoes
For leprosy patients, he couldn’t figure out
Why they kept getting blisters.

A healthy man volunteered to walk eight miles,
Wearing special socks that showed the pressure points.
He changed socks every two miles,

And, in the end, they found that
The pressure points had changed each time,
As the walker shifted his gait subtly.

Those without feeling in their feet never change.
And I forget how they solved this problem,
But, more, I am astonished that anyone thought to test.

Two Bumps in the Bed

In a chapter in the early reader Owl at Home,
Owl notices two bumps
At the bottom of his bed.
This bit of dramatic irony
Never fails to get a laugh from the reader.

I came into my bedroom today
To find two bumps in my bed.
Beneath blankets, I felt two round heads,
One curly and silent, one small and giggly.
I can read this story, and it made me laugh.

Incarnation: Advent II

I run up my driveway.
It’s steep, and I arrive at the top
And sit and pant.
The air fills my lungs.
My heart pounds in my chest.
I am corporeal.

Christ came into the world
As a man.
Corporeal.

Consider this mystery.