Fear Not

The Spirit calls us to different things.
Not always reasonable.
Follow anyway.

And if the Spirit tells your neighbor to do
The opposite, let the Spirit work,
And don’t assume either of you is wrong.

Rahab’s high treason, Abraham’s son sacrifice,
Isaiah’s multi-year nudity, Moses’ sojourn in the desert,
Noah’s hundred year preaching.

Would you have supported them,
Or called them crazy?
Because God was there.

Be obedient to your call.
Let your neighbor be obedient, too.
And trust God will work through us and in us all.

Three Friends

I haven’t seen wildlife on my runs.
Today, a deer startled and ran west across the road.
Minutes later, a rabbit did the same.
Then I saw a turtle at the western edge,
Almost done with his traverse.

Three animals, fastest to slowest.
Was this coincidence, or parable?
When you expect God to show up at any time,
Do even the animals speak?

So Defensive

“Stop being so defensive!”
I was rightly corrected thus some weeks back.
It rose in me again this week.

It’s ugly, I know. But when someone accuses
My parenting, my marriage …
I want to defend.

But sometimes defense is more like
An onslaught, and it leaves both
The accused and the accuser worse off.

I am undone. I am a person of unclean lips.
And my eyes have seen the King,
The LORD of hosts.

Healing Prayer IV

A friend was tired. We prayed.
She saw a stretch of Virginia highway,
Stretching away, empty.
And she was driving alone.

“Jesus, where are you?”
It’s a vulnerable place, to ask for a picture
And wait, hoping he shows up.
We cried. And waited.

Suddenly, she laughed.
Laughed!
Jesus was there.
And even if things were still broken,
She was not driving alone.

Healing Prayer III

After two beautiful experiences,
I tried healing prayer with a friend.
She just cried and said,
“I don’t see anything. I don’t understand.”
It was horrible.

If you expect Jesus to come in power
And peace, and nothing happens,
The loss of what could have been
Is worse by far than no expectation.

A friend shed some light on this.
“We don’t want to go towards our pain.
So this might not be the time.
And that’s okay.”

Healing Prayer II

When my sister’s baby died,
We tried healing prayer.
She imagined the moment
The nurse came in and said,
“Your daughter is going to die.”

She saw Jesus holding that
Hospital room in his hands.
“But that’s not close enough!
I need you with me!”

And in her prayer, Jesus came.
And held her, specifically.
“Will you still be with me?”

“You already know that I will.”

Healing Prayer I

After seven months of fostering,
Our family was left shattered.
Brother relationships cultivated half a decade
Were in ruins. My confidence gone.

A friend prayed with me.
I pictured a moment, girl looking up at me,
Defiant, in the midst of the filthy trailer.
“Jesus, where are you in this picture?

He was there, just on the other side
Of the coffee table, looking at her
With all the love I couldn’t produce.
“Let him look at you.”

I didn’t want to. Who wants condemnation?
But when we locked eyes,
Love flowed to me as well.
He grieved for the motherless child,

And he grieved for me.
Hallelujah. What a Savior.

Grandfather: Clock

My Grandfather worked with his hands.
He delighted in details, and kept on
Until all was perfect.

Although my home, growing up, was poor,
We had beautiful furniture,
Including a grandfather clock,

Made by my grandfather.
The Westminster chimes rang out each quarter hour,
Marking the passage of time.

My Grandparents gave us a wall clock
As a wedding present. For nine years,
It rang out the quarter hours for us.

Then we stored it. Received anew this week,
I am struck, four times an hour,
With the sound, a reminder that

Life is passing away.
Memento mori.
Remember that you have to die.

And so my clock says to me,
A reminder, wrapped in beauty,
That I’ve heard since childhood.

Inhabit the Sadness

On this day, a century after
The bullet that started the deaths
Of millions … I’m sad.

I think about the people unhealed,
The Spirit quenched,
The bondage intact. I’m sad.

Relationships broken,
Gossip and jealously,
Christ blasphemed. And I’m sad.

Anger is more my métier.
But I’ll inhabit the sadness
For today.

One Jesus Loved

One young man came to Jesus, so earnest.
“What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

The young man knew the stock answer.
He had done it all.
He knew that it was not enough.

Jesus, looking at him, loved him.
No correction, no rebuke. Just love.
Sell all you have. Then follow.
The young man went away sad.

Had he sold all, and followed, he would have learned:
The question he asked was immaterial.
There was nothing he could do to inherit eternal life.

With man: impossible. With God: all things possible.
Selling his goods could not purchase it.
Following is necessary.
Is all.

June 28, 1914

We have no internet, no cell service today.
It is quiet in the country,
Cut off from the wider world.

One hundred years ago today, an assassin
Shot an Archduke, and the ill-formed alliances
Precipitated the Great War.

That led to World War II,
Millions of deaths, nation building,
Nation destroying, up to today.

But on June 28, 1914, there was a mother
Making food in a farmhouse,
Cut off from the wider world.

My great-grandma had seven years yet
Before she birthed my grandma,
And almost thirty before the Nazis came

To the farm, looking for the Dutch resistance,
While her sons hid in a drainage ditch and escaped.
One hundred years ago, she was like me,

Going about her business, unaware of the bullet that would
Unleash intense evil that would one day engulf her life.
The violence elsewhere had no effect on her peaceful home.

Yet.

Science of Grief

I have never thought I’d be good as a widow.
Is it that I like to talk too much?
Don’t want to make child-rearing decisions myself?
Want someone around to make me laugh?
Presumably yes to all three.

I have read Joan Didion’s lament for the death of her spouse.
I have a friend who says all went grey
When her mother died, until
She couldn’t remember what it felt to be happy.
Such grief concerns me. Impossible to imagine.

Then, today, a recent book on the science of grief.
After six months, most people return to their baseline.
Some women prefer to date again then.
And some women find widowhood freeing.

Interesting. I’ll take each day as it comes.

Some Nights Are a Gift

I.
Three of the last four years,
Three of us get together for an annual dinner.
I eat the same salad, we sit at the same
Dilapidated tables until closing.
We talk about family, jobs, faith, creativity.

It’s amazing to me that such different people,
Who would not be friends by commonality,
Are friends anyway.
Even with just an annual (almost) meal,
And an occasional greeting in passing.

II.
“What did you like to do before children?”
This, after the confession that there is little time
These days for anything other than the daily grind.

And suddenly, a photo on the phone of an acrylic painting,
Done in an evening: a daughter, vibrant, beautiful.
I could have lived my whole life without seeing that.
But my life would have been the poorer.

III.
“I like your writing. The first poems felt like
You were writing for an audience. But now
It’s like you are taking your life, all those
Confused memories, and sussing out the meaning.”

This, from a friend who has been prepared to move
At any time for the last three years, and will be ready
At any time still. And yet, she will give all she can to
Her life here. Including poetic criticism of the best kind.

IV.
I know the owner of the restaurant.
We walk the walking mall and
Come across two dear friends.
We watch the buskers juggle (imperfectly).
I love you, Charlottesville.

Mobius Strip

My dad’s uncle lived in a home overlooking L.A.
At night we would see the gold lights in the valley.
My mother always exclaimed about the view.

Dad’s cousin was in a motorcycle accident
That left him brain-damaged.
Every year, we would go to his birthday party.
Great view, great food … and awkwardness.
“Blonde girl, do you have a boyfriend?”
I am ten. No. But thank you for that creepy question.
Please go away.

One year, though, something magical.
A stranger cut a piece of paper into a strip,
Made a single twist, and taped the ends.

When he cut it down the middle,
The loop doubled in size and added a twist.

He made another loop with a twist.
When he cut at the third,
Two interlocking loops appeared,
One with a single twist, and one with a double.

I showed my sons this Mobius strip today.
Will they remember the magic in thirty years?
I can only hope.

And as the memory of those awkward parties
Is redeemed into something creative,
It gives me hope for other awkwardness.
Good may come, unforeseen.
6/27/14

Fully Present

I was happy enough to have an iPhone.
All the cool kids do.
The first year I used it as a phone.

But now that I have tasted the joy
Of frequent contact via email and text
No matter where I am,
How hard to let that go.

One man said, “Wherever I am,
I want to be fully present.
I don’t check my phone
When I’m with people.”
(I’m not sure how he writes himself notes.)

I am not that present.
But out of love for the ones I’m with,
I would like to be.

Glasses

I’ve had glasses since college.
My vision isn’t horrible.
Because my eyes change with every
Pregnancy, just enough
For headaches,
I have never worn glasses around home,
Except when we have visitors. Sometimes.

And always when we go out: I want to see
Faces. Once I missed a smile until it had passed.
Never again.

I am trying now to wear glasses around home.
I hate them when I’m reading,
And I read a lot. But I am amazed at
The view out the window, how defined the leaves.

Know What You Want

On his way to Jerusalem to die,
Jesus does a final miracle.
Bartimaeus cries out repeatedly,
“Have mercy on me!”
The only two times in Mark
That “mercy” shows up.

Was it for the strangeness of the request
That Jesus summoned him?
Not self-focused, “Blind, pity me,”
But Jesus-focused. “Son of David, mercy!”

“What do you want me to do for you?”
I wonder if the crowd listened, bemused:
The man is blind, and Jesus wonders what he wants?

Bartimaeus wants his sight.
Jesus says, “Your faith has made you whole.”
I wonder if the man had more healing
Than just his sight. (How many sighted people
Would claim to be whole?)
Then Bartimaeus followed Jesus,
Probably for life. (After all, Mark knows his name.)

I wonder: if Jesus asked me,
“What do you want me to do for you?”
Would I have an answer ready?

Not an Answer

I awoke from a dream I neither liked nor wanted.
I went for a run to encapsulate the anger,
The only form of drumming I enjoy,
Full-body, rhythmically pounding.

I knew it was too early for the sun, so I expected
Nothing.

I could fling out my questions in the grey light,
And receive back nothing but confusion.
How fitting.

Then all changed.

Without a visible sun, or any change on the ground,
Glimmers of orange-red lit the tops of the ugly pines,
Turning this mundane stretch of road
Into a vision of complementary colors,
Far above reach.

I could not change it. I could not enter it.
But I could pass through it, and
Watch in thankfulness and awe.

The light is coming.
It is not an answer.
But it is enough.

Pander and Pamper

My one guilty pleasure, that I
Keep trying (in vain) to forego:
“Italian Sparkling Mineral Water”
From “the mineral-rich channels
Of the Tuscan Apennine Mountains.”

For about a dollar a bottle, could I drink
A more poetic—and pretentious—libation?

Actually, yes.

Redesigned, the label now proclaims precisely:
“Sourced from the Val di Meti Spring
Located in the Western Apennine Mountains.”

Oh, Whole Foods, you pander to my sense
Of superiority, even as you pamper my taste buds.

I should probably find a better use for that buck.

Uni-Kitty

When I watched The Lego Movie,
I was surprised to see myself on the screen.
Off-kilter Uni-Kitty, dedicated to always feeling happy,
Finally declares, “I can’t do it any more!”
And goes ballistic. I loved it.

Years ago, when a friend mentioned that I dealt with anger,
I said, in disbelief, “I’m the happiest person I know!
I’m never angry!”

How very unbalanced to always be happy, like
Thinking happy thoughts about bubblegum
At the dissolution of the world.
Better, far, to rejoice with those who rejoice,
And weep with those who weep.

Not My Timetable

One of the things that irks me the most
(If the pot can complain to the potter)
Is that God doesn’t act on my timetable.
Or, as a friend put it, “Why does God bring me
To the breaking point before he acts?
Why couldn’t he act just before my breaking point?”

One example: a client owed Phil tens of thousands of dollars.
Months of work, and expenses we’d covered
Out of pocket. But now our savings were gone, the credit card due.
The client finally promised the check was in the mail.
It should reach us just in time to cover all our bills.
The last day came: the check was not in that day’s mail.

I had read George Muller. I knew that God provides.
My faith was not at fault, as best as I could tell.
I had believed the check would come, and it had not.

I wailed then, keening over my crushed expectation.
I had no place in my understanding of God for this
Sudden lack of provision. How could it be?

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, mid-scream.
A check had come by FedEx overnight.
So the check was not, actually, in the mail,
But it reached us in time to cover all bills.
God had provided.

And yet, I think back on this story and remember
How sucker-punched I felt. Why could FedEx not have come
One minute before the mailman, so I could have not
Stumbled in my faith?
Was my reaction unwarranted?
Can I even protest the timing, since the provision arrived?

It would have been a great story,
Except that it feels, even now, like a slightly mean trick.
If the pot can complain to the potter.
(Probably not advised.)

June 24, 2014

We celebrated fourteen years today,
And thought about how little we have changed.
A party? Let’s invite the church and all
Our colleagues, his and mine. Throw wide the doors!

We chose three Scriptures: Gospel, Old, and New.
We sang two hymns and listened to a third.
The homily was long, but worshipful,
The vows traditional, but meaningful.

We didn’t care a lot for dress, and looks,
But food we stalked with care. Good eats! Rejoice!
Have shrimp, and cold cuts, cake and pie (four types)!
Your friends are here! Have fellowship and fun!

The day, more truly us than I realized:
As life has riffed our wedding fourteen years.

Right Response to Sin

For years I thought the right response to sin
Included a lot of groveling. Maybe a few years’ worth,
If the sin was particularly egregious.

A friend told me about how,
After he was saved, he knew he needed to tell his mother
All his past. That would not be a fun conversation.

Before he started, though, the mother said,
“Son, whatever you tell me, it’s covered by
The blood of Jesus. Whatever you tell me,

It won’t make me love you any less.”
Is that not beautiful, and exactly correct?
If Jesus’ blood covers our sin,

Groveling is not the right response.
Sin is bad enough that Jesus had to die.
But, by grace, we don’t need to kill ourselves, too.

Shocking though it is to say,
Don’t let sin define you. Just lay it down.
And then run with endurance the race before you.

A Seventh

I had been playing Beethoven’s
“Moonlight Sonata” for several weeks
Or months, when I suddenly realized that
The pleasant sounding G# major chord
I had been playing was actually a 7th.
It changed the sound of that measure so
Dramatically and perfectly that I stood up
And shouted for joy and ran around the room
Doing fist pumps.

That Beethoven. A wonder.
How can the world contain such beauty?

Fourteen Years Ago Today

Friends and family had been arriving
For a few days. We headed to the church
And rehearsed, with jubilation,
The ceremony of the next day.

I wore a new (to me) brown dress and my Birkenstocks,
And Phil and I held hands and raced down the aisle
At the end. We don’t hold hands often,
But there’s a photo to prove it, somewhere.

We went to a lovely restaurant, now defunct,
For paella and laughter.
My high school best friend and Phil’s high school best friend
Hit it off well. They are married now,
To other people. I think they are both happy.

Phil then hosted a barbecue at his house.
I remember walking in to the backyard that
Would be my backyard the next day,
Seeing the whole collection of his friends from college,

And crumpling. Did I actually cry? I think maybe.
In any case, I left to spend the night
At a friend’s house, with my maid of honor.

I slept well, and woke naturally at 6am,
Peaceful and ready for the day.

Then came the call that the pianist was at the hospital,
In labor.

Welcome to the rest of your life.
It might not always be peaceful,
But it will not lack for interest.

Teething

Green snot, drool, pathetic cry …
Nothing about teething is dignified
Or fun.

While nursing moms appreciate
The lack of teeth at birth,
It seems unkind to the baby

To have to deal with gnawing pain
Without an explanation
And without relief.

Then the tooth cuts through.
Relief for the moment.
After a score of times,

The toddler is able to chew,
To experience a range of food,
To speak more clearly.

Is adult pain like teething?
Unkind, without explanation,
But ending eventually,

With greater possibility?
I hope so.
God, I hope so.

Nightmaring

When I wake up and think,
“I wish I were dead,”
It’s a good indication I’ve been
Nightmaring.

It doesn’t take much for me to wake
Worse off than I went to sleep.

Today, it was simply a travel dream,
A variation on my standard theme.
I was driving to get the boys
So we could catch a plane,
But it was rush hour and big trucks
Cut me off. The time kept ticking.

And then the spitting cobra temporarily
Blinded me in the right eye.
The venom in the tear duct was the worst.

That, and the marching band we passed
Was abysmal.

Hearing cacophony, inability to see clearly,
Desperate to move forward, but hindered,
Missing my sons and missing our flight,
Not enough time to get everything done;
From these, and more, O Lord, deliver me.

Cagey

Luke’s gospel records Jesus’ response
To the question of the chief priests and scribes:
“Art thou the Christ?”
Cagily, he replies that the Son of man
Will sit on the right hand of the power of God.

Which would seem to indicate that he is the Christ.
Except that Ezekiel is called the son of man.
Because a son of man is simply a son of (hu)man.

Clearly, the accusers were confused.
“Art thou then the Son of God?” they ask,
Seeking clarity. Jesus doesn’t give it.
No easy yes. Instead, “Ye say that I am.”

Cagey. Brilliant. Crucified anyway.
Thanks be to God.

Specific Gratitude

Specific gratitude is far more
Interesting than generic “Thanks.”

And so I say thank you to God:
For one of the two parking spots available,
For letting us eat French fries (maybe coated
With wheat) without triggering psychosis,
For seats at breakfast with no wait,
For working out my visits with friends,
For greater health for Dad’s sibling interactions,
For good conversation about deep things,
For children playing together happily all day every day,
For glass sculptures amid flowers,
For two excellent conversations about prayer,
For travel plans rearranged to a better departure,
For an extra day to see an aunt from overseas,
For travel without delays,
For two chai teas, very different but both good,
For Scripture study and communion,
For good food and good shopping
And giraffes, a wading pool, a swing, co-laborers,
Butterflies, blacksmith, read-alouds.

For these and more, thank you, God.

Twelve Years

Jesus, heading elsewhere,
Stopped on the way.
“Who touched me?”

Ridiculous. Like a
Crowd-surfing concert-goer
Wondering.

The disciples laughed.
And the woman,
With a flow of blood

Twelve years, had to speak
To a man. To God.
Ceremonially unclean, she hadn’t in

Twelve years. But Jesus
Did not want just physical
Healing for her.

He restored her body.
He listened to her story.
He restored her relationship

To man. To God.
He called her, “Daughter.”
So tender. So perfect.

If you go for healing,
Expect to come away changed.
But not in the way you expect.

Gears

When a force is applied to one gear,
The next spins opposite,
And the one after that opposite again.
The gears wouldn’t work without difference,
Even though the input force is the same for all.

Why would we expect that following Jesus
Looks the same for everyone?

New Destiny

“You may have been made for murder,” Terence whispered, “but not everything becomes what it’s meant to be. Thank you.”

A wicked witch spins a spell
That makes a dagger extra effective
At assassination.

The dagger, intended for murder,
Defies destiny and becomes
An instrument of escape.

I am that dagger.
A sinner, no kingdom of God for me.
“And such were some of you.

But ye are washed,
But ye are sanctified,
But ye are justified

In the name of the Lord Jesus,
And by the Spirit of our God.”

Not everything becomes what it’s meant to be.
Thanks be to God.

Summer Solstice

Although the weather has been hot and hotter,
Summer officially began today.

It wasn’t until college that I first heard someone
Declare that October was his favorite month.
I had always assumed that everyone, everywhere
Loved summer most. No exams! No papers!

And it wasn’t until post-college that someone
Pointed out that seasons really do last longer
For children. At least, as a percentage of their age,
A month is far longer to a son than to myself.

This season of heat and humidity will last three months
On the calendar. I suspect, though, that it will pass
Faster for the student and slower for the adult,
Thoroughly mixing any rational time and percentages.

Scores of Bad Books

My Mom had accumulated eight shelves
Of unread Christian books and more.
I spent a dozen hours and eliminated scores,
Looking in vain for a blessing equal (almost)
To simply reading Scripture. None to be found.

A few books held a blessing, though.

I.
In God’s kingdom, though what you do may seem
Insignificant, there is significance yet.
And when you pray, avoid I and me,
And think instead of us and we.

II.
When you feel a prompting to act,
Follow The 10-Second Rule and simply do it
In the next ten seconds. Don’t delay.
Don’t play safe or justify.
Pray or aid or give right then.
This obedience pleases God.

III.
It seems, sometimes, that the response to prayer is
God on Mute. How horrifying. How human.
I might prefer to believe that there was only one
Silent day after Good Friday, one day waiting
For the consolation of Israel and the whole world,
And no other such days since then.
And yet, the experience of many saints says otherwise.
God may be present, but he may be silent.
I don’t enjoy that thought.

IV.
Is Church sometimes Messy? Yes, of course.
Church has people, and people are messy.
Could there be a better vision for a church than
“Whatever Jesus said or did”?
No one goes to AA and comes away disappointed.
They need fellowship and they know they are broken.
Maybe we need to lower our expectations for church,
And lower our opinion of ourselves.

Response

One son didn’t like heroic men killed,
Tended land fired, loved knights dying.
Oh, my son, you entered into this pain.

You may one day face the destruction of
Your land or your family, your life as you know it.
You may one day have to rebuild.

Remember, then, that this is the lot of men
And don’t despair.

Camelot Was No More

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

We finished The Squire’s Tales,
All ten. Like in Hamlet, everyone dies.
After a month of solid reading, I say through tears,
“Camelot was no more.”
We all want Camelot to continue.

And yet. Though the Round Table fall,
Much is redeemed: the old pretender
Ends well. Evil is defeated. Love wins.
The proud are humbled.

And yet. Though much is taken,
Much abides. Arthur sleeps, for now.
And the hope of England is not crushed;
Not entirely.

Knight, holy man, family, poet—
It is all any land could want.
If the knight will be honorable,
The holy man true, the family loving.
And if the poet will sing.

Convergence

I’ve wanted to start running again.
God provided trail shoes.
So I’ve started.

Out this morning, the mist over the valley
Set off the hills beautifully.

And when I crested a ridge, I had half a minute
To watch the sun rise.
A half minute earlier, or later, and it would
Have been hidden. That single moment,
And I was there.

God timed it. I just showed up.

Creation/New Creation

In the beginning God created.
And the Spirit of God moved
Upon the face of the waters. Or

The Spirit hovered over
The emptiness and the darkness.
And from that chaos came creation.

The creation that, in the end, was very good.
But first God created chaos.
He could have first created order. But no.

The believer is described as a
New creation.
Why would we assume no chaos?

Isn’t a mess always needed when something new
Springs forth? Then mess is no failure,
But simply the raw material for Jesus’ creation.

Glutton for Experience

The amusements I provided on the plane
Were not sufficiently interesting.
One son, given to hyperbole, muttered,
“This is the worst day of my life.
I hate this.” Such complaints will come again.
There will be time for training
In a less constricted, and public, environment.

Then we flew through turbulence,
That roller coaster feel of rocking,
Stomach dropping.
All smiles, all delight, happy shrieks.
“I love this day! I love this plane!”

We’ll be looking for extreme careers for that one.

Ego Intrudes

When we first moved to the land,
We found ourselves wanting to mention
Our college degrees in every conversation.
It felt important that our neighbors knew
That we were educated and not white trash,
Despite what our life looked like.

“Mr. FedEx Man, thank you for delivering this box.
It reminds me of one I received at university….”

Ideally, we would take no thought of ourselves,
Following Christ without vainglory,
Caring neither for man’s praise nor censure.

Or, put another way, when we have done
All that we were commanded, say,
“We are unworthy servants;
We have only done what was our duty.”

Why expect more for obedience?

It’s a hard teaching.

Love Is a Verb

A man taught in an inner city middle school.
He found himself struggling with
Insignificance.
He wanted out.
Not to mention, he hated the students.
He had wanted to change the world.

I took in a relative’s daughter.
I wanted out.
It would be fair to say that there were times
I hated her.
And I had wanted to change the world.

The man learned to rely on God,
His guidance and strength.
He learned to love God and man.
He found significance.

I didn’t learn any of that in my seven months
Of caretaking. It would be fair to say
I still have questions.

But if love is not (only) a feeling, but an action,
I can say that that daughter was treated
As one of our own: fed, trained, taught, safe.

May God redeem my failure.
May my sons walk with God, and
That daughter walk with God.
Amen.

Old Stomping Grounds

I haven’t been back to Boulder in some years.
I was surprised to find myself teary as we drove in.
There were the Flatirons, standing sentinel
Over the valley, the great red rocks
I admired daily for eleven years.

We turned up our road, so suburban and normal
It made me catch my breath.
How did I get from that slight slope,
Paved and landscaped, to our driveway,
About the same length, graveled and wild.

And our house: in that average house,
Saints visited, couples met, babies walked and talked,
Two sons breathed their first breath,
God answered prayer. In suburbia,
God and man at table are sat down.

Breathtaking.

Oh, Boulder, we came for a purpose
And we left for a reason. And though I prefer
Life now, I loved life then, too.
Celebrate God’s work in his people,
In that city.

Personal Space

I.
When flying, the normal personal space
Bubble vanishes. I sat inches away
From a stranger, and talked to someone
Unknown for an hour. I have her card now.
What might God do with that?

II.
While we waited to board the plane,
Four boys sat quietly as we read about King Arthur
And one slept on my back.
Mid-chapter, an older man
Invaded my personal space
(I could smell his toothpaste)
And said, “You’re pretty incredible.”
Then he sat down next to his wife.

Silly as it may seem, this single comment kept me sane
During a long flight where I wanted only to sleep,
But three exhausted sons kept arguing and flailing,
Precluding rest and shattering the calm I had projected.

Don’t miss an opportunity to encourage.
What might God do with that?

Mr. Whitaker

Growing up, we listened to a radio drama
About a discovery emporium,
Where a godly man dispensed soda and
Wisdom, helping young people grow in grace.

I heard entertainment, but my brother heard
A dream. Let me be that man.
(Of course, the show was imaginary,
And the shop probably not profitable anyway.)

How beautiful now, decades later, that
God took that dream and said yes.
His home, filled daily with hurting and loving
Young people, churns with creativity.

Workshop, pop culture, family pain,
Questions about the Bible and the universe.

They work to establish Church among those
Who would otherwise have none.

Gentle

My friend Ashley always had an enormous smile.
She joyfully exuded the love of Christ.
I don’t think she had many friends at that high school,
And I transferred and we lost touch.

More than a decade later, she unexpectedly came to mind.
Whenever that happens, I try to remember to pray.
I did so then, a generic “God be with her” request,
As I knew nothing more specific.

The next week, her megachurch pastor father
Outed himself for going to male prostitutes.
His wife, and, presumably, daughters,
Had found out the week before.

In the midst of such devastation, I was struck by
How very gentle Jesus was with my friend.
She had prayer coverage she knew nothing about.
We know not what we should pray for as we ought.

But the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us
With groanings which cannot be uttered.

The Hug

I needed to get some shoes. My Mom came, too.
The sales clerk said,
I wish I could talk to you all day.
I wish all my customers were like you.
It’s been a pleasure.

I didn’t think we had done anything remarkable.
Just laughed, chatted, complimented.

But when we left, we knew that she had moved
From Connecticut to Denver for a grandchild.
Then the grandchild moved away.

I can imagine her life, in a strange city,
Without friends or family,
Working retail with grumpy customers.

“Would you like a hug?”
She did.

Add to godliness
Brotherly kindness;
And to brotherly kindness
Charity.

Teach me this, O God.
The lonely are seeking.

The Flute

After a year or two of low-key lessons
In middle school, I picked up the flute again
Two years before college. It came back quickly.

My Mom would play hymns on the piano and sing,
And I would play the flute.
Sometimes I would play in church.

But mostly I played in marching band
Or concert band, even All-State Band.
I liked the group experience.

Independent flute playing was the means to an end:
Finger perfection, the challenge. Not music.
I don’t much like flute music recordings.

But my sister tells me now that she would fall asleep
To the sound of my flute and think,
“How beautiful. My sister is so amazing.”

Couldn’t we all use a little adulation?
Maybe I should take it up again!
Do you think my five sons would be glad?

There Is Some Beauty

So much of what man makes is ugly.
Strip malls. Parking lots.
Dingy discount stores with fluorescent lights.

And so it was a mercy
To spend a morning in a beautiful garden.
Man landscaped, God made it grow,
And Chihuly placed glass sculptures
In provocative places throughout.

Rejoice, oh my soul.

Truth and Compassion

In Spiderman, the bad guy
Captures the love interest and a schoolbus of children
And tells Spiderman, “Choose.”
The girl and the bus plunge separately towards death.

Spiderman chooses. He saves both.

A friend dreamed that the church was arguing
About whether to have Compassion
Or to have Truth.
He grew frustrated when no one would listen
That the two were not incompatible.

You can choose. You can have both.

Eating Peaches with Jesus

My friend went through dark days.
Jesus, don’t speak a word to me for a year.

Every week after kickboxing,
She had ten minutes to meditate.

On the darkest weeks, she was in a
Dark cave where no one could find her.
But Jesus sat with her. Silently.

The other weeks, she sat under
A blooming cherry tree, surrounded by beauty.

Jesus sat across from her and cut peaches
And fed the slices to her. Silently.

Extracurriculars

When my sister swam, she loved the feel of the
Water, running over her face, the sounds of
Splashing and cheering, the coordinated breathing.

When I swam, I liked working hard until I was exhausted.

When I played tennis, I liked the puzzle of ball placement,
The physical challenge of serving and returning,
The companionship of a partner and the gentility of the game.

When my sister ran, she liked
Stopping.

When I ran, I liked working hard until I was exhausted.
I liked the camaraderie of cross country
And the mindless repetition of four times,
Eight times around the track.

I don’t think I considered the pleasure of the feel and sound
Of court, track, field, pool.

That was what marching band and concert band were for!

Transformative

Paul says, “In every thing give thanks.”
And so we should. But
I confessed to a trusted friend once,
“Sometimes I’m grumpy.”

She looked startled and said,
“So?!”

I had never considered that maybe
My human imperfection was not
Complete failure of all I believed.

I take myself less seriously now.
There’s freedom in that.

Talents and Gifts

We have talents, natural abilities
That we can improve with practice.
I have confidence in my cooking,
Reading, editing.

And we have gifts, unearned.
I can hope and pray that we welcome
Guests well, and that they leave our home blessed.
But I have no confidence that that will happen.

My sister and I wondered whether true gifts
Will ever be exercised in confidence,
Or if, because we did nothing to earn them,
We can do nothing to maintain them.

She was top of her class in art school.
I asked her if she ever felt unsure of her abilities.
After a pause, she said, “My first thought was,
‘Am I even good at art?’”

Answered.

Three Options

If you burned the same amount of calories
Lying on a blanket in the grass in the sun,
Walking on the beach or in the mountains,
Or running a marathon,
Which would you choose?

My sister, mom, and I all chose differently,
Respectively.

Going to Bed

After an earthquake startled us from sleep,
We chose to share a lower bunk.
Two heads at the head, and two heads at the foot,
A melee of arms and legs.
We slept like that for years.

At church one day, a guest speaker
Mentioned, with horror, a family she knew.
“They are so poor, the children share a bed!
Can you imagine! Do any of you?”
I proudly raised my hand.

I realize the difference between voluntary and necessary.
And yet: as if close proximity with those you love
Should ever be called poverty.

Not My Definition of Rest

After Jesus’ disciples had preached, healed, and delivered,
They returned to Jesus to report.
Such was their fame, they had no time to eat.
“Come apart and rest a while,” Jesus said.

But as they sailed across the lake,
Multitudes ran around and met them. On the far side,
The disciples faced the same needs that they had before.
And, I suspect, they still hadn’t eaten.

Jesus had compassion. He taught the people.
Then he had the disciples help feed them.
I had always assumed Jesus was surprised by the crowds,
And that the exhausted disciples resented the intrusion.

But I wonder now: maybe Jesus was entirely precise.
“Come apart and rest a while.”
For Jesus, was serving also resting?
Maybe I need his perspective on work and rest.

Prehensile Tongue

We all know about monkeys’ prehensile tails,
Grabbing branches for swinging.

An elephant has a prehensile trunk.
The length can wrap around a tree,
And the tip can clamp together to eat a lettuce leaf.

A giraffe has a prehensile tongue,
Blue in color, with a natural sunscreen,
Eighteen inches, extending out.

The giraffe produces a viscous saliva as well,
To prevent acacia thorns from sticking
As they go down the six foot throat.

Making Friends

To find friends, my parents once invited
Thirty couples over on thirty consecutive days.

They had thirty pleasant dinners
And found three friends.

Kindred spirits exist,
But they may require some effort to locate.

Timing

Reading through Esther, she did all that she could:
Fasted and prayed with the community, dressed well,
Risked death to visit her husband, invited to dinner.

And somehow, in the midst of that dinner,
She realized that she should not make her request,
But pushed off the big reveal to the next day.

Good thing. Overnight, the entire political situation
Changed. The sleepless king remembered Mordecai.
Haman had to honor Mordecai.

And so Esther’s plea to her drunken playboy husband
Would probably have ended in failure after dinner one,
But after dinner two, what she asked was granted.

Though God is not named, his pattern
Of guidance and provision suffuses all.

I ask for things that don’t come to pass in my timing.
Maybe I should trust that God’s timing is better.

Consider the Vetch

Grazing animals prefer a varied diet.
The grasses differ in height, leaf width, seed heads, clump,
But they are all green.
The clovers offer some visual variety.
White, small and ubiquitous; red, that is actually light purple;
Crimson, a red so rich and glorious that if I sank into a field
I might think I’d mistaken my way into a pulsing heart.
(Unlike the other clovers, it hasn’t persisted, and the farm is
That much the less vibrant.)

But consider the vetch of the field,
A winding, tendril plant that covers my field in purple-blue.
Not even Solomon was clothed in such as these,
A shock of rich hue spread across the greens and lights.
There is no need for such color density, no reason to carpet
My field with jewel tones.
It is simply a gift.

Testimony

By dinner, we were all running ragged.
While my sister comforted her sad child,
I formed some blue cheese burgers.
As I glanced at the bottle of organic
Worcestershire sauce on the counter, the word “wheat”
Jumped out at me. Had the bottle been turned
At a slightly different angle, I would not have noticed.

But I did. In the moment, the idea of losing
Three pounds of hamburger was almost
Overwhelming, but we improvised and survived.
Thrived, even.

Had I not noticed: night terrors, rage, suicidal thoughts.
And no way to know where they were coming from.
And that sauce would have been used in dinners
All week, ruining our visit. What can we say but

Thanks be to God.

An Encouraging Thought

Every day I get up and write a poem or a few,
And every day I think, “Too bad all inspiration left me,
Yesterday, or maybe last week.”

Then came the encouragement, “If you think
You wrote better before,
Don’t assume that inspiration died.
If you did it once, you can do it again.”

I was simply observing the creative process,
Not asking for a transformation of perspective.
But I’ll take dormancy over death any day.

Waiting for the Peaceable Kingdom

We went one day to view a spring Phil had found.
We crashed through the untamed growth,
When a deer suddenly bolted from the brush.
We were far closer than a wild thing would usually permit.

Upon investigation, we found a fawn.
Wide-eyed, it watched us from its nestled rest,
Spotted, delicate, beautiful.

Also now unprotected. With scent of man so close,
Would the mother dare return?
We did what we could, resisted petting,
Slipped away softly.

It was a moment of wonder: new birth.
It was a moment of horror: abandonment.
To witness one was to cause the other.

We live between Eden and the Holy Mountain.

Runway View

Years ago, I was looking out the plane window,
Desultory. We had taxied and suddenly, as the plane turned
Before takeoff, I had a brief glimpse of exactly
What the pilot sees: the open runway, stretching away.

We aren’t often granted a clear vision of where we’re going.
We look out the side windows and see what is happening around us,
While we hurtle forward in time with trust and, perhaps, trepidation.

But those moments of clarity come.
Be watchful.

Oh, Wow

A doctor friend of mine says
That no one on their death bed
Screams in horror of what is coming.

Steve Jobs, no gentle human, reportedly said,
“Oh, wow! Oh, wow! Oh, wow!”

We read of sleep, of smiles, of smoothed wrinkles,
Of peace.

I believe there is more to come than just this life.
From whatever glimpses the dying offer,
I’m not convinced it’s bad.

Perhaps, even as Christ descended into hell
To preach to the souls in Paradise,
He is preached still.

Will not the judge of all the earth do right?

Sisyphus Whistling

From The Squire’s Quest

Cursed by the gods to push a boulder
Up a slope again and again for eternity,
Sisyphus embodies pointlessness.

What a shock to find him, then,
Whistling. “The task is absurd.
So are they all.
But I am not my task.
I am more. I am Sisyphus.”

So it is for me, except more so.
I am not in Hades, and
My daily tasks are not pointless,
No matter how they seem.

But even if they were, I am not my tasks.
I am more.
New creation. Follower of Christ.
I am Amy.

The Cello

My mother heard too many
Beginning violinists to have any desire for
Budding string players in her house.

(One friend reported on her daughter’s recital:
“The first one began and my husband leaned over
And said, ‘It’s going to be a long night.’ And, you know,
Every piece sounded exactly the same.”)

The violin, shrill and speedy soprano,
Was never my string of choice.

But the cello … that seems worth getting to know.

Sensuous, voluminous, voluptuous … mellow:
What’s not to love?

Famous cellist Yo-Yo Ma, when asked how many
Concerts he nailed this year, responded,
“Two or three.” Shocked, the interviewer asked
How he could keep performing, with such an
Abysmal record. “Because the ones I didn’t nail this year
Were better than the ones I did nail last year.”

Perpetual room for growth, yet satisfaction in the journey.
I could get used to that.

And with the first note I drew out with my friend’s bow,
That sounded much more rich than I could have hoped
For a first try … perhaps it’s time for the cello and me
To get acquainted.

Prepare for Amy’s alter-ego: Yo Ma-Ma.

The Verb Form

Unusually, we were not quite the last to leave church.
Two friends lingered after us, chatting in the parking lot.

Phil called to them as we drove by,
“Why don’t you stand there and talk another three hours?”

“The verb form of that is ‘Lykoshing,’” one replied.
He knows us well. He loves us.

God Wins

A report tonight of God at work
In the Eastern Hemisphere.
A team of suburbanites (like you?)
Encountered a woman
Possessed. They felt fear.

The worker there played worship.
Instantly the fear vanished.
Fear was strong, but God is stronger.
He has dominion.

God wins.

Chatterbox

1.
In middle school, I went on a youth retreat.
Filled with high good spirits (and hoping
To impress a boy), I chattered about silly things.

The Christian guide in our white water raft
Asked midway through, “Do you know what
Proverbs says about those who speak a lot?”

I know my Scripture. “They’re fools.”
“Just so.” Said with just a hint of a sniff.

Thinking back on my fourteen year old self,
I can both affirm with that dour dude that
My speech was sadly foolish that day,

But also wonder if maybe there’s a place before God
For silly teens trying to impress a boy, too.
Maybe we needn’t always take everything

So seriously.

2.
No part of me wants to be a fool.
I no longer have such talkative days.
(That might be called maturity.)

And I have had times since, in keeping with
The Proverb, where words are many and
Sin is not absent.

And yet, for all that, I have also
Spent hours of beautiful fellowship
In conversation.

I can ask forgiveness for speech
Badly done. But there is no remedy
For relationship unbuilt due to

Silence.

Pentecost Party

1.
Fifty days after Jesus’ resurrection,
The Holy Spirit fell on the believers.
We celebrated that, with music and friends.

I am thankful I dwell among people who
Willingly drove an hour here to share
How the Comforter has been at work in their lives.

I am humbled and grateful for the gifts
The Spirit gives: teaching, prophecy,
Hospitality, faith.

I am thankful to use my gifts.


2.
We roasted marshmallows for s’mores over the fire,
A hat tip to the Spirit indwelling with
What looked like tongues of fire.

I haven’t had a s’more in the twelve years
I’ve been wheat free. Not one of the boys
Had tried one, until tonight.

And there again was that flavor, the sweet richness,
A biannual treat growing up as we camped
During summer and Thanksgiving.

Our last few years have felt enough like roughing it
That I have no desire to set up a tent for the “camping experience.”
How delightful that the boys can taste s’mores even still.

Surfeit of Loveliness

Besides an anime introduction over Christmas,
It’s been a year and more since my last movie.
I reach satiation during morning sickness,
And, all things considered, I’d rather write poems.

Today, though, faced with mountains of dishes
That the dishwasher couldn’t touch,
I pulled out one of my favorites,
Shawshank Redemption, and started in.

I had forgotten how even the prisoners marching
Is like visual poetry; how the lighting
During a beating is so lovely the eye lingers.
I had forgotten how very young Tim Robbins looks
Initially, and how perfectly they age him.

I had forgotten the injunction to get busy living,
Or get busy dying.

Some things I had not forgotten, such as the
Impossibly perfect ending. And I remembered

The opera, a duet from Le Nozze di Figaro,
But not how all over the prison the men stood,
Silent, still, listening.

I’ve been to the opera. Even during the most
Transcendent duets, we don’t pay that kind of
Rapt attention. We should.

To live with surfeit of loveliness
And, thus, not appreciate any as we ought:
Perhaps the single pleasure the prisoners
Absorb is sufficient to remind us:

May we be more mindful
And more thankful.

Too Fickle

Forever I’ll love you, forever I’ll stand

Sometimes a song will have a single line
That’s a stinker, and then I stay silent
Or change it somehow.

“I could sing of your love forever.”
How does the writer know?
I know how fickle humans can be.
Why write something that might perjure the singer?

I have found the best summary
On why to avoid such lines.
From Christina Rossetti, a poet
Who sometimes has a verse profound.

“O Lord, I cannot plead my love of Thee:
I plead Thy love of me;—
The shallow conduit hails the unfathomed sea.”

Plain Speaking Needed

Eight weeks after our wedding
(Seven weeks after our honeymoon),
I read a marriage book that advocated
Getting away every quarter to be together.
We hadn’t planned this yet.

Phil arrived home from work.
I greeted him with the helpful welcome,
“Our marriage is a failure!”

“I don’t agree,” he said calmly
And went to change his clothes.

Maybe those marriage book writers
Don’t know everything.

The Multitudes

To see a multitude, you need a venue.
Maybe an arena or a stadium,
A concert hall, a graduation,
An airport at Christmas.

Have you ever looked over a multitude,
Maybe a bit sweaty and sticky from
Sun and spilled soda,
Or uncomfortable in formal wear,
Or tired and ready to be home?

I don’t look with compassion on my fellow
Sojourners. I see them as impediments
To reaching a seat or a bathroom stall or
My luggage. And besides, so few of them
Look happy, so few attractive.

Jesus saw the multitudes and had compassion.
They fainted, were scattered abroad,
As sheep having no shepherd.
They were vulnerable, isolated, without protection.

And I’m judging them for unhappiness and
Basic unattractiveness?
Why would I expect anything else?

Jesus had the answer, too. The harvest is plentiful,
But the workers are few. Ask for more workers.

Lord, send more workers to the harvest.
Lord, send me.

David

The first time I went to Florence,
I rounded the corner of the Accademia
And there was Michelangelo’s David.

No photo, or collection of photos,
Had prepared me for the grandeur of that
Enormous white sculpture, standing,
Casually, intently, lithe and perfect.

Some years later, I made my family wait
Until I could be in position to watch
Their faces as they rounded the corner
To see this wonder for themselves.

It didn’t disappoint.
Eyes widen, gasps of awe, irrepressible smiles.
Absolute amazement at this wonder,
Unique in the world.

I wonder if the angels greet each new child
With similar exuberance and surprise:
“He did it again!”

Maybe we should, too.

Hungry

Little towhead
On the table
Kicks my sister
With his duck boots.

Over protests,
Explains sincerely,
“They’re eating.”

John the Baptist

Go and show John again those things which ye do hear and see.

Miraculous birth,
Unconventional life,
Vision of dove and voice from heaven.

The plaintive question
From the prisoner reaches Jesus:
“Are you the one, or should we look for another?”

Even John, with his history, doubts.

And Jesus, in his perfect graciousness,
Simply lists the miracles,
Prophesied before in Isaiah.

John, you’ve got this. You’re doing fine.

Predator

The word conjures images of lions

Or wolves, or even the clichéd cat and mouse.

I watched a predator in action. In my barn,

A toad pounced on a night crawler and

Quickly devoured him, sucking him down

Only slightly slower than a boy eating spaghetti.

Patience

I am not a patient person.

The serene mindset eludes me.

Patience is part of the fruit of the Spirit.

I can do love, joy, peace, kindness,

Goodness, gentleness, faithfulness

And self-control. But patience?

How lovely to learn that biblical

Patience is another word for

Perseverance, holding on to faith

Without wavering. By God’s grace,

That seems attainable.

No mental unflappability required.

Two Miracles

I realize that a miracle is supernatural,
And things that can be explained don’t count.
Yet sometimes divine providence
Is so personal and exact, it feels miraculous.

On our fourth anniversary, we went on a date,
The only date to celebrate the date thus far.
Two young sons at home with friends, we went
For Thai food, only to find a foot race in front and parking nonexistent.
Nevertheless, we persevered and walked the blocks,
Only to realize as we reached the stairs that we had no cash,
The only form of payment. Must we go home, hungry?

I glanced down, and a twenty caught my eye,
No one around to claim it.
More than enough to cover two meals in the food court.
God said, “Happy Anniversary.”

Years later, crammed into too small a space,
I put some books in storage. A son asked for one. Repeatedly.
And so I clambered over boxes and bags, searching for the box
That held Greek Myths. I couldn’t find it.
In despair, I put my head down on my arms and tears came to my eyes.
I just want to bless my son; will this, too, be denied?

I raised my head and there was the box,
Revealed where it had always been.
The palpable presence of God was in that place.
And then I truly cried, wracking sobs.
I was not forgotten, not forsaken.

Even the minor wishes of a young son,
Wanting to read about pagan gods
Were known, were granted.

Hospitality

If you come to visit me,

I will pray for you

And our visit before.

I will pay attention

While you are here.

And I will sing a

Blessing over you

When you depart.

Dancing

The year I was fourteen,

God met me at camp.

I had known him for years,

But that was a new depth of joy.

Shortly after, we went to Lake Michigan.

Alone, I danced on the shore

And on the cliff above the shore.

I felt like David, rejoicing before the Lord.

It was my secret worship.

More than a decade later, a friend

Was praying over me and said,

“He loves your dancing.”

The God of the Universe remembered.

Unfortunate Sleeper

My aunt shared a room with me.

One night she woke feeling something

Crawling on her, but she purposed to

Lie still and keep silent.

The next morning we found

A salamander in the hall.

Imagine tiny feet walking on you

Gently in the dark.

Eagerness

Littlest son, eight months ago

We hadn’t met you yet.

Today you stood yourself up

And used the step stool for a walker.

You stood more than you sat or crawled.

(Once you lay on the floor, head and shoulders

Out the open door and grabbed a rock.)

I know you want to be like your brothers.

You watch them with large eyes.

They are good examples and teach you well.

But I will miss the little bright-eyed

Crawler, smiling as he zips towards

His brothers’ games, intent on interaction.

Marriage As Struggle

In Christian circles, it is common to speak
Of marriage as a struggle.
“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” we’ve heard
Repeatedly.

I realize that my scale of hard may be different
Than most (52 months, 6 people, 228 square feet),
But we have never found marriage
So burdensome.

Of course there was an adjustment.
Besides the nascent wheat allergy that triggered
Psychosis, we dealt with things like
Phil’s preference for hugging the dog
Instead of me when he fell asleep.

And yet, for all the books on “Marriage is to make you holy,”
For us, marriage also makes us happy.
And if I think of the biblical description
Of marriage between Christ and the Church,
I think that union is not dreary endurance,
But joyful consummation.

The Unknown Other

There are people, I have heard,
Who know what they are thinking
Without first needing to write it down.

What must it be like to know oneself so clearly,
Not to need the physical act of writing
To mediate what’s in one’s mind?

I can only guess how the mind of another works.
I have heard that some prefer the journey,
Astounding to me, who loves the destination.

When I hear startling news, I react from the gut.
Others react from the head, seeing with clarity
What needs to be done, while I’m still grunting.

If I can’t even understand the mind of a finite person,
Why would I expect to plumb the mysteries of the mind of God?

Fruit in Season

Psalm 1 promises that the man

Who delights in the law of the LORD

Shall bring forth his fruit in his season.

(Let’s assume this applies to women, too.)

Most trees do not produce fruit year round.

There is dormancy, bud break, and growth

Before harvest. An apple tree that produced

Apples without pause would be unnatural.

So if you are in a season of dormancy,

Or bud break, or growth, there’s nothing wrong.

All the seasons are necessary, but we only

Celebrate the fruit. Maybe today celebrate dormancy.

Table Bling

I don’t know how God does it,

But his blessings reverberate,

Increasing amplitude.

I talked to a friend. She was blessed,

I was blessed. Net increase for both.

She gave me a butter dish.

Net increase for me.

It makes my life more beautiful.

Net increase for all who come.

Dinner Party

As I sat at table with most of the people

I love most in this world,

We celebrated that God is at work in us.

Not that life is easy. We have battle scars

And sorrow.

But we are new creatures, also,

Children of light, with stories of how

God met us, changed us, sustains us.

JFK once quipped at a dinner with luminaries,

This is the finest collection of human knowledge ever gathered,

With the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.

I prefer my dinner to either collected brilliance (which we had)

Or isolated genius. Give me food and laughter

And saints to share it with.

Thanks be to God.

Words to Live By

“Why wouldn’t he be thankful? He has everything he wants.”
“But surely you’ve noticed that it hardly ever works that way. Those who have the most are nearly always the least grateful for what they have. Godwulf there, he spends his entire day giving thanks to God and sharing what he has with everyone who passes by. The local farmers and villagers are beginning to come to him for spiritual advice. … He says, ‘Enjoy your food, enjoy your work, give thanks to God.’ Then he usually hands them a pint of ale.” –The Lioness and Her Knight

Phil, reading through King Arthur tales
A few days after I read them to the boys, called to me:
“This is such a great section! Listen!”

I had copied down that same section days earlier,
But some pieces of writing are so true and good,
They can stand to be repeated.

Enjoy your food,
Enjoy your work,
Give thanks to God.

And drink this pint of ale.

I haven’t yet heard that preached
In a sermon. But I wish I could.

Incalculable

I have not experienced deep suffering,
At least, not yet.
I have suspected, though, that in this life,
The suffering goes deeper than the joy,
That an Everest of pain may be temporarily
Obscured by a hut of happiness,
But that depends entirely on proximity and
Perspective. After all, how can the joy of a baby
Ever outweigh the early death of that baby?
How can some years of marriage ever cover
The sorrow when the spouse is no more?
Sorrow seems so unalloyed,
While even the greatest joys may be lessened
By hunger, fatigue, boredom, memory.

And yet, for all that, I have some hope that
Maybe joy is, sometimes at least, the winner.

What We Value

Languages have words for what
The culture values. In English, we have
Precise words to describe cars and electronics,
But rice … it’s just rice. In Indonesia,
Though, they have different words for
Growing rice, bagged rice, rice in the market.

In English, we love pizza and our spouse and
Your new haircut. How imprecise.
In Greek, there are the famous four words
To describe love: the sexual eros,
The friendly philia, the affectionate
Storge, and the unconditional agape.

It is striking to me now that we don’t have a word
To say, “I wish you didn’t have to wake up alone on
Your birthday” or “I wish your mother did not shake
Convulsively and moan anytime she’s upright.”
We use the clumsy “I’m sorry,” what people say when
Accidentally bumping in a hall or spilling a drink.

Without even a vocabulary for empathy, let alone
Grief, how impoverished are we, both the hurting
And the hurting with.

After Freshman Year

I had almost a week delay before my last final,
So I moved home, then went back to
Boulder for 24 hours to take my physics exam and
Celebrate my year with my friend Wendy.

We watched Amadeus and walked
And ate and talked until late in the night. I loved it all.

Years later I heard what happened while
I blissfully rode the bus home.
Wendy, prostrated by my frenetic energy,
Sat immovable in her most comfortable chair.

Phil stopped by and asked, “What happened to you?”
“Amy Holzmann happened. I’m so tired.
Have you met her?
I could see you two together.”

Vasovagal Syncope

I wanted to be a nurse
Until I fainted when I lost a tooth.
That tiny drop of blood on my gums
Did me in.

In high school, I was having blood drawn
And woke up on the floor. Irate, the nurse said,
“Why didn’t you tell me you would faint?”
I didn’t know.
Since then, I always make sure I’m prone around needles.

I gave blood once in college.
I had thought that a nurse would siphon off
The quantity in a quick procedure.
No. Twenty minutes of gradual pulsing my hand
I managed to lie there, lifeblood flowing out,
But I left white, in shock, and never did that again.

(For years I kept my weight just under the limit
So I would have no guilt. Donation?
Impossible! Sorry, don’t weigh enough.)

This fainting thing frustrated me, though.
I handle farm and family traumas with
Presence of mind, mopping up blood,
Examining wounds to see the extent of the damage.

I felt betrayed that my self-control vanishes
When the needle punctures my skin.

Recently I learned that this is called
Vasovagal syncope. It is, apparently, genetic.
I’ve passed it to at least one son, who has
Fainted twice (thus far).

It’s the body’s protest against something it dislikes.
I will never be perfect at giving blood,
But there’s nothing I can do about it.
One less failure to fret over.
I act unconsciously.

Missing Indigo

I learned the colors of the rainbow:
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple.

Later, I learned that artists
Call purple “violet” and insert

Indigo between violet and blue.
I have crystals in my window.

Every sunny morn I check the
Rainbows on the wall to see if I can see

The elusive indigo. I haven’t yet.
But I don’t mind examining the slash of light.

Home Burial

We buried Gracie Lou
On a beautiful day.
Perfect weather.
Both families present
Entirely.

Walking down the slope to the grave
I exclaimed, “It’s so beautiful!”
Because it was: the colorful clothes
Juxtaposed with blue sky and green growth.

My Mom shot me a stricken look then,
But I wasn’t trying to be frivolous.
It was just achingly beautiful.

It was beautiful that the photographer showed
When he did, guided not by my faulty directions
But by a random man he stopped on the side of the road
Who didn’t direct him correctly, either,
But God did, and he arrived just in time.

I look at his photos and am struck with
How beautiful. Grief ravaged our faces:
Dad’s stern look, my isolation, Natalia’s exhaustion.
Tears on my sister’s face.

But also roses, also embrace, also color
And Scripture, and real handkerchiefs.
It was a beautiful service.
I think more people would have photographers
At funerals if they knew how beautiful
The photos would be.

And when we ate our formal dinner,
On a patio of bricks surrounded by flower gardens,
The woman of the house said later,
“This place was suffused with a special light.”

And so the day ended with beauty,
And family, and food, and laughter.

We grieve, but not as others who have no hope.
Thanks be to God.

Sheep Among Wolves

When Jesus sent out his disciples,
He told them they were like
Sheep among wolves, one of those
Ubiquitous Christian statements
That has ceased to have meaning.

Stop. This terrifies me.
Wolves can stand six feet on hind legs.
They travel in packs, armed with
Teeth, claw, and cunning.
They decimate flocks.

And the Good Shepherd, known for
Green pastures and quiet waters,
Sends out his sheep into
The world of wolves.

What?

And then, to make things even more
Confusing, they were told to be
Shrewd as serpents and harmless as doves.

I can do harmless as doves. How precious.
But also be shrewd as the personification of Satan?
And somehow the combination shrewd-
Harmless helps the sheep from the
Ravening predators?

The closer I look at this instruction,
The more I think I’d prefer to stay home.

Inhospitable?

My Grandpa visited two decades ago.
I was getting myself a snack in the kitchen
When he joined me. “I’m thirsty.”

“We have glasses in the cupboard there.
Milk in the refrigerator, and water from the tap.
Help yourself!” Big smile and quick exit.

Was that inhospitable? (A cup of cold water
In my name and all that.) Or simply allowing
An able-bodied man to help himself?

Today's Prayer

Bridal showers, baby showers,
Parties known for presents
And desultory small talk.

My prayer today was for
Connection, the presence of
The Spirit, that we would leave
Thanks giving, encouraged.

Answered. Amen.

Relationship, Not Rules

Since the Enlightenment,
We’ve known the world follows laws.
Gravity works.

We read these laws into the Bible.
No women teachers, no exceptions.
An exception would break the law,
And that would seem to make God unjust.

It’s hard to imagine a culture without this
Perspective. It’s so obvious!

But some cultures have less reliance
On rules, and more on relationship.
What if, instead of laws without exception,
These instructions were generally true,
But allowed for some move of the Spirit?
The relationship takes precedence.

Most women don’t teach.
But maybe some should.