A Sweatshirt Conversation

            "You're pregnant?!?" I spluttered. "By whom?" She turned toward me, her eyes gleaming with fury, like a cat's.

            "My boyfriend," she snapped. Her mouth twisted. "Who'd you think?" Finding her glare frightening, I shook my head and backed away, mumbling excuses. Her eyes gleamed more brightly and she barked out a laugh. "My God; I'm a live-in, not a slut." I cringed at the words she used to describe herself.

            "Don't say that."

            "It's true." Turning away, she grabbed her sweatshirt and shrugged into it, yanking the sleeves over her hands and arms.

            "Why?" As the question burst from my mouth, she froze, the sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder.

            "Why what?"

            "Why do you do that to yourself?" Slowly she drew the sweatshirt over her shoulder and zipped it up. Her fingers lingered on the zipper and seemed reluctant to let it go.

            "Sleep with him, you mean?" I nodded.

            "Yeah." Her eyes dropped to the floor and her body went limp. For a long moment she stood silent.

            "Because," she burst out. "Because he wants me."

            "Oh—" I reached toward her, but she yanked away.

            "No!" she shouted. "No, don't tell me you understand! I can't even explain it! Just . . . he wants me. He wants me." She repeated the phrase, her voice small and childlike, as if trying to reassure herself. Her fingers twisted with the chain of her silver necklace.

            "Does he want all of you?" I asked in a soft voice. "Or just your body?" Her head jerked up and she stared at me in trembling, wide-eyed silence. I saw her swallow and lick her lips.

            "Maybe," she whispered. "Maybe it's easier to be wanted for something I can give. Maybe it's easier to do that than to be beautiful and good." Before she turned her face away, I saw the tears running down her face. For a long moment, she stared away from me. My gaze drifted over her frame, lingering on the soft curve of her stomach, and I felt a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed my fingers across my face.

            "What are you going to do?" My voice came out in a whisper as well; I felt afraid that too loud a tone would shatter her into a million tiny shards. She swiped at her face with her sleeve and shook her head.

            "I don't know. Move to a cheaper apartment. Get a better job. Something." She pulled her sweatshirt tight around her body and shivered. "Not much else I can do." Her hand rested on her belly for a moment, then her mouth twisted in a smirk and she glanced into my eyes. "My moral code doesn't allow many options." Her eyes flashed, daring me to challenge her, then she glanced away, staring into the distance.

            "Anything I can do? Can I take you somewhere, help you out somehow?"

            "No. Nobody can do anything."

            "You could leave him." She laughed, the same harsh, cold sound.

            "Can't.

            "Why not?" She turned sad eyes to me and tried to smile.

            "If you can't understand, I can't make you." She shrugged, pushing her hands deep into her sweatshirt pockets. "I've got to go. See you later, I guess." Head down, she shuffled away, her gait slower than her years dictated.

            As I watched her, I felt grief swell in my throat. I wanted to call her name, to run after her, to hug her, to save her. But I did understand. And I knew that the wall she'd built in an attempt to protect her truest, deepest self would not fall easily. And that—she was right—was not something anyone could change for her. I shifted my eyes away from her hunched body and tried to forget the desperation in her eyes . . .

My Lover

    I know no other kiss but His,
        The gentle drops of rain upon my lips.

His arms encircle me in the warmth of the sunshine,
    Holding me closely, tenderly, tightly.

    I am terrified, yet captivated, by the power of His wrath,
        Seen in the brilliant lightning, heard in the deafening thunder.

He glances at me through the beauty
    Of a drop of water on a pine branch, the stunning sunrise, the tiny twinkling stars.

    I feel Him finger the tendrils of my hair
        When the wind blows about me.

He breaks my heart with His longing for me,
    Glimpsed in the sensual light of the moon.

    I laugh at His smile,
        Which I see in the clouds flying by above me.

    He wraps my broken being close
        In the velvet blackness of the night.

Who is my Lover?

        You know; you've seen Him all these places.

Flirting

                        I offered her a ring.  It didn't

            mean anything; it was just a small, round piece of cheap pretty metal-- one of those vending machine rings that children wear.

                        I didn't expect her to take it, but she did-- reaching out her small brown hand and holding it between her fingertips.

            She turned the ring around and around, her head bowed over it, the ring shining in the gaps between her fingers.  My eyes caught on the metal, then lingered over her skin-- smooth and young, yet not soft;

tough from working,

            brown from sunshine,

                        used to life.

My fingers wondered what her hands felt like.

                        In a moment she had examined the ring, and she was handing it back.  I felt

            disappointed; with surprise, I found I'd wanted her to keep it, and discovered I'd hoped she'd put it on her finger.

           

                        "Too small," she explained, as if she could read my mind.  I smiled and slipped the ring back into my pocket as she matched my smile

            and sank back into her chair.  She looked relaxed, tired, happy-- her body melting into her sweatshirt and the cushion of the chair around her.  She curled up sideways in the chair,

            her hair falling over one side of her face, her ankles crossed, her feet dangling over the arm of the chair.  Pushing her hair back behind her ear, she glanced at me with warm eyes.

                        I didn't have any words to say; I just enjoyed watching her.

            I felt like a biologist, sitting silent in the forest, watching the creature he's devoted his life to studying slip through its natural habitat.

                        "You know, if you had taken it," I said, referencing the ring, "You'd have had to marry me."

            Her mouth and eyes opened in small circles, then her eyes crinkled and she laughed.

                        "It's a very good thing it didn't fit, then," she replied, her voice light.  I glanced in her eyes, feeling the heat of embarrassment cover me, and saw a flash of something,

            an emotion that didn't match her tone.  Dropping her eyes, she shifted her body and the subject, asking about homework and family and life.  Automatically, I answered her, and we talked for what felt like

            just a few minutes.

But when I finally looked at the clock, hours had passed.

                        I didn't think much about the ring-- or her-- in the next few days; I saw her infrequently, at meals, or in the hallways on her way to class.

            She always smiled.

                        But hen, today, she passed me, her arms empty for once, and her eyes crinkled the way they had that night.

            I glanced at her hands.

They met each other, the fingers of her right hand twisting the ring from her father that she always wore on her left hand.

                        I felt my mouth and eyes open in small circles, and I, startled, jerked my gaze to her face.

            Her lips curved and she dropped her eyes, her feet never slowing.

Before I recovered, she had disappeared around the corner, down the next hallway.

                        I was almost late for class.

           But now, now, burning inside me, is the urgent question demanding an answer.

                                                And I have no defense or reply to it.

Big Blue

I saw a blue heron today.

He was in the pond shallows, standing among ducks, preening himself.

I wonder if he knew how out of place he looked.

There, swimming around him, with their short squat necks and legs and bodies, were ducks and ducks. One was white, but most of them were mallards or wood ducks.
And there stood the heron, serene amongst their small quarrels and spats.

He knew I was there.
I was not aware of his presence until I was halfway down the hill. When I glimpsed his slender body and elongated neck, I sat down where I stood, without thinking about who saw me or how I looked.
I just sat.

For a moment, we were both still, his head turned to one side, one eye appearing to be fixed upon me. I took a bite of my apple and chewed, hoping that he would stay where he was. After a moment, he went back to his preening. I watched as his long bill chewed at and teased the feathers on his throat, over and over. It seemed to make no difference in his appearance, but he moved systematically down his body, smoothing a feather here, ruffling the feathers in another area. I inched my way down the hill, closer to the pond. At times, he would catch my movement out of the corner of his eyes, and once again he would freeze, staring at me. Little by little, though, I came close enough that if I had wanted, I could have hit him with my apple core. I dropped the core into the bushes and stood, my hands in my pockets, just watching the large bird. For some reason, I wanted to be closer to him. I had a flash of how it would feel to hunt an animal, and I breathed thanks that I did not need to kill for my next meal. Slowly, I crept down a path near the pond until I could go no farther in the bushes. Then I stood still, watching and thinking and memorizing.

The ducks remained oblivious to my presence, but when I looked at the heron, I knew he knew I was there. He curved his neck, making a deep noise within his throat. It seemed like a warning, but whether it was to me, or the ducks around him was a mystery. As I stared at the heron, I wondered where he had come from, and where he was going. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like, how he looked when he swam, how he took off from the water, and if he tucked up his legs when he flew. I almost wanted to frighten him so he would cry and take off and soar. But I knew I could not do that. I knew that his peace and serenity were too great for me to dream of disturbing him.

The heron lowered himself closer to the water, bending his legs, and dropping behind the bushes, out of my view. It was my turn to act, my line.

I turned and crept back the way I had come, taking care not to make noise on my path out of the bushes and up the hill.

Shut Your Eyes

Imagine the worst, most agonizing pain you've ever felt.

            Imagine the deepest terror you've ever experienced.

                        Imagine the darkest loneliness you've ever succumbed to.

           

Now—

            imagine being back right in the middle of that hurt, that fear, that loneliness.

Imagine shutting your eyes to block it all out and feeling it remain.

                                       And imagine that when you open your eyes

                                                                                                it's

                                                                                                   still

                                                                                                      right

                                                                                                         there.

                                    That's death.

                                                That's Hell.

Now.

  Imagine the most perfect joy you have ever known.

            Imagine the most incredible, beautiful object or person or place you have ever seen.

                        Imagine the most gentle, tender, special love you have ever received.

Now—

               remember the pain and fear and loneliness we just talked about?

                                    Good.

Imagine being in the midst of that pain, that fear, that loneliness and shutting your eyes to block it all out, and opening your eyes and waking up to

                                                                                                                                                                                                the most perfect joy;

                                                                                                                                                                          the most incredible, beautiful Person in the most incredible, beautiful Place;

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        the most gentle, tender, special love ever.

                                    That's true life.

                                                That's Heaven.

                                                     That's what Jesus bought for each one of us on the Cross.

Now—

              shut your eyes.

                                   

                                    Imagine . . .

                                                what He did

                                                            for

                                                                  you.

truly gone?

Sometimes, late at night, he was haunted by his sins . . .

He slumped at his table, his head in his hands, trying to block out the memories brought on by the flickering candlelight. He remembered night raids-- the cries of terrified children; the frantic, shrieking pleas of women; the terror scrawled on innocent faces as they were rounded up and led away. He remembered his laughter rising over the din, and the smug, self-pleased feeling in his heart as he lay on his bed at night. The images clouded his mind, as the clouds cover the moon, until he'd nearly forgotten where he was and what God had called him to. And, just when he was on the brink of despair, a dark voice spoke to him, its tone low but filling the room. It told him what it tells all followers of Christ-- that he was hopeless, unreedeemable, worthless, unlovable. It was so convincing that he had to gasp for air under its oppressive weight. He often felt like creeping away in the night, like the wretched criminal the voice told him he was.

But at times like this, he knew how to fight.

"No!" he shouted at the darkness. "I have been forgiven! My debt is not only paid, but forgotten! I am living in hope; I am redeemed; I am made worthy; I am loved!" he cried, pounding his fist on the table. "The sins you remind me of have been thrown into the deepest sea, removed from me as far as the east is from the west-- wiped out of God's memory! His Son, Jesus Christ loved me and gave Himself for me-- do you hear me?--" he screamed, rising and supporting himself on the table. "-- Jesus gave Himself for my sins, to rescue me from this present evil world." He paused, panting quietly, and listened. The room was silent, but he knew his enemy still lurked. After a moment, he spoke in a soft voice. "And because of His death and resurrection, I am a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come." He stopped and smiled slightly. "You-- and your accusations-- hold no power over this man," he finished, his voice dropping to a whisper. As he straightened, his body drenched in sweat, he glanced out the narrow window. The stars were out, their lights bright in the night sky. A cool breeze whispered in through the window, and he closed his eyes and let it lift his hair back from his face. Then, he sat down once again and returned to his work.

The past, and its darkness, held no sway in Paul's present . . .
nor over his future.

sleep

                                    Sleep is my anti-drug.

Sleep is purposeful oblivion.

            Sleep is painkiller.

            Sleep is solitude magnified.

Sleep is satisfying darkness.

            Sleep is fear.

            Sleep is safe.

Sleep is temporary death.

Sleep is a necessary long, deep breath.

                        Sleep is inescapable terror.

Sleep is out-of-control, fast-forwarded life.

Sleep is still, quiet peace.

            Sleep is dying in slow motion.

Sleep is not my anti-drug.

                                    Sleep is my drug—my pill that keeps me sane.