With a Blow

    I lay on my bed, my eyes closed, fighting to breathe, listening to the whispers around me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I knew they did not believe I could hear them, but their words still burnt.  Tears welled in my eyes and slid down my cheeks as I remembered the months that had led up to this day.

. . .

    When I entered the room, my husband was staring at the wall, his lips set in a thin line.  The older priest had a grave expression on his face.
    "Your husband claims to have seen a vision from the LORD," he informed me.  "However, he has been robbed of . . . normal speech."  He stared at me.  "Be wary, my daughter," he said, his voice stern.  "Many experiences . . . will not be from the LORD."  I bowed my head as he rose and left our house.  Then I sank down next to my husband.
    "My lord?" I ventured.  "What . . . what happened?"  His eyes sad, he just stared at me, and I remembered what the other priest had said.  "You cannot speak at all?" I whispered.  He shook his head, and my heart leapt.  "Speak to me, then, please!" I cried.  "I would hear the story from your own lips!"  Slowly, he shook his head again, and my heart sank.  I took his hands in mine, laying my head against his chest.  He wrapped his arms about me and I felt him sigh.

. . .

    I only stepped out of the house for a moment, but it was long enough.
    "My lord!" I shouted, beating my fists against the door.  "My lord, please open the door!"  From inside the house, I could hear strange mutters, which made me more frantic.  "Please, my lord!" I shrieked.
    Seven days my husband had spent seated in the marketplace.  Then, without warning, he had disappeared.  Five days later, he had appeared in our courtyard, dusty and looking hungry.  When I went to the garden for vegetables, he had slammed and bolted the door behind me.
    Something was wrong with the man I loved.
    Leaning my head against the door, I closed my eyes.
    "Oh, LORD," I prayed.  "Protect Your servant from the insanity that would take him.  Give Your maidservant wisdom!"
    Then I waited.

. . .

    The men had bound him, but I had soon untied him, unable to bear the grief in his eyes, and he had been free for weeks.  I even dared leave him alone when I went to the marketplace.  One day, when I returned home, he was sitting in the dust in our courtyard.  He had a jumble of things placed in front of him, and a group of small boys was gathered around him.  As I watched, the  children scattered across the yard, shouting war cries and laughing.  I stepped into the courtyard and my husband met my eyes, his gaze solemn.  As I watched, he twisted a few twigs together, then wrapped a scrap of cloth around them, forming a tiny model of a tent.  Crouching, I saw that there were many tents, forming miniature camps, all grouped about a brick.  Against the brick were piles of dirt, larger twigs, and stones lying as if they had been tossed against the brick.  I stared at my husband.
    "My lord?"  He did not answer me, but rose and went into the house.  I stared at the things in front of me.  My husband returned carrying an iron plate which he set upright near the brick.  Looking satisfied, he lay down on his left side and closed his eyes.  I was sure he had fallen asleep, but when I moved, he opened his eyes.  I shook my head and walked into the house.
    "Come back inside when you're hungry," I called over my shoulder.
    The silence I could endure.  But war games?  Child's play?  His sanity was more fragile than I had believed.

. . .

    It had been a fairly quiet day until my neighbor woman burst through the door.
    "Do you know where your husband is?" she cried, her face pale.
    "He's in the courtyard-" I glanced out the window, then froze.  My husband was gone.  I whirled to the woman, grabbing her shoulders.  "Where is he?" I demanded.
    "The- the marketplace . . ."
    I dashed out the door, my heart pounding, and raced to the marketplace.  A crowd was gathered, and I fought my way through it, crying my husband's name.  Suddenly, I halted.  There stood my husband, gripping a sword.  His eyes calm, he turned to look at me.  Someone cried, "Stay back, sister!"  Instead, I stretched my hands out and stepped forward.
    "My lord, put the sword down, please."  I could see his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip.  I took another step toward him.  He backed away, bringing the sword close to his throat, and my breath came faster.  "Please, my lord, just put it down . . ."  Even as I spoke, he slashed close to his neck.  I screamed, falling to my knees and squeezing my eyes shut.  For a long moment, the marketplace was silent except for my sobs and my husband's ragged breathing.  Opening my eyes, I dared to glance at him.  He stood, clutching the sword in one hand and his severed beard in the other.  I scrambled to my feet.  As I watched, he carefully laid the hair in a bowl, then set about shaving the rest of his hair.  When he was done, he laid the sword aside and sat on the ground, holding the bowl of hair in his lap.  Tears filled my eyes at the sight of him, so bare in public.  I crouched next to him, stroking his bald head.
    "I don't understand," I whispered, burying my face on his shoulder.  "I- I just don't understand . . ."
    For a long moment, he let me rest there.  Then he rose and went to a stall, finding a pair of scales, and weighed out his hair.  I stayed in the dust, silent and grief-stricken.

. . .

    My husband had finally spoken after his months of silence, in a terrible Voice not his own, and the news he bore was not good.
    We had forsaken the LORD, and the LORD would now forsake our people and His chosen city to heartache, famine, siege, pestilence, capture, and death.
    My husband was a madman; he had proven so over the past months.
    The city of Jerusalem- God's chosen dwelling place- would not fall so terribly.
    His words could not be true.

. . .

    The elders had come again to seek counsel.  I remained in the kitchen, trying to busy myself and ignore their voices.  Suddenly, the murmurs burst into excited chatter, and I dashed to the door to see what was happening.  My husband stood stiff, his eyes latched on the ceiling, his arms and legs locked.  I stifled a shriek, for I knew the expression on his face.  I squeezed my eyes shut as the minutes dragged by until I heard my husband take a deep breath.  I opened my eyes.  There was fire in his gaze as he opened his mouth, and I dropped to the floor, covering my ears.
    The Voice was speaking again.  Using my husband's mouth, it boomed out accusation on accusation and horror of horrors.  I could not move, could not even breathe while it spoke.  Suddenly, I heard my husband's voice cry out, and I jerked up from the floor.  There were tears on his face and he was shaking his head, as if he himself did not want to believe the words he was saying.  I scrambled to my feet, shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
    "Pelatiah!" a man screamed, leaping to his feet and shaking the man next to him.  As I watched, Pelatiah clutched his breast, then slumped to the floor.  Chaos erupted.
    "It's the madman!"
    "He has brought this upon us!"  My husband did not even glance at the men, but crumpled facedown on the floor, lapsing into his garbled speech.  I wanted to run to him, to pull him off the floor, to protect him from the rage of the elders.
    Instead, I crept to the darkest corner of the kitchen and sank to the floor.  Folding my legs to my chest, I buried my face against my knees.
    "How long, LORD?" I whispered.
    Only silence answered me.

. . .

    All day my husband had carried his possessions into our courtyard.  Word had spread that the madman was performing again, and by evening a crowd had gathered.  My heart was in my throat as, one last time, my husband stepped out of our house.  The crowd stirred as he bundled his things and began walking. We all trailed after him, out of the courtyard, down the street, through the city, until he reached the wall.  There we watched as he began forcing stones out of the wall and digging through the mortar with his bare hands.
    "What are you doing, madman?" a youth called out, his friends laughing.  My husband turned.  I felt my spine tingle as I glimpsed his blazing eyes.
    "Thus says the LORD God," boomed the Voice I dreaded so much.  "'This burden concerns the prince in Jerusalem . . .'" I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the words he spoke.
    O LORD! I prayed.  Why must it be my husband?
    As he finished speaking, I opened my eyes.  Most of the crowd had drifted away.  They had come for a performance, but had received an unwanted sermon.  With a sigh, my husband hefted his burden on his shoulder.  The hole in the wall was just large enough for him to crawl through.  He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me.
    In a moment, he had disappeared.
    I trudged back to the house.  The beauty of the night sky mocked my pain until I stepped into the house, where the ceiling blocked out the stars.  I crawled into bed, missing my husband's presence.
    Later that night, I jerked awake.  Something had changed since I went to sleep.  Turning, I bumped into something warm.  I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  Then an arm wrapped around me and I recognized my husband.
    He had not abandoned me.
    Closing my eyes, I curled against his chest and drifted back to sleep.

. . .

    Day by day, my husband kept crying out against everything he should have been loyal to. Day by day, public sentiment turned against him.  Day by day, I watched him continue to spiral from a respected priest to a laughingstock.
    I burned to step in, to stop it, to change things.
    But I could not.
    I was only a woman, the wife of the madman.
    And I had come to know that what he said was true.
    My husband was not mad.
    He spoke for the LORD, and akin to righteous men of the past, he was scorned and mocked by the unrighteous.
    I feared the day I would see Jerusalem crumble- the city of the temple, the city of my God.
    Yet I knew, by my husband's words, the time was close.
    Dread in my heart, I watched, and waited, and prayed.

. . .

    My husband had spoken to the people.
    Jerusalem was under siege.
    It was too early for anyone to confirm his message, but I needed nothing else to believe the words of the LORD.  My heart pounding, I stood in the crowded marketplace, listening as my husband described what would happen to our holy city.  Many wept, but my eyes were dry.
    We forsook the LORD, and now He has forsaken us.  The day I dreaded has come.
    My husband caught my eye, and hesitated in his speech.  I glimpsed something I did not understand in his eyes.  Then he looked away and I was sure I had imagined it.  Yet, suddenly, hope stirred in my heart.
    Are you ready, dearest? a gentle voice whispered deep inside my soul.
    My head was beginning to ache.  As my husband finished speaking, the crowd dispersed, muttering.  I fixed my eyes on the ground, feeling unsteady and nauseated.  Then an arm slipped around me, and I leaned against my husband.  For a moment, he held me close against his chest as I wrapped my arms around him.  His chin rested on the top of my head, and I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing thud of his heart.
    My husband helped me home and into bed.  He brought the healer woman, who checked my forehead, my throat, my feet and hands, then went away, shaking her head.  With grief-filled eyes, my husband sat next to me, holding my hand.  I could barely keep my eyes open.
    My husband stayed with me until a group of women drove him away while they bathed me.  Once they laid me back in bed, they huddled about me.
    "The healer says she will last only until the sun sets."
    "Her husband should be with her right now."
    "That man!  It is his fault this is happening!"
    I wept, praying for my husband's return.  In a moment, the gossiping voices faded, and footsteps pattered away.  Forcing my eyes open, I saw my husband standing in the doorway.  I raised my hand toward him, and he came to me, clasping my hand.
    There was much I wished to say- how I was sorry I had thought him mad, how I regretted allowing others to use force against him, how I wished I had been loyal to him no matter what.  I wanted to confess that I had mocked him in my heart, that I had refused to believe his words, that I had turned from the way of the LORD.  I longed to tell him that I now knew that all he had said and done had been from the LORD our God.  My throat closed up, and I found myself unable to speak.  I shut my eyes.  My husband was trembling.
    Not for me, dearest.  Grieve for the city of God.  Mourn for the people of God.
    I opened my eyes, staring straight above me.  Instead of the ceiling, I glimpsed a dark cloud, filled with fire and lightning and smoke and terrible darting figures.  I gasped in fear, and felt my husband touch my face.  I looked at him, and saw desperation and understanding in his eyes.  He nodded at me.
    He saw this, too . . .
    It made sense- the fire in his eyes, the stiffening of his joints, the Voice.
    Yes- the Voice.  It's here.
Like a cloud, the Voice rolled over me, blocking out all else.
    I hear it, dearest.  I understand now.
    Somehow, after all the months of hating and cowering away from the Voice, I was not afraid anymore.  I closed my eyes once more.
    I am ready.  Let me hear what You would say . . .




    And so she was gone.
    By the terror and sheer delight in her face, I knew she had seen the LORD.
    As the LORD had commanded me, I did not mourn and I did not weep and my tears did not come.  I groaned silently; I made no mourning for the dead.  I bound on my turban and put my shoes on my feet, and did not cover my mustache and did not eat the bread of men.2
    In my heart of hearts, though, I wailed and mourned more than any man ever had for the woman he loved.


    May the name of the LORD GOD be praised.

they say that breaking up is hard to do

He stood in my kitchen, where we'd had so many talks, shared so many secrets, laughed together so many times,

             and told me we were over.

                        I didn't believe him.

He stood in my kitchen, tall, relaxed, confident,

            everything I wanted, everything I'd thought I'd had.

                        I couldn't yank my eyes away from him.

He stood in my kitchen, recounted all his reasons, paused, his silence asking for my approval, my response.

            I was silent, for

                        all I could see were his dark eyes, dark but not mysterious to me.

                        Until now.

He stood in my kitchen, saying he was leaving now.

            I stood up, put my hands out.

                        "I don't understand," I said.

He stood in my kitchen, still tall, but his shoulders tense, his hands jammed in his pockets.

            I waited.

                        "It just has to be," he mumbled.

He stood in my kitchen, eyes on the floor, not moving, as

            I sobbed, my tears gushing like a flood, my shoulders shaking.

                        All I wanted was his arm around my shoulders, his hand in the middle of my back.

He stood in my kitchen, and

            I knew, by the way he rubbed his eyes,

                        he was crying, too.

He stood in my kitchen, finally raising wet eyes to me.

            "Can’t you see why?" he asked, his gaze begging me to give the answer he wanted.

                        I shook my head.

           

                                    "No,

                                                I don't see,

                                                            I never will,

                                                                        don't leave me."

He stood in my kitchen, one last time, his eyes sweeping over

            the curtains,

                        the plants on the windowsill,

                                    the spoon collection hanging on the wall,

                                                the photos on the fridge,

                                                            the cheery sunny yard outside.

                                                                                    He looked at everything

                                                                                                                        but

                                                                                                                            me.

            "Let me go," he pleaded.  "Just please let me go."

                        I couldn't fight it anymore.  I squeezed my eyes shut.

                                    "Yes," I whispered.  "But please . . ."

                                                                        "Anything."

                                                                                    "Hold me one more time."

He stood in my kitchen, his arms open toward me, but hesitated.

            "No," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.  "No.  No, I can't."

                        I closed my eyes, and remembered . . .

                                    His strong arms wrapped close around me, his head curved over mine, his hand pressing my ear against his heart, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to curl himself around me.

                        I tattooed the memory into my heart, my brain, my soul, any part of me that would remember.

                                   

He still stood in my kitchen, hunched miserably, when I opened my eyes.

        "You can go," I told him, wiping tears from my eyes (a losing battle).  "Just go."

                        He finally looked into my eyes, but I closed my soul against him.

He stood in my kitchen, and his eyes were sad.

            "I didn't want this," he said.

                        I turned away, staring at the wall.

                                    I couldn't believe him.

at any occasion, be ready for the funeral

            You know what is the deepest tragedy of all? The lost time. The time I could have had with her. The time I could have spent talking with her, sitting next to her, memorizing her habits, touching her, comforting her, holding her close to my heart.

            It hurts more, thinking about all that empty time, than thinking about losing her.

            What about the moments when I saw her, sitting alone, and thought, "I should talk to her," or "I should sit down with her for awhile," or "I should ask her what she's reading"? What stopped me?

            There was this huge lump of fear in my throat. I don't know why.

            If I'd known this feeling, I would never let that fear stop me.

            What about later, after I did talk to her, when I'd look up and she'd be smiling that soft smile and I'd just look away, wondering what I should do? What about that time she fell in the snow and I pulled her up and she didn't pull her hand away until I let go on purpose?

            I didn't want to look stupid, didn't want to make her think I was crazy.

            I was, though—crazy for her.

            Why did what I looked like really matter?

            What about those times when I would walk into the room, see her eyes light up, meet her smile, see the empty seat next to her, and walk across the room to a different chair? Why did I do that to her . . . to me?

            It was too hard to sit next to her, watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breath, feel her joy radiating from her body, see her smiles sweep across her face, study the way she chewed her pen caps, catch the scent of her skin and the soap she used.

            It broke my heart . . . but nothing like this.

            No.

            Nothing ever prepared me for this.

            He stared down at her still pale face, wondering why he felt he never knew the girl that lay in front of him. The features and hands and hair were right, but without her spirit, the body made no sense, left no feeling in his heavy heart. Stooping, he brushed one hand over her cheek, shuddering at the cold stiffness that greeted his fingertips. He stood straight and glanced around the room. People were staring at him with gazes full of pity, sadness, confusion . . . he didn't know what all. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think at all.

            She was gone. And he had no more time left.

            So many empty years where I never knew her . . .

                        and all that stretches ahead of me . . . is even more empty . . .

            With a sigh, he took one last look at the body. His eyes caught on the slim gold ring on her left hand, and he felt tears squeezing his throat closed. Turning, quickly, he strode away from the box that held the body. It wasn't his beloved lying there; it was just a body. The body was dead, and because of that, her spirit had left.

            And that—that was more than he could bear.

tea time II

            I am going to die. The thought pounded in her head as she slumped over her knees. The wicked north wind bit at her neck, sweeping her hair over her face, but she didn't move.

            It is simply not worth it anymore. As if in reply, the wind howled around the apartment complex, swirling the dry leaves into a hissing, dizzying cyclone. She lifted her eyes to watch, but barely saw what was right in front of her.

            Does it really matter, anyway? she wondered, biting her lip. She was entirely alone—no parents, no siblings, no husband, no children, not even a pet.

            No one would really miss you, another voice suggested. Gasping, she squeezed her eyes shut again.

            No, no, she whimpered in her mind. Go away! I won't listen to you!

            You must.

            I won't!

            You're only lying to yourself!

            Leave me alone!

            Suddenly, another voice interrupted, a voice that was louder and brighter and harsher and truer than the one that whispered her doom.

            "Hello, there!" Her eyes popped open and she stared at the speaker. There before her stood a woman with greying hair and bright eyes. Her hair was short and permed; her feet were shoved carelessly into bright purple-and-pink dotted galoshes. A peacoat was thrown over her shoulders, but not buttoned, and her hands were shoved deep into the pockets. Despite her unkempt appearance, her skin was clean, and she smelt pleasantly of face powder. The woman nodded, then glanced at the overcast sky. "Storm's moving in, honey; it'll be a doozy."

            "Yes," the girl murmured, feeling dazed. Is this really happening? she wondered. In a moment, though, she had no choice but to believe in reality.

            "Would you like to come in for some tea?" the old woman asked. Startled, the girl stared at her, wondering if she was as crazy as she sounded.

            "Tea?" she repeated, feeling stupid. The old woman nodded.

            "It'd be good to have some company," she remarked, pulling a hand out of her pocket and inspecting her fingernails. She turned a warm smile on the girl. "It'd be nice if it was you." Slowly, the girl unhooked her arms from around her knees and unfolded her legs.

            "I . . . I suppose I could do that," she muttered, feeling shy. The woman's eyes lit up and she threw her head back and laughed.

            "Come right in, then!" she crowed, marching up the steps and unlocking the front door. She held it open for the girl and stepped into the hallway after her. "I'm on the top floor, dearie," she directed as the girl hesitated. At the door of the apartment, the woman stopped and unlocked three locks on the door, then threw it open as well. In a moment, she was bustling about the small kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove, pulling out a box of store-brand cookies and piling them on a plate, rummaging for and discovering six variety boxes of tea, and choosing two cups and saucers from a high cupboard with glass doors. "Milk, lemon, honey, sugar?" she called to the girl, who was standing, dazed, in the middle of the living room.

            "Uhm . . . honey, please."

            "Is that all, sweetie?" the old woman asked, popping her head around the door. The girl nodded, her eyes roving around the living room. The old woman stopped what she was doing and came into the living room. She smiled as she followed the girl's eyes over the oil paintings, charcoal drawings, watercolors, pencil sketches, and pen and ink drawings. "Marvelous, aren't they?" she said, her voice soft. As if she was suddenly awakened, the girl jumped and turned wondering eyes to the old woman.

            "They're—they're fantastic," she blurted, her breath coming quickly. "So—so good they—they hurt." She pressed both hands to her heart, and the old woman nodded.

            "That's what I always told him." Her voice caressed the word him, and she brushed aside her bangs and stared at the floor. "But no—always better, always better! He said they were never quite good enough." She laughed under her breath and shook her head, glancing up at the girl. "My son," she explained. "This was the last one he did for me." She motioned toward a bright oil painting hanging by a window. The girl stepped forward, her eyes devouring the reds and yellows and blues, her lips parted as she fought for breath.

            "The . . . last?" she managed, chewing on her bottom lip. The old woman nodded.

            "He . . . he killed himself a month later." Sadness tinged her voice, and she wiped her eyes. "Ahhhh . . . nothing was ever good enough for him, poor dear. He knew Jesus, had so many reasons to live, but the darkness—it was just too much for him." The girl stood still in the middle of the floor, her eyes downcast. Then, suddenly, she whirled to the old woman and threw both arms around her. The old woman's arms went around her, and they stood there—two sorrowing hearts, clinging to each other for comfort—until the tea kettle screamed its disgust. Letting the girl go, the old woman laughed shakily and handed the girl a tissue. "My lands, honey; you're crying, too." The girl shook her head, accepting the tissue and blowing her nose.

            "I . . . I'm so sorry," she managed. "I—I can't imagine . . ."

            "Oh, sweetie, don't try to, please. It's not something I'd wish on anyone." The old woman searched the girl's face, her eyes concerned. "You understand him, don't you?" she remarked, her voice soft. The girl froze. Then, slowly, she nodded her head.

            "I –I'm completely alone," she admitted, hanging her head. "Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it to stay around." The kettle shrieked again and the old woman turned toward the kitchen.

            "Well," she said, her voice brisk again. "Let's talk about it over tea. Maybe we'll sort some things out."

            "It's way more complicated than that." The girl couldn't fight the bitterness in her voice, but the old lady just laughed her soft laugh again.

            "Of course not. Not in one day. You can always come back, though." With that, she busied herself about the tea things, setting the plate of cookies on the table, pouring hot water into the cups. The girl stepped toward the kitchen, but paused and stared back at the bright, frightening, cruel painting. It mesmerized her, called her to join it and its creator.

            "Coming, sweetie?" The bright voice interrupted her, once more, and she shook herself.

            "One minute," she called back. Her eyes drifted from the painting to the window next to it. Outside, the sun was breaking through the thick clouds. Its weak beams sifted into the room, playing against the walls.

            The girl smiled for the first time in months.

tea time I

    He had no idea how long they'd been there. Supper had ended and the dishes had been cleaned up long ago. Only a few cafeteria workers remained, straightening chairs and tables, cleaning counters, and prepping for the next day. Most of the other students had left, but the few that remained were all huddled together at one table. He reached forward, clasping his warm mug, and met the eyes of another young man across the table.
    "Doesn't it waste our time to argue about this?" he insisted. "No matter what we humans think, God is the only One Who will ever know what exactly predestination entails." The other young man shook his head and pushed his chair back with a loud screech.
    "You're wrong about this one," he argued. "I'll give you predestination—you made your point there. But this—evangelism goes along a completely different tack." Opening his mouth, he was about to reply, when he was cut off.
    "Does it really?" Her voice was soft and warm as the tea in his mug. He stopped and stared at her. Her eyes were earnest as she glanced back and forth between the two young men. "Just like predestination, only God really understands evangelism. I think . . ." She paused and stared down at her own mug. He leaned forward farther, eager to hear what she would say.
    "Yes?" he prodded. She swirled her tea a bit, then bit her lip.
    "I think it's something that should be argued about less and practiced much, much more." Her voice was firm, yet quiet, and he found himself admiring her self-assurance. Letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he took a drink of tea and nodded.
    "You're right." He extended his hand to the other young man. "Should we call it a truce?" he said, grinning. After a moment, the other young man smiled, his expression wry, and leaned forward to shake his hand.
    "All right; we'll leave it at that, then." He shook his head, pushing his hands deep into his suitcoat's pockets. "Good discussion, though—very good."
    "As always," his opponent added. The girl across the table from him brought her mug up and took a sip of tea. As she did, he caught her gaze over her tea. Her eyes were warm, deep, twinkling. He found himself captivated by them, and wondering at the soul behind such eyes. She put her mug down, smiled, and looked away.
    Nothing, though, could erase that glance. He knew it in his bones. And he knew, somehow, that it was only the the first glance of many . . .

spelt with an "e"

Even though I have never been to PEI, I am most excited about it.  I almost-- almost-- feel as if I am going home, as I will be visiting the haunts of someone who seems to be a very very dear friend.

This occurred to me while I was at work today, and I had to stop and question why I felt I knew Anne and her haunts so well.  I realized that it is because I have been absolutely devouring the Anne books in the last few weeks, and have been completely enveloped in them.

And I had to wonder-- is this how a believer is supposed to feel about Heaven . . . that she has read her Friend's story so much and so deeply that she cannot wait to see the places He has walked and spent so much time . . . that she cannot wait to see . . Him . . .?

Hold me

She barely knew me-- we had met just a half-hour earlier-- but I was the only adult present.  When she fell and bumped her knee, she cried for Daddy, but had to run to me.

"Hold me," she whimpered, clambering onto my lap, burrowing close against my chest, clinging to me with small arms.  So I held her tightly, stroking her silky little-girl hair, breathing in the scent of blueberry muffin and sweat and children's shampoo, crooning in her ear, and wishing for the days when I was small and could beg comfort from anyone . . . .


Hold me, I, too, want to cry at times, my voice echoing in the vast empty universe, feeling desperate for any arms that will reach out and tuck me close.

And a Voice does answer, but sometimes I don't hear Him as He whispers,

I have loved you with an everlasting love . . . and underneath are My everlasting arms . . .

the woods

My child-self would hate me right now.

Even as the thought came to me, I pushed it away. My practical adult-self listed reasons why I should mow the plants that had always provided a feeling of wilderness to my childhood haunts. But still, a feeling of guilt, almost betrayal, lingered in my mind. With every push of the mower, I could feel the stomach-gurgling nausea that arrived whenever something outdoors was changed, or destroyed, or molded by humans. Still, I knew that the weeds were breeding grounds for mosquitoes, an unsightly mess, and needed to be mowed. And I did feel satisfaction at the neatness I left behind me.

After I finished mowing, though, I took a rake and attempted to remark the paths I had run so many times in the past. Even as I did, I knew it didn't matter; there were no more pairs of small feet to scamper through what I used to call "woods" but now saw as a scraggly patch of trees.

And so I raked the paths one more time, smiling and waiting for the day when a smaller version of myself would stand with her hands on her hips, and demand that I leave "Grandma's woods" to their natural condition. I knew that I would acquiesce to her demands, and I knew that once again, the woods would grow wild, and the paths would be worn away by small feet. But, for the time being, the woods were tamed into just an extension of a lawn . . .

it's a funny thing . . .

It causes small children to refuse to stay with babysitters, sleep in their own beds, or turn out the lights.

It keeps pets from ripping up couch cushions, causing ruckuses, and relieving themselves on the carpets.

It holds students to paper deadlines, causes them to stay up all hours of the night to finish studying for a test or to complete a project, and forces them to cram their brains with (sometimes useless) piles of information about which they would normally not give a fig.

It binds people to occupations where they are unhappy, ties them to places they hate, and encourages them to keep their mouths shut and their heads down.

It exalts the status quo, warns against differences, and paints a dreary picture of the future.  It jeopardizes relationships,  flings uncertainty into sound minds, and sends even the most secure individual into a tailspin.  It denies that love exists, and refuses to believe anything that cannot be seen.

Fear.

It is one of the strongest powers in the universe.  It manipulates our decisions, dictates our daily lives, and controls our relationships.
And we allow it.

BUT . . .
"God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind."

Our God, Who loves us with a perfect, sacrificial love, offers us the chance to live fearlessly.
"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear . . ."

Fear has been vanquished by Perfect Love.  Fear is dead; Jesus is alive!

Which master will we choose to serve-- the Living, or the dead?

Date Night

I really was happy for her.

I wasn't lying, either. I didn't feel jealous of Alissa, that she was going and I wasn't, that she got asked and I didn't. It wouldn't have been the same, anyway, and we both knew it. Without Tom, the two of us together would have been awkward and sad, a long silence stretching on into what felt like eternity.
Well, that's what started this, I guess—eternity. One of us got called, and the other two got left behind.
Oh, Tommy, Tommy, why couldn't you have waited till I felt less like a child? Why couldn't you have waited until I felt solid ground beneath my feet instead of the shifting mire that's been our life? Why, Tommy?

Some questions are meant to be unanswered forever.

"How do I look?" Alissa asked, smoothing her dress over her stomach and hips. I smiled.
"Beautiful," I told her, lifting the camera I held and snapping a photo. She laughed, her beautiful smile sending shockwaves through the whispering sunset hour.
"No, really, Madison, how do I look?"
"Gorgeous," I said, lowering the camera. "Simply gorgeous." A mist came over my eyes, and it was hard to see her standing under the small tree, the breeze lifting her wavy brown hair away from her flushed cheeks. "You look absolutely gorgeous."
"Thanks," she murmured, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Maddie, I—"
"Liss, Tommy would have been proud." The words spilt out in a rush before I could stop them, and as I clapped my hand over my mouth, I saw Alissa's eyes fill with tears.
"Really?" she whispered, her voice broken. I nodded hard, swiping at my eyes.
"Really really. Liss, you're beautiful—inside, too." And as I watched, my little sister stood there in her gown and makeup and high heels and cried. I put the camera down and stepped toward her, my arms out, but she shook her head.
"It'll make it worse," she sobbed. "It'll make it so much worse." Gasping, she dabbed at her eyes, trying to stop the tears from mingling with the mascara. "I miss him so bad," she gasped. "So so bad—especially on days like this."
"Special days," I murmured, patting her back. She nodded.
"Yeah—special days." Her expression changing, she turned toward me. "It isn't right!" she cried. "It isn't right that Tommy should have to miss this! Maddie, why—"
"Hush, baby," I said, taking her in my arms. "Hush now. 'Why's don't help. It only makes it worse. We can't know why."
"I wanna," she whispered, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "I wanna know why." She started crying again, and I rocked, back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes, fighting my own tears.
Tommy, look what you've done to us. How am I supposed to get her through this? You were always the strong one, the one who was there to fix the problem and dry the tears. I can't do this, Tommy!

As always, nothing broke into the suffering.

Liss pulled away, sniffling and dabbing at a few stray tears. She laughed, her voice shaky.
"How do I look now, Maddie?" I smoothed back her hair and smiled at her.
"Beautiful as always." Her lips trembled, but she managed to smile.
"Thanks," she whispered, hugging me again. As she let go, I heard someone call her name, and saw her eyes illuminate. "Mel!" she called, lifting one hand. I turned, shading my eyes with one hand, and watched the tall, handsome young man cross the yard to us. When he arrived, he was grinning broadly, but looked nervous.
"Hi, Alissa," he said, his grin growing. She smiled up at him, her face glowing. He turned to me and extended one hand. "Hello, Madison," he managed, his voice catching. I shook his hand, trying not to laugh.
"Hi, Mel. What time do you need to leave here?"
"Six-thirty," he told me, his smile returning. I nodded.
"And it's about six right now, hm? Want me to take some photos of you two?" Mel's eyes glowed and he handed me a camera.
"Oh, that'd be great! Well, if you don't mind . . ." I waved off his protests and stepped away from him and Alissa. He moved in close to her, settling an arm around her shoulders, and smiled down at her.
"Perfect," I whispered, snapping the photo. Alissa raised adoring eyes to meet his gaze, and I moved a little to my left, zooming in to catch their expressions.
For the next half-hour, I followed my baby sister and her date around the yard behind our dorm, over the campus to the apple grove, back across campus to the gardens, and even to their car, capturing every move they made and every glance they exchanged. With every camera snap, though, I felt a growing knot within my stomach.
Tommy, Liss already said it. It's not right that you should miss this. Oh, Tommy . . .

What else was there to say?

As Mel opened the car door for Alissa, I noticed the dozens of other couples taking last-minute photos and getting into their cars. For a moment, I stood and watched them, mesmerized by the colors and the grace of their movements. A sudden sharp pain in my chest took my breath away, and I dropped my eyes to the ground. I heard the car door shut, and I fought to breathe, knowing I had to make it one more minute. Mel came around the car and shook my hand again.
"Thanks for letting me take Alissa tonight," he told me, his eyes warm. I smiled—a real smile—at him and nodded.
"I know you'll have fun and be safe," I said, handing over his camera. Mel's nervousness seemed to melt away and he smiled, too.
"Take care, Madison," he said as he got into the car. I stepped back and waved as they drove away. After they turned the corner, out of sight, I started back toward the dorms. The tears were threatening to choke me, but I fought them off.
"Just a few more minutes," I whispered to myself. I passed other couples, hurrying toward their cars, their voices lifted in happy chatter. Suddenly, as I began to cross the commons, I heard my name.
"Hey, Maddie." I lifted my eyes to see who was speaking to me.
"Oh—Josh." My voice was flat, but I couldn't help it. I shook my head and forced a smile. "How are you?" I tried again. It must have worked because he smiled at me.
"I'm good, I'm good—just having fun watching everything, you know." I laughed, the sound brittle in my ears. Suddenly his eyes searched my face, a smirk on his lips, and he crossed his arms. "Why aren't you going, Maddie? Didn't anyone ask you?" His words left me speechless, and I groped for an answer. What should I even say to that?
Actually, my dead brother was going to take me and my sister.
Oh, I had a date; he just had an unexpected death, that's all.
Well, I had plans, just sometimes things get in the way—oh, you know, like death.
Yeah, someone asked me. Then he got a better offer.
My head spun until I couldn't see anything. I dropped to my knees and heard my own voice moan.
"Maddie? Maddie, what is it?" Josh's voice floated in and out, and I shook my head.
"Josh, what're you doing?" Another guy—it was Pete. I closed my eyes, willing the earth to stop moving.
"Gee—all I said was, 'Didn't you get asked?' and she just kinda . . . fell."
"Idiot!" Pete's voice was hushed as he said, "Couldn't you see she didn't get asked?" I buried my face in my hands, my chest heaving, knowing only one thing.
I am going to be sick.
Oh no no no no no no—not here, please not here, not now . . .
Just as a new group of people came into earshot, though, I felt my stomach heave. Right there on the commons, in front of a bevy of couples all dressed up for an evening out, I puked all over the freshly mowed grass.
"Oh, man," I heard a hushed female voice say. "Do you think that splattered?" I gagged, trying to force the taste out of my mouth, and felt Pete patting my back.
"Maddie? You okay?" I wiped my mouth with my hand, then scraped my hand along a clean patch of grass.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
"Listen, Maddie, Josh and I had plans to go out to O'Malley's, get some dinner, maybe hang out and walk around the Square. You should come along." I could hear the concern in his voice, and for a moment, I was grateful. Then my bubbling rage took over before I could thank him.
"Stop being idiotic!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet and pushing him away. "I'm not upset over the stupid formal!" I saw his eyes widen and his mouth start to open in an answer, but I cut him off. "Tommy was going to take me and Liss, okay? And without him—well, it just wouldn't be the same. It'd be no use trying to make it the same. Tommy's dead, Pete; he's dead! Just leave me alone, okay?!?" Pete's face went white, and I shook my head hard. I saw Josh, pale and frozen beside Pete, and I couldn't bear to look at them a moment longer. Dropping my eyes, I brushed past Josh and sprinted up the stairs toward my dorm. I thought I heard someone call my name, but I ignored it and kept running. Only when I had slammed my room door behind me did I stop running.
Tommy, why did it have to be you?!? Why couldn't it have been any other one of those guys in your car—someone who deserved it, who'd actually been drinking?!? Why did it have to be you? Why didn't they listen when you said to slow down? Tommy, why would God let this happen to you, to Liss—to me? I can't understand it!

I sank to the floor, hugging my knees close to my chest and sobbing into my arms. His sweater on my body still smelled like him, though, and the scent pushed me further into grief.

Oh, Tommy. Oh, God. God, God, God, God, God.

Help me.

And I think, that night, He did.

It'd been so long since I'd hurt bad enough to pray, so long since I knew that God had something I needed. Every since Tommy had died, I'd pretended I didn't know God existed. It was easier to ask why of an impotent, ignorant Fate than it was of an all-powerful, all-knowing God. I just couldn't understand how God—Who said He loved me enough to die for me, Who made me and my brother and my sister—how this God could then so cruelly do nothing to stop my brother's death. There was no good answer to my why . . . so I just stopped asking. It was when I broke enough to stop caring about the answer that I finally woke up in the peace of my Jesus.

Hey—it's been a long time since we talked . . . and I'm really, really sorry about that . . .

Dusk had fallen in deep purple shadows over my dorm room when the phone rang. I opened my eyes and stood up from where I still sat, leaning against the door, resting my arms on my knees. Clearing my throat, I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" A long pause greeted me, then a guy cleared his throat.
"Maddie?"
"Yes."
"Maddie, it's . . . it's Pete." He stopped, as if expecting me to slam down the receiver. When I didn't, he coughed and continued. "Maddie, I just wanted to say we—Josh and me—well, I'm sorry about earlier. I should know you better than to think that you would get so worked up over something . . . well, over something so silly. I guess—well, I guess I wanted to say that I know you're a lot deeper than that, and I'm sorry for making a stupid assumption." The phone line was silent for a long moment, but I waited, feeling like he wasn't finished. "And Maddie?" His voice was so small, I could barely believe it belonged to the same Pete I knew. "I'm sorry about your brother," he finished, sounding stricken. Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes.

Thanks, God . . .

"Thanks, Pete," I mumbled, my voice feeling thick. "And . . . well, it wasn't your fault that I blew up. I was just . . . just so sad, and so hurt, and you were the first one around, and—"
"Hey, Maddie?" he broke in. "Forgive me?" I felt a smile grow on my face.
"Yes. Hey, Pete?"
"Yeah, Maddie."
"Forgive me, too?"
"Of course. Hey, I wasn't kidding about tonight. Josh and I are going out to O'Malley's. It's really clear out tonight, Maddie, and the stars are beautiful. You know what they say about the Square on clear nights."
"'Watch the stars bring your wishes true.'"
"Yeah. Hey, I don't believe in wishes, only God, but it's still awesome to just sit out under a sky like this. You should come with us." I smiled, cradling the phone as if it was a treasure.
"Thanks, Pete. I'd really like that."
"Meet you on the commons in ten minutes?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be out." As I hung up the phone, I hugged my arms against my body.

Tommy, it's not the same without you here, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I think we'll be okay.

I closed my eyes, picturing Liss's smile, Mel's trembling hands, Josh's tousled hair, and Pete's kind eyes.

Yeah, Tommy. We'll be fine here. You just enjoy what you've got there.

I took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.

God? I think the pain is better than pretending everything's okay.
Yeah. It is. I don't just think that, actually—I know. It's when I admit I hurt, God, that I can give in and run to You for comfort.
So thanks . . . for never letting me down . . .

magic

Stardust
     in every breath
Moonlight's ghostly, hovering omnipresence
       The soothing crash of the sea
  His eyes
            Hers

             A glance
  A moment
       An aching hope
                    . . . magic

snow day

Klick-klack-klick.

            I give up on the bright screen and tapping keys and get up and shut off the lights.

                        Click.

As I open my blinds, I catch sigh of snow falling, visible in the lights of the parking lot.

            Ohhh.

                        For a moment, I watch, and dream—of easier days, of happier times, of the future, of the immediate possibility of a snow day.

But no.

            It’s not a heavy enough snow.

But still . . . I hope and wish and pray that at least we will have a delay and I will not have to sit through my most-dreaded class and think, “I could be studying or finishing a paper right now.”

                        It snows.

                                    I sleep.

                                                And maybe, tomorrow, I’ll wake up . . .

                                                                                                                happy.