clothing: [not] optional.

If I'd
Wanted a job
Where people tossed money
At me, I would have become a
Stripper.


[not a cashier]

for my child, and your child, too

Every year, our world goes silent, for just one day. Twenty-four/seven businesses close (a personal hurray), highways are empty, families reunite. We string lights on trees and prepare lavish meals and light candles and sing old familiar songs. There are different traditions, considering the region, of course, but overall, this one day is observed as a day of of goodwill toward fellow man, of good works, and peace on Earth. In our grandparents' day, even warring armies laid down their weapons and played Christmas music over the frozen battlefields.

And believers scoff at this. We listen to the songs, that proclaim war is over, that yearn for peace at least in our children's lifetimes, and we shake our heads sadly. "That's ridiculous," we say, our faces good proper religious masks of mourning. "Poverty will never be abolished. Prisons will always be full. Disease will never be eradicated. Oppression will never cease. Peace will never come to Earth."

And so often we stop our thought there.

 That is not the Bible I read.

The Spirit of the LORD is upon Me,

because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.

He has sent Me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners,

and recovery of sight for the blind,

to release the oppressed,

to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor.

Forgive me, but that sounds a damn lot like war is over, we'll see the day of glory.

No matter what you believe about the millennium (or if you even believe in a literal thousand-year reign of Christ over the Earth), if you call yourself by His name--Christian--then you are quite obliged to believe in peace on earth. It's what the angels proclaimed at His birth; it's what He Himself promised He would bring. If you claim to believe that Jesus is Who He said He is . . . then you claim to believe in literal peace on earth.

The main difference, I think, between the world's hopes and our belief, is that believers know that peace will only come with the return of the Son of God, Who will wipe all tears from our eyes, the One Who tells us, Behold, I am making all things new. We know that we need this renewing, this changing from within. We know that we ourselves are helpless to usher in peace on earth, for we have war in our hearts.

So we cry out, Come, Lord Jesus, and we watch the sky, and we do our best to walk the way He walked and heal the way He healed and bring peace to broken hearts as He does, and we celebrate His first coming and we ache for His second.

And we remember, each year, the day when I AM stepped out of eternity and wailed His first breaths from a Jewish baby's lungs in order to live a life of anonymity and die a shameful death and rise in miraculous glory, to bring us a peace that will last long after time has ceased.

Happy Christmas.

the washing with water through the word

Look at us, and realize how beautiful we are. We are entwined, whether we acknowledge it or not.  You laugh, and my heart leaps with joy. I weep, and your shoulders are soaked with tears. When one stumbles, the others' shins ache too; and when one struggles, the weight of the whole body is thrown behind him. I hear, and it is your mouth that speaks the words I want to say. You see, and I take my hands and do. It is your talents that make me strong, and my strength that pushes you toward your goal. We are different, yes, but the same Blood pulses in our veins, the same Spirit energizes us.

We are many, but we are one. We are broken, but we are healed. We are a strange mix, but we are perfect, set into place just as our Savior desires. He has brought us here, and given us to each other.

But we don't always acknowledge that, do we?

Some days, we seem like an infant, just discovering how all things are connected. My hands flail, and scratch at your face. You take wobbly steps forward and squash my dreams. We become exhausted, bruised, bloodied, by our very own foolish acts . . . yet we wonder why our joy is gone.

Other days it seems we have contracted an autoimmune disorder. You poison hearts against me. I cut my eyes at you and ignore the cries for help. We look all right from the outside, oh yes, of course we do; but inside we are filled with betrayal. We suffer from our very own attacks . . . yet we wonder why our life is ebbing away.

What if we lived, you and I, like my own well-being really depended upon yours, and vice versa? What if I didn't put out my hands without first considering whether it benefited you? What if you didn't step forward until you knew I was ready to be there with you?

What if we were a body, not of an uncoordinated child or a dying man, but of a vibrant and joyous bride, whose every action and thought is focused toward one single thing . . . the happiness of her groom . . .

blindside

It's that squinty-eyed feeling, that shit,
      they've been planning this, been creeping up on me this whole time;
    that shameful flushing stupidity of
          why didn't I see this coming;
            and the heart-and-stomach-sick knowing
    that they were mine,
              someone I opened my arms for,
                     someone I laughed with,
                 someone I gave my heart to.

out of chaos, life is being found

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his hatred of the man in front of him, the man who took his sister, ruined her, and now dared look her brothers in the eyes and ask for her hand. A single glance at his closest brother, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and smiled, spoke his own oily words.

Yes, of course you may have her. Only fulfill these conditions.

Three days later, he took his brother and a sword and slipped into the city. The air was heavy with sweat and the stillness of agonized healing. There was no need to be quiet once they were past the gates; there was no one capable of fighting back. He gripped his sword, squinted his eyes, and kicked down doors, facing incapacitated men and terrified women and children. He shattered homes and hacked and maimed and slaughtered. He destroyed human life with a rage known only to the wronged. He snatched his sister from the rapist's arms and slit his cowardly throat. As he watched the man's blood seep onto the ground by his feet, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my sister and restored my family's honor.

But no.

"You are a disgrace!" his father shouted. "You and your brother have brought shame and terror to the household! What have you done to me?"

And the shame was repeated in his father's dying words, like the thudding of a weary heart.

You are a violent impulsive man, one who is untrustworthy and unpredictable. Curses on you! You will never have a place to call your home.

~*~

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his disgust at the chaos surrounding him, his own brothers and sisters who ran rampant days after being freed from slavery, who spit in the face of their God. A single glance at the prophet, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and clenched his hand by his sides, listened to the horror of the order.

If you believe the LORD, slaughter them all, the very ones you love.

The air was woven with lust and the wailing of immorality. There was no need to be quiet; there was no one ignorant of the violence of the day. He gripped his sword, set his jaw, and entered the fray, facing his own brothers and neighbors and friends. He stood firm and swung with strength and drew blood and slaughtered. He destroyed human life, those lives so precious to him, with a rage known only to the warrior of God. He snatched his nation from the false lover's arms and bled away the shame. As he watched the idol burn into powdery dust, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my God, and restored the LORD's honor.

And it was so.

"You are holy to the LORD," the prophet whispered. "You and your brothers brought peace and healing to the nation. What can He do but bless you?"

And the honor was repeated in the prophet's dying words, like the skirling of a battle cry.

You are a strong warrior, one who is reliable and fierce. Blessings on you! The LORD Himself will give you posterity and stand against your enemies. The LORD sets you now in the place of honor, as mediator between Himself and His people.

So the LORD chooses who He will,
the most unpredictable, the most untrustworthy, the most impulsive of violent men;
and He makes them priests and prophets and healers.

Amen.

[Genesis 34, Genesis 49:5-7; Exodus 32, Deuteronomy 33:8-11]

son of the cloud

I don't even understand how he stays in one piece. When he passes me in the hallway and our sleeves brush, it's a violent force I didn't think possible from such minimal contact. He's always moving, always making some sort of verbal noise, whether shouting that he's got the hot pans out of the oven, bellowing pleasantries and startling customers, or (a few days ago) rapping about the jobs he's doing. He makes my head ache, and I know I'm not the only one who sighs with relief when he retreats to the bakery.

All day long, there is chatter about him, whether over the headsets or face to face. What does he think he's doing? What kind of bake list has he made up? Why is he shouting? Is he . . . rapping . . . again? He's a presence that cannot be ignored, that is certain.

And most of the chatter isn't positive. He's annoying, he refuses to listen, he's learning too slowly, he doesn't really fit . . . so they say. Somehow, I find this comforting. It's nice to know that I'm no longer the most incompetent employee, a relief to be sure that they're not talking about me on the headsets I'm banned from during mornings, delightful to be siding with my coworkers and not feeling like an outsider.

He dances his way down the hallway and I hear the whispers begin. Under my breath, I snicker; they're exactly right in what they're saying, and it's pretty funny. But just as I open my mouth to say the same sorts of things, something hits in my chest, right in the center of the breastbone.

He is just like you.

I freeze, clench my fingers at my task. No. That can't be true.

It is true. He is like you--impossible to understand, and harder to love. But that didn't stop Me from choosing you.

I reflect. I was loved before I was anything, before I even acknowledged my God. I am loved when I raise my hand against Him, when I scream that I will do anything but that!

It's times like these, when it's hardest, that I know I must heed that instruction of all instructions, or fly in the face of all I say I believe.

Love, without demands, without mockery, without feelings of superiority. Love the unlovely; love the obnoxious. Love the dirty and the rotten and the wicked. Love without fear of the pain you know will come.
Love as I loved you.

It is not really just a suggestion.

dreadful independence

It was a long, slow day, made longer and slower by the white flakes drifting down from the rumpled sky. All the work was done--twice. The one male employee went outside, clutching a shovel, and blew back in, covered in snow and chill, more times than I counted. We girls zipped into jackets and huddled behind our registers until the heat came on. The owner arrived, then drifted away, with instructions to send someone home because there were too many of us and too little work. The plow truck ran through the lot, shoving the snow before it, building violent piles against the curbs and beside the lamp posts. Customers were few and far between.

We watched from the window, as the truck passed, plow scraping against pavement. "The other guy would come ask us to rotate our cars," she remarked to me. "This guy, he's just plowing us in." My heart sank. It was already going to be a tight day, timewise, I knew. I had to go from work to home, shower and change, and make it to my next job in the space of an hour. The snow made a quick drive impossible; now this plow man was making a quick escape just as impossible.

I tried not to think about it; I pushed trays through the dish machine and scrubbed pots and waited on customers and cleaned the lobby and chatted with lonely strangers and refilled all the paper products and made sandwiches and poured soup and coffee until I thought my head would burst with monotony. Then the clock said the magic numbers, and I was freed.

In the breakroom, I wrapped myself in my coat and scarf. I was wearing four layers and still shivering, even inside. My socks cut below my ankle bones; my gloves were flimsy dollar-rack buys. I hadn't even stuffed a hat into my pocket. I glanced out the window before I braved outside. It was as grey and steely cold as it had been the rest of the day. I hunched my shoulders and pushed open the door.

As I trudged across the parking lot, I fought the grumbles in my heart. It's not fair, it's really not, that so many other women have men to dig out their cars. It's not fair that I find myself having to physically, spiritually, emotionally, fend for myself, not just today, but every day of my life. It's not fair that You--yes, this is Your fault, too, God--have left me alone like this. It's just not fair.

By the time I reached my car, I was feeling rebellious and irritated. And then I saw it.

Someone had shoveled out my car.

For a moment, I just stood and stared. Then I glanced at my coworker, outside starting up his own car.
"Did you shovel out my car?" I asked. He shrugged, shook his head.
"That wasn't me," he told me, but as he walked away, he called back over his shoulder, ". . . maybe."
All I could do was smile and shake my head.

It is true, I am alone, unmarried and single and independent. And it is horrible at times. But, in those moments when I despair, when I cry I am not strong enough, not for this, and God is the only One Who hears . . . He provides. Whether it is a man to dig out my car for me, a woman to hold my hands and cry with me, a child to snuggle, a puppy to wrestle, a cat to feed, a job to do, He gives me exactly what I need.

Yes. He always, always provides.

Bless the LORD, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless His Holy Name!
Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits . . .

you siwwy

We were in the kitchen, just us two,
        a strange moment when the other three were off making shenanigans elsewhere,
    or maybe they were actually playing quietly.
He was telling me a story,
    and for a moment, it was just like old times,
              like I'd never left,
        like we could just go back to the way things were.
Everything was just the same,
      his snapping blue eyes,
    his laugh,
         the baby teeth between his smeary lips.
I was just smiling to myself,
   reassuring my soul that things will never really change,
 when it happened.

He opened his mouth,
     and an L slipped out cleanly,
   over his tongue and between his lips,
          before either of us knew it.

He kept talking,
      totally unaware that he had just smashed open my heart.
  In a moment,
       in that L,
     I knew things were always going to change.
               I knew he would grow up,
            stop going to bed at dark time,
          stop calling me siwwy Katie! when I made a mistake,
        stop chuckling over Mrs. Gwidden's stories,
      stop singing the Five Wittle Fishies song whenever I told him it was my favorite,
     stop calling his pretend best friend Jame.
 Instead, I knew with certainty,
       he would become a big man,
                     taller than his daddy,
                  but just as good;
                         fairer than his mama,
                     but just as hilarious;
             smart as a whip,
                        but still kind and generous.
       I knew he would be a daddy, someday,
                   that I would coo over photos of babies just as blue-eyed,
                 and just as beautiful,
                               as he was.
But I knew, also,
      that the baby I loved so much
                   the toddler I snuggled and tickled,
                                    the little boy I read books with,
  were gone . . .
         and in their place,
     stood a little man
                   who said his L's perfectly.             

beneath the skin

It is the rapist who is ruined,
                not the victim;
      the cruel parent who is marked,
          not the whimpering child;
   the master who is dehumanized,
               not the slave;
the torturer who is broken,
           not the prisoner.

It is when we crumble to our cruelest thoughts,
             our basest fantasies,
         our darkest selves,
  that we become the exact opposite
        of what God meant us to be.

        Light shiners.
    Hope bringers.
           Life givers.
    Image bearers.

   When we set out to destroy another human,
            we become anti-God.

It is the monster that is branded,
         not its prey.

nothing more than wishes

When we are small, we have big dreams.
         Teacher, doctor, firefighter, policeman, missionary, president, world-shaker.
  It seems,
       somehow,
           the bigger we get
                        the smaller our dreams.

Why is that, do you think?

     Is it because we grow practical,
 understand we have limits?
  Or is it because,
              as we get older,
        we begin to believe the voices that say
                     No, you can't; you never will?

   How do we ever hope to keep dreaming
                                 without becoming dejected?

          Maybe, just maybe,
    it has to do with Who we choose to believe,
               with the Voice we decide to hear.

 Maybe, it's believing that Jesus takes the tattered smallness,
               and makes it grand and beautiful,
                    that makes us shoot for the moon,
              yet remain content with the earth.

the confession

I am the hard bitter woman
      I am the wandering wife
I am the child who screams in the dark
      I'm the one wasting my life

Yet You take my hand in the darkness
      You kiss this face stained with shame
You call me lovely, complete, and remade
       You shelter me with Your own Name

[Psalm 20:1]

in sickness

He holds her arm, her crumpled little arm, in the crook of his elbow. He orders for her, makes sure we know she's there, too, and asks that her cup be only half filled so her shaking hands won't spill it onto her lap. He curves his arm around her body, while she gazes and lists aimlessly, and he steers her safe to the table. He seats her, arranges her coat around her, makes sure she feels secure, and he brings her the coffee and muffins.

He always tells us the truth when we ask how are you doing? Some days he says, we're doing good. Other days it's well, we're making it.

She's no longer the woman he married; her mind is spiraling into a place he cannot follow. But he made her a promise, till death do us part, and he is keeping it.

It makes me wonder, and think, watching them. Fairytale love is what we all wish for, if left to our own devices. It is so lovely, but rather gilded, I think. It is this love, the love that holds the shaking hands and wipes the drippy fingers, that is true, that bolsters those rash starry-eyed vows.

This is the love we're all looking for. And the love we're all seeking to become, too.

visions in the night

I used to dream—unconscious epic-length stories of espionage and adventure, of terror and unspeakable joy, of old friends and new faces, of angst and peace, of God and love and man and life. Sometimes they were realistic, and my feet plodded earth the entire time, and sometimes, just sometimes, I could speak Hebrew and run faster than the wind.

I don't dream anymore, at least not like that. Instead, my sleep is full of coffee-making and angry customers, of cash registers and never stopping to rest, of darkness and the crackle of the headset.

I am so very very tired.

a Sunday in the fall

Pumpkin-grinning, seed-flinging,  flip-flops-in-October, soup-and-grilled-cheese, sunshine-on-our-shoulders, piano-in-the-kitchen kind of happy.

But more than that.

Man-taking-initiative, girls'-unworried-laughter, glory-of-the-glowing-leaves, comfort-of-God's-promises, thankful-oh-so-thankful kind of joy.

And that can never be taken away.

why I write free verse

The truth?

I am terrible at rhyming.

Rhythm, yes, I like to think I have that, the kind of rhythm that pulses in hips and heart and language.

But rhyming is too time-consuming, too thought-blocking, too rigid.

Give me a blank sheet, a pen, and let me scrawl my own rhythm, my heart-thoughts.

But don't make me rhyme. Please oh please don't ask me to rhyme.


My heart doesn't beat in rhyme.

one and one

"How do you take your coffee, sir?"

It seems a question best reserved
      for lovers,
              groggy brothers,
          rumpled-from-wrestling-with-life best friends.
  Yet I ask it
          a thousand times a day
                   of a thousand strangers.

charis

Some things grow bitter with time—
            steeping coffee, 
       sautéed garlic,
                    angry hearts.

Other things, they grow better with time—
          fine wine,
                 cheese, 
              beloved flannel,
                            thankful souls.

They talk about "aging gracefully,"
         keeping your looks,
                             your strength,
                                       your spirit.
                     I think that's the key, actually.

            Grace.

                 Not physical beautiful movement,
                                             or social-knowledge wit,
                                       but a spirit and an attitude.
I need grace.
         How I know it.
I need to bestow grace.
         How slowly I learn it.

But grace—
         yes, that right there,
                  that is the difference between 
                                   aging like coffee,
                                        or
                                          aging like wine.

shattered

He speaks to me, telling me how much he enjoys my writing. He tells me that he is unshockable, that he finds no piece of honest expression unforgivable. Then he says something funny--I know my words won't touch your deepest insecurity, but I still want you to know that you should not write for me.

I thank him, lungs dangerously high in my throat, dry my dishwashing hands, go for a tissue. But he stops me, puts his arms around me, and whispers, You are so beautiful, and you have no idea what kind of friends you have. No idea.

And I break, and sob, and tremble, but it's okay, it's fine, because he is there, his arms around me so tight that I can barely breathe. And somehow, that surety makes the deluge of tears less overwhelming, less frightening, safer.

cherish every line

I see them every day,
       take their orders,
   hold my hand out for their money,
           try to remember to smile and can you speak up, deah?

  Many of them wear hats
          baseball caps,
               messenger caps,
            various other types.
    They always take them off before they sit at their tables.

I always want to cry,
     watching their careful counts of the coins,
    holding my steady hand under their shaking ones as they drop the coins in my palm,
         trying to deflect the crankiness with a flashing smile.

   They look at me
     (usually up—age tends to hunch)
        and most of them smile.
 Those smiles, they break my heart more than the shaking hands,
       or the grumpiness.

When the old men smile,
    I can see who they used to be.

When the old men smile,
  I can see the young ladies they wooed,
     convinced to become the new missuses,
       for whom they bought diamonds and groceries,
                          and built houses;
   who became the mothers of vibrant families;
           who were faithful wives through peace times and war,
                         through absence and presence;
    girls who became women
             because they were loved by the right kind of men.

When the old men smile,
      I can see the families they fathered,
              the laughing children,
          the teenage-years' tension,
                 the peace of university and afterward,
            the secret tears at giving away their little girls,
                     the aching pride at seeing their sons become men,
        the delight of grandbabies.

When the old men smile,
     I can see their old strength,
         how they used to heave whole walls up onto their shoulders,
      carry toolboxes and milk crates and hay bales like they were nothing,
              rebuild car engines in astoundingly short time,
          orchestrate big plans and big people,
                   move and shake the entire world,
  rip out the old to make room for the new.

Now they are the old.

   I wonder if it bewilders them,
           this losing of strength, power, influence, energy.
      I wonder if they feel small,
               with their crumpled hands and rounded spines,
            if their physical stature contributes to their timidity, 
                 or if old-age hearing makes them unsure.
I wonder if they begin to wonder who they really are.
     I wonder if anyone ever told them
               you are amazing,
                       and not just because of what you do
                  but because of who you are.
   I wonder if they know just how valuable they are,
             not just to their families,
        but to the world,
            to God Himself.

When the old men smile,
         I can glimpse something worth living and dying for,
      something beautiful,
                    something precious,
                         something incredibly rare.

When the old men smile,
            I see past the wrinkles, the gray hair, the bifocals, the canes,
         and I just see good men . . .

a sinner's prayer

God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

   That's basically it, isn't it?
          I know who I am.
       I know Who God is.
               And I know what I need.
  So I ask, I beg, for His mercy; I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me . . .

God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

gliding from sunny thunder

I was in the dining room, head down, heart down too, cleaning up soupy bowls and crusty forks, and it was a fluke that I happened to look up.

Outside our windows, the rain tore down, slanted lines, and the sunlight was fierce and yellow through the grey-black clouds. The tree leaves were turned upside down with the wildness of the wind, straining for the sky; their red bellies reminded me of a picture of inside-out umbrellas in an old children's book I read many years ago.

For a minute, a true full minute, I couldn't breathe for the violent beauty of the sky and the rain and the tree and the sun's shining. I wanted to cry out, to point to the windows and beg the people around me, Don't you see this? But they were drinking their coffee, huddling over their privacy, laughing at their own little worlds. I wanted to grab their hands, draw them to the door, say, Come dance in the rain with me, come laugh and cry and live with me. I wanted to rip off my headset, flee the short-ceilinged room and fling my arms to the heavens and tilt my face to the clouds and tell God, I know You are here, in me, in this storm.

But there was work to be done, tables to be cleared, dishes to be washed, coffee to be poured, supervisors to check in with. So I put my head back down, tucked my hopes into a far corner of my heart, and picked up the tray. The headset crackled, and I was back in the dreary world the rain couldn't touch.

Somehow, my heart remained outside, twirling in the midst of the violent rainshine whirlwind, and I knew that beauty, and hope, and the presence of the LORD, will always belong to those who want it, who look for it, who know the emptiness of their hands and reach up to God and say, Fill me.

hairnets MUST be worn

Our uniforms are all the same, but I am an imposter, and everyone knows just by looking at me. I do my best, trot across the shop and flash friendly smiles and try not to splash coffee, but they know. It's sort of embarrassing, having random customers smile and wink and whisper, "It's okay; you're doing great."

The temptation is to slump, to hunch my shoulders and try to hide the uniform and myself, too. The damn pants are a size too large and the belt is barely working. I hate tucking in and buttoning the top buttons of my shirts, and I despise wearing socks and shoes all day. I want to let my shoulders fall into the sheepish lines that I feel in my soul. But I cannot. I know if I crumble once I will shatter, and it will all be over.

I can't remember much, though everything is repeated at least three times. I slip and fumble and hang my head and admit my forgetfulness and beg help, and it is given. Cheerful, patient, kind, their hands fly through the steps and their words remind me of what I'd already learned. Sometimes they give the product to me to deliver, and I try not to slouch across the room, try to look the customer in the eyes even though they see my shameful lack of skill.

It's pure humiliation, this whole job.

And I don't mean because of what I do, because I have a university degree and I'm serving coffee. I'm not ashamed of that. I need work, and they gave it to me. I am grateful for that.

I am at a place in my life where I am fairly good at everything I do. I am good at babysitting, I am good at working at the library, I am good at navigating the social circles I float in, I am good at living with my family without being grumpy all the time. I know how to do those things. If I don't know how to do something, I don't do it. I stick to the areas I know I shine.

This job is humiliation, because it proves I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

It hurts, being reminded of that. It stings to have it flung in my face a thousand times an hour. It makes me squirm, more each minute, to realize I don't even know how to place my body, or where to look, or what to listen for. I want to scream and fling off my uniform and fly from the store, never to return.

And yet, through the sting in my eyes and the shame in my throat, I realize that all of this humiliation is very very good for me.

Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD.

Yes. That's what I need. Not what I want. Not what feels good. Not what makes me happy. But what I need.

Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD. 

A thousand times a day, an hour, I am humbled, in this new job, this new position of being trainee instead of This is Katie, she's been with us awhile and she's wonderful.

It is good. And I am being broken, once again, of the pride I keep hoping has left my heart once and for all.

Humble yourself in the sight of the LORD

and He will lift you up. 

There is still promise, even in the humiliation. So instead of slumping with despair, hiding within my uniform, I hold my shoulders back and lead with my hips, smile more than I feel is believable. I walk fast, and hold my head high like I am queen of the world. I don't let myself be afraid. I know that my God is coming to scoop up the scrambled pieces of me . . . and make something good.

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

He has brought me here. He has promised. He is strong enough to deliver on His word.

And I wait.

earpieces and visors

I hadn't seen him in years, and I wasn't really expecting to, either. But there he was, standing behind the register, waiting to take my order, recognizing me, I saw by the look in his eyes. I balked for a second that I hope was invisible, and it was only by the grace of God that I smiled, spoke to him by name, asked him how he was.

I expected the rote answer, the quick smile, the back-to-business attitude. But instead he answered pretty honestly, told me about his life, his recent adventures, his brothers. Somehow I found myself able to be interested, not to think about what I would say next, but able to really stop and listen and care about his answers. He asked about my life, a startling development. The last time I saw him, he was a semi-sullen teenager, focused on his own self and not much else. I told him the quick answer, but tried to be as honest as possible in just a few moments' conversation. I told him about seeing his parents, tried to communicate how much I appreciate and enjoy them. Finally, I excused myself, placed an order, went and sat down with my small-group parents.

Strange. I knew much more about him than I verbalized. I knew about the running from home, the abrupt betrayal of familial bonds, the financial crisis, the head-hanging return. I didn't tell him I knew those things (who wants to be told Oh, I heard about all your recent failures?), but I found myself wondering how his heart was really doing.

Are you happy, though? I wanted to ask. You have a job and a girlfriend and a place to stay, but are you happy, really and truly happy? It wasn't morbid curiosity that made me want to ask. It was a concern so deep and full that I felt it wrenching at the roots of my soul. But how does one ask that of a friend not seen for so many months, weeks, days? It was those small increments of time that changed us most, and it was those small increments that I felt helpless to surmount.

I wish I had asked him. When I stood, walked to the door, he came to the register, smiled at me from under the visor, and said goodbye to me by name. I wish I had the courage to turn around, lean my arms on his counter, and tell him I pray for you whenever you come to my mind. I wish I did, was all those things . . . but God help me, I did not, I am not.

Oh, have mercy on my weak soul. Forgive me for the moments when my time or the task or my pride is all that stops me from reaching out my hand and touching another person. Heal me from the disease of fear and caring about what will they think?

the sweatshirt corner

It used to be so easy, reaching out for you. A simple phone call, a few steps down the sidewalk, and there you were, right in front of me. How many times did I sneak in where I knew I wasn't really supposed to be, blatantly interrupt work or homework or reading, abruptly spill my guts out on the floor? Too many to count, I think. And what about the crazy moments we had, when you followed me outside with the camera to document my harassment of our neighbors, or we danced in the muddy January rain, or we went to the grocery store in our horrible pajamas, or you shut me in a practice room and made me tell you about my troubles, or we had conversations in our sleep, or we took turns being the "boy" and giving dreadfully pragmatic advice? Mostly, when I think of you, I am overcome by the beautiful. The evening I crawled onto your lap and wept without any explanation. The afternoon you called me, voice trembling, and I rushed home as soon as I could. The nights of tears and homework and hopelessness. The breakfast dates. The last-minute morning rushes to the shuttle. ("We're going to be laaaaate!") The angst about losing our freedom. The discussions over things that made us angry. The hugs, given at just the right moment. The tenderness of living together, in community, in covenant. The way I learned your postures, your eyes, your smiles, your laughs. The lessons you taught me about choosing to love, no matter what.

It's not so easy anymore. You're not right there, not like it used to be. Now I clutch the phone, like I wish I could clutch your hand. I cradle my tea, like I wish I could cradle your heart. I curl into my sweatshirt, like I wish I could curl into your arms. I feel the emptiness when I try to study, alone; or need a walking partner; or wish for a late-night tea friend.

Oh, girls of my heart--whoever knew that eight months could wreak such havoc on my ideas of myself as a strong and independent woman. You are gifts, plain and simple, and I am overcome with my unworthiness to receive you.

How I miss you . . .

you don't have to hide

There's a tear in my sleeve, at my elbow, but you will never know just by looking. I've learned how to fold the sleeve just so, to make it look like I'm simply hard-working and practical.

There's a fracture in my heart, but you will never know just by looking. I've taught myself how to smile over the jagged-edged pain, to make it seem that I'm confident and happy.

Most of my life is spent finding how to hide the tears, working to make the ragged look whole.


Why don't I ever just mend things . . . ?

more an attitude than anything else

We went on a field trip today, she and I. We dragged tables into the abandoned hallways, prowled empty classrooms and tugged chairs loose from the furniture tangles. I helped her haul the long bookcase into the hallway, close to the door. As we rested, she pulled out her cellphone and dialed the number.
"It's like they think I have nothing else to do," she muttered. I knew the annoyance in her tone was more for show than a true emotion; she is one of the most tranquil people I know, yet she is best known for being firm and getting what she needs.

A few minutes later, the truck backed in and out stepped two men, close to my father's age, maybe a little older. I liked them on sight. One of them had a shirt that read Danny over his left pocket and an excellent mustache; the other wore a camouflage baseball hat and a grey pullover sweatshirt. They both had the stocky figures, broad hands, and strong shoulders of manual laborers. Their faces were worn by weather, hard work, long hours, underappreciation. She greeted them, explained what she needed done, showed them where the furniture was. They groused, grumbled, made fun of each other, talked shit about the "bureaucrats" that put us all in this predicament. When they headed back to the truck to pull it under the overhang, she shot me a look.

"They're not very happy," she said, and I was surprised. Hadn't they sympathized with our situation, seen us as fellow victims in this whole thing? Hadn't they called us deah at least once each? Hadn't they watched our mouths as we spoke, nodded at the right moments, actually heard what we said? I'd thought they were in a pretty good mood, considering what we'd asked and the fact that they were moving furniture in an open truck during a rainstorm.

"They're not unhappy; they're just Mainers," I blurted. Her eyebrows rose.
"Is that it? Is that how it works?" I nodded, but didn't stay to discuss further. I could see the tailgate of the truck was dropped down. The shorter one had clambered into the truckbed and was dragging chairs to its edge. Danny wheeled past me with an armload; they both seemed not-surprised when I reached up my arms and took my own load.
"You all right?" the one in the truck asked, and I nodded.
"Ayuh." (It always looks contrived in text, but we all say it. For me, it slips out when I least expect it.)

We worked in silence, the four of us (she came out, too, despite her bad ankle), the only interaction the men's guffaws at each other's pinched fingers and bumped foreheads, and Danny's quick slide to let me pass him in the doorway. They didn't laugh when we groaned or ran into doorframes.

It was only once we'd returned to our building, they'd unloaded our furniture and taken away the old things, that I realized they knew I understood them. I walked into the door, and there they stood, eyes on me, hands on the new children's bookcase.
". . . and one, and two . . ." Danny was saying as I glanced over. As I met his gaze, his eyes twinkled and he nodded to his partner.
"Takin' it away," the one in grey sweatshirt told me, and they both grinned. I grinned back. They had nice smiles. Their teeth looked badly abused by chewing tobacco or years of smoking, but their faces were honest, not used for pretension or acting like. Of course, I loved them. I could have kissed them right there.

I think about it now. It makes sense. I know these faces, have known them since my first week of life. They've cooed at me, uncharacteristic in their sweetness as they peered down at me. These hands are the ones I've watched fix houses and cars, and move furniture, and build houses, for as long as I can remember. These voices, with their soft R and dropped endings, have lullabied me before I breathed. The names change; the situations are ever different. But when I see them, I know them. Our feet are planted in the same earth. I love them, and they love me. It sounds strange, it sounds crazy, but it's true. I will always love them, and, I think, they will always love me back.

what I never did is done

We talked about dying today, four of us, all fairly young, with much life ahead of us—a near-father, a college student, two out-of-college-and-dreaming girls. It was mostly a joke, really.
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to die soon," he told us. "I ate cantaloupe the other day."
"To die is gain," smirked my sister, but despite her dancing eyes, we all knew her words were true.
"Do we really think that, though?" the oldest one asked. "Do you think if Jesus walked in here and gave you the choice, you'd go right now?"

I didn't hear much else they said. I started thinking about my grandfather.


About thirty-three years ago, he had his first heart attack. They rushed him away, into the belly of the emergency room, and not long afterwards my grandmother heard the words echo through the intercom. Code blue. She was hospital-lingo illiterate, but her friend wasn't. They didn't know what exactly was happening, or to whom it was happening.

Neither did my grandfather. He wasn't afraid; he wasn't in pain or even discomfort. Instead, he said later, he felt calm, peaceful. He didn't see bright lights, or hear voices, or see faces. It seemed to him that he was standing on the bank of a river, so wide he couldn't see the other shore. There was no visible person next to him, and no booming voice . . . but a thought crossed into his mind.

Do you want to come now, or stay?

He thought about it. And then he said, I think I want to see my youngest boy grow up.

A horrible pain ripped through his skull, and he was back. They'd shocked his heart back into rhythm, saved his life, they said. He lived twenty-three more years, long enough to see his nine-year old son grow up, and even to meet that son's two oldest boys.


I think about it now, through the safety and ease of time. What if he had said, I want to go now? What if he had never emerged from that trauma room? What if my grandmother had been left a widow before fifty? What if my mother and aunt and uncles had all been fatherless before I was born? What if I had never met my grandpa, this man who terrified and entertained and emboldened me all at once? God knows life would have been quite different. Ten years after his death, my grandfather is still one of the most important men in my life. He showed us all what it meant to be father and grandfather and friend and husband proudly and strongly, without apology or fear. And he did everything with the knowledge that the only Person he truly answered to was God Himself.

I wonder if that encounter, on the emergency room table, made him more aware of that.

Do you want to come now, or stay?

That last day when he lay in the hospital bed—fingernails and arms turning blue, breath more and more shallow each second, middle son and eldest daughter and wife at his side—I wonder if he heard the same whisper. I don't think it was a question, if the whisper did come that day.
I think it was a definite irresistible call.

Your time is done now; you've accomplished all I meant you to do.
Come Home now; come Home.


I wonder what I would say, given the same choice. Would I choose to leave, to go on to what I know to be a happier and brighter and safer existence? Or would I look back, see the unfinished business, and choose to stay?

It's a terrible responsibility. Which is why, I think, God usually doesn't ask if we're done with this thing we call earthly life. He doesn't usually ask, because He knows more and better than we do.

He just calls.