to be ezer

Every time he came into the shop today, he told at least one person she will be my wife soon. I should have gotten used to it, expected it. Instead, every time I found myself ever more undone.

I used to hate that word, wife. It felt degrading, a humiliation. Husband led, planned, named; wife followed, obeyed, answered.

Yet in his eyes, his arms, his voice, I have relearned my broken assumptions.

Wife is a treasure, not to be taken lightly. Wife is a gift, given with deadly-serious joy straight from the hand of the LORD. Wife is a helper, not second-class, but a vital member of the partnership. Wife is refuge; wife is rest; wife is water and new life itself in the dry dead times.

To him, I am not a nice little addendum to his life, someone to quietly cook wholesome meals and clean around the house and wash his dirty socks. I am not a creature to be controlled or dominated or ordered about. Neither am I the controlling factor of his life, someone to whom he grovels before making any decision or around whom his world revolves.

And for all this I am extremely thankful.

To him, I am precious. I don't understand; I do not, I cannot, comprehend why or how he loves me as he does.

But I do know that when he looks at me, blue eyes filled with adoration and delight, and says she will be my wife, that privilege is all I want. To learn to receive his love, and to love him with the power given me by my God. To be his wife. To be his ezer, his helpmeet, his partner, his love.

To be his.

It will be enough. For the rest of my life, it will be enough.


Oh, my Blue Eyes. How grateful I am for the way you have taught me to love. Someday, I pray I can give back to you even half of what you deserve.

How I love you, dearest man.

surprise!

We'd planned to surprise her,
            to have good food and fun,
          prayers and blessings,
                      all the things we knew she really wanted.

Then, there she went,
      planning a party herself,
   mapping out the exact things we'd wanted to give her.

[Half the surprise is showing Look, see, we know you and we care.]

So often I do this, too, I think.
        I plan things myself,
      because, quite frankly,
                        I don't believe anyone
                                           loves me
                                        hears me
                                                 well enough to throw
                                                                         a surprise party
                                                                                             just for me.

the cradle to the grave

Inexplicably
         old men loved her--
        from the time she was just a wee little girl,
                    crinkling baby grins and trundling around and tumbling out her little words;
               to the days of long ponytails and short time,
                       when her eyes were dark-circled and she verbally outran them.
 Inexplicably,
             old men loved her--
       always had, no matter what.
   Perhaps she reminded them
                 of someone who lived in their past life.
          Or someone who should have.

do what You like

I woke up, two-thirty in the morning,
    unable to sleep,
      and no reason why.
             But as I lay there,
      I felt a Presence,
             bending over me.
  I turned, and there You stood,
            sword in hand.
Without a word being spoken, I knew.
             You had come for my lizard.
"Kill it, kill it now!" I shrieked, gleeful.
         You raised the sword,
                held it high,
            then handed it to me.

heart abandoned

I set out the evidence, bring testimony, call witnesses. I argue with passion; I point out the obvious and emphasize the subtle. I begin with my goal in mind, and I build my case perfectly, till the points leave only one truth.

You see, I conclude, eyes sharp, heart dull, You see how I am far too set in my ways, why I am unfit for another set of chances.

Across the room, He smiles, mouth gentle, eyes brimming over with love.

Ahh, My child. He shakes His head. If only you fought evil as hard as you fight being loved . . .

cooler than me

The most arrogant
          (and idiotic)
       thing a man can say to a woman
   (or, really, any person can say to someone else)
 is this:
      See, I got you all figured out.

dark-eyed

   When you are too tired to write
             (or even read)
          love letters

there is a problem.

may You dwell

You make me strong enough
           to contain
   the Fullness of the Creator of the universe
                   without exploding.

[Ephesians 3:16-17]

the dignity of softwood

You've been there for near fifteen years, shining and solid in a sea of swirling colors. At first you were held in awe, protected from the trauma of life. Soon enough, we became comfortable with you, included you in daily tasks and mundane activities. You held up, strong and sure, still lovely despite the wear of life.

And how well you've endured.

You've held holiday dinners, been crowded round with chairs and benches and happy bumping knees. You've proudly displayed Mother's Day flowers, birthday cakes, piles of stocking gifts. You've been witness to tea talks, stupid arguments, flirting, serious discussions, weeping--and you've held the secrets that were whispered over and around you late at night. Babies have been propped up on your smooth safe surface, to smile and make eyes at everyone passing by; little children have tiptoed to gaze over your edges at the delights that were promised for later, not yet. You've held textbooks and coloring pages, and borne up under the slammed books and pounded fists of frustration. You've been covered with puzzles, card games, the Mechanic's projects, craft days, disassembled rifles, and paperwork, yet maintained your simple beauty and grace. Dinner parties, both formal and impulsive, have gathered around you, and all have been welcomed, whether clothed in jeans or flowy dresses. On you, two little kittens discovered mischief in the shape of food-thievery, and an elderly dog cruised the edges, nose sharp and sharklike, just in case. You've had paint, tea, gallons of milk, dark mechanical grease, bottles of ketchup, and pencil shavings spilt over you, without leaving scars. You've lain still under the labored first letters of wobbly littles' hands, and endured the scrawlings of a girl spilling out the tears of her soul. Late-night phone callers have found a perch on you, and exhausted flannel-clad mourners have laid down their heads and wept into your grain. You've hosted dice games, and the hilarious or serious conversations that accompany. An illness-worn kitty laid down his head on your cool smoothness, and was stroked away from the scariness. Happiness, grief, terror, and content have all, in turn, gathered round you--and been welcomed, and soothed or nurtured, whatever was necessary.

You are a refuge, a bastion of hospitality, an enduring fortress of cheer and comfort. No task is too humble for you to bear, no parties too lofty for you to serve. In simplicity and grace, you welcome all laughing guests, all weary ones, to come, gather here.

[such should be all kitchen tables]

moving day

We danced up and down the stairs, smiling and chatting and teasing, arms full of boxes and fragments of your life. You gave me a light box, and instructions to take it upstairs; you took a heavy box, deep into the basement. On my way down the bright stairs, you surprised me at the landing, caught me with your grin and your eyes.
Hi, you said, grin broadening, hands settling on my hips, forehead leaning into mine.
Oh hey, I smiled back, arms resting on yours, hands in the crooks of your elbows.
The house smelled of new-- fresh paint, fine-sanded sawdust, plaster, hopes, dreams. Your grin was deep and bright and overwhelming, as you spun me there in the sunny landing. Our steps were disjointed and ungraceful, but I laughed, head back in delight. There was so much promise all around, in the new walls and stairs and windows, and in the way you held me, like a treasure. There were so many reasons to smile, so smile we did, into each other's faces and eyes and souls, as we wound our arms around each other like we'd never let go. But soon enough we did, and went back to lugging boxes in and out.

Somehow my heart remained in that sunny corner, laughing and twirling and resting in your arms.

graceless

You say it every week,
    we all have grace to share.

 False. 

       I don't,
  and I know it,

 but still you say it and insist it and look right at me,
     disappointed when I don't "share my grace."

     You won't believe me,

 I know you won't, 

because I look good.

     I'm not pierced or inked up;

        there's no baby-belly revealing promiscuity.

I talk and walk and dress right, and you do not know

              there is no grace here.

I am an empty well,

    a fruitless tree,

 an unwalled garden.

I give a promise

    of worth, of blessing, of beauty,

 but I am helpless to deliver.

      I know what this means.

It means the Gardener will cut me off,

   and burn me up.

 I don't want that

        (who does?)

    but wanting is not changing.

It is my emotions that are all wrong,

         and I don't know how to change them.

There is no grace here.

              And I fear

                    there never will be.

forever is a long long time

Pretty bare feet and shining long hair are easy to love--light-coffee skin and slender waist and smooth face with laughing eyes, too. Flashing grins and fluttering eyes and light-trembling words are easy to forgive. Patience and accommodation are easy to endure.

But what about someday, when the toenails curl and yellow, and babies make the waist swell beyond shrinking, and the wrinkles pile up around the eyes and mouth, and the eyes fade and droop shut, and everything--hair and skin and spirit--turns grey grey grey? What about when the heart forgets love itself, and snappy mouth and bitter words are all that's left? What about when patience drains dry, and selfishness sears black?

What then? Will you still grin down into the dull eyes, and will you still wrap your arms around the baby-thickened waist, and will you still press your nose into the coarse cropped hair and laugh warm against the ticklish ear? Will you still wrap fingers round shaking hands and whisper, stop worrying, I forgive you? Will you still pause with tilted head and dark steady eyes and study the face with intensity meant to draw back the soul, to remind it this is not who you really are?

Will you? Or will it be worth it to you, even then?

zephyrs and buds

Spring
is a little girl
in a frilly dress
whose favorite color is
Green

All these years
     I knew you were the one with all the issues.
                  In fact, you were the issue.
And now
       (good grief)
    I find that was actually me,
                all along.

to be affirmed

I felt it, deep in my bones, the voice saying,
     Yes, do this, it's for you.
        
         But I so mistrust my own hearing.

And then you, standing so close to me,
            engaging the conversation, turning to me,
                        shocked me with the question,
                   Do you want this?
     
           I do, yes, I said with truth.

And then you, touching my elbow with your fingertips,
           blue eyes shining in the sunlight,
                           floored me with the statement,
                I knew, as soon as I heard this, that it was for you.

           I was speechless in the face of your confidence.

           Really?
   I wanted to ask you both.
            What is it about this,
                      about me,
              that makes you so sure it is right,
                           that I am right?

And then I realized
          it wasn't me
                it was His voice;
      that was what made you sure.

  I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that
                 when I am weak
                           He sends me strong ones;
               when I am uncertain
                           He sends me sure ones;
         that He has placed us,
                   each one,
     exactly as He knew was best.

logos

words, under your breath,
and i shiver, for i think
you ask to kiss me.

of brotherly love

There are fences everywhere, I said, staring out the car window. She leaned forward, glanced at the streets she already knew. They don't really have yards, I said, and she nodded. Probably want to keep dogs out, she told me. But they don't even have grass in most of them, I protested, and she shrugged.

What were they really trying to do? I wondered to myself. Were they trying to keep something out? Or were they trying to keep something in?

Maybe, I realized, it was both. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep things away. Maybe they felt afraid, and needed to keep themselves in. Maybe they didn't know how to give themselves freely to their neighbors, and receive the gift of another person. Maybe they'd been burned too many times to tear down the barriers. Maybe no one ever taught them to live without fences.

And suddenly I was so aching-proud of her, this golden country girl who loved open land, living in this cramped-up city so full with fenced-off yards, bringing her fenceless heart and giving it without shame . . .

Maybe somehow, I pray, she will teach those around her to do the same.

two dozen

Today is gold, or so it was always supposed to be. I always knew, just knew, that I wouldn't really reach it, that my body, or time itself, would run out and this day would never come. But if it did, oh, I had ideas of what it would be.

I would have a husband, children, and a place of my own. I would have a dog, and probably a mom-car. I wouldn't be living even in the same state as my parents, let alone the same city. I would have a purpose, a positive clear idea of what it meant to be me, fully and truly, a woman living purposefully and strongly in the presence of the LORD.

But look, things are much different than I always imagined. The number on paper seems far older than the number in my heart, and as I blink it into my eyes I think how is this even possible? Nothing I wanted has happened. There is no man, no children, no dog and no house and no minivan. There is little clarity, and there is even less purposefulness.

But see, try to grasp, what is. Things I didn't even dare to imagine have been. I have flown across the world and back, and I have fought my way through blacker places than I thought bearable. I have been shown grace upon grace, mercy upon mercy, gentleness, tenderness, love.

You ask too much, and yet, so little. These few long years, I think, have barely dipped the surface of the depths into which You wish to plunge me, yet I find myself gaspingly overwhelmed by what I've seen and known.

Nothing has been as I imagined. And yet, nothing has ever come as a surprise to You.

For You created my inmost being; You knit me together . . .
All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.

the measure

You are a man,
       and I know because you held me in your arms as I sobbed out the frightful words, and you pressed your fingers against my shoulderblade to let me know you were listening, and when I later began to repeat the story to you, you looked me in the eyes and told me, I know; I heard every word you said.

You are a man,
       and I know because your eyes filled with pain for my family, for my father; and you nearly wept as you hugged me close and whispered, Hang in there; and you promised to come and repair the stove for us because we don't know what the hell we're doing.

You are a man,
        and I know because you sauntered over, jabbed me softly in the arm, and asked, So when am I taking you to look at cars? and you talked to me like a grown-up, and you let me know you were doing this for me because my father couldn't.

You are a man,
            and I know because you showed up at the hospital when only my parents were there; and sat next to the bed where my father lay, arms full of the needles you so dread, a cup of coughed-up blood on the table next to him; and you chatted with him and my mother like a friend, despite your discomfort; and you later came to our house, to eat up leftovers with me and my sister, just because you knew our tears would never stop if we were left alone; and you didn't ask us how are you doing? a million times.

You are a man,
           and I know because you have been tender and compassionate with my brother, even though everyone else looks at the women in our family and thinks he seems to be doing just fine.

You are a man,
           and I know because you weren't afraid to tell my father that you love him, you didn't hesitate to put your hands on him and pray hard, and you took time from a precious vacation to call and ask how is he?

You are a man,
             and I know because you showed up at our doorstep with a massive crockpot of soup that you, not your wife, had made.

You are a man,
            and I know because when you asked how is he? and I said, I'll cry, you said, okay, and waited.

You are men,
    and I know because you stepped up,
           raised your hands on behalf of your brother,
                  stood firm for his wife and children,
                        did the things he couldn't do but wanted to,
                             defended those whose father and husband was taken out of commission,
                                            and were the face of God to us in so many ways.


May He ever bless the work of your hands, and may He always strengthen your arms for battle.

Even when my sky is black
       Your goodness overarches,
    soars over what I can imagine or even hope.

You are larger than the diseases.
       You are larger than the hospital beds and beeping monitors.
                You are larger than my snotty-sobbing heart.
                          You are larger than my screaming fear.

The problem isn't You;
        the problem is my eyes.

a fuller crimson

A time for kissing babies
        for grabbing at (and missing) wriggling soft-furred puppies
    for raising the head and catching the secret chirps of the new-come-home birds.
  A time for pink ribbons
             for white teas
       for cold sweet desserts.
    A time to laugh with head thrown back to the fragile-blue sky
          to change the sweaters for bare-armed glory
     to peel back the old layers and limber up the rusty places.
 A time for crashing into new life
            for repolishing old friendships
         for dipping toes into adventure and romance.
Promises kept
           despair vanquished
       passion rekindled.
                 Hope itself, manifested.

socks embody most of what is wrong with the world.

the patience of a good man

The pain, the discomfort,
        in my own chest and throat
   doesn't come close to matching yours.

Yet you,
        so pale in your light blue paperish gown,
   dull-skinned under the greenish lights,
     frail-looking against the flimsy sheets,
             have complained far less in ten days
   than I did in the past four hours.

God give me grace to grow into the shadow you have cast.

tasting Thursday

 the fuzzy sourness of interrupted sleep
      the slow-fat of a sleepy breakfast
     the sick-sweetness at the back of the throat, sugar substitute wafting through the air
  the blue-burning salt of protective fury
       the bitter teeth after pale coffee
 the acid uncertainty
   the soft-kissing cleanse of dusting-down snow
     the sweet-sour of fear, fluttering at the back of the throat and pushing open eyes as the jeep twists out of clenched hands
       the dead dull nothing of bad news
 the gentle-releasing tear-sweet of the dance
           the indescribable taste of hope, rising from where it ever breathes behind the ribcage

dancing in the minefields

I see you, the way you curl your knees toward your chest and clench your elbows to your sides. I wonder, as I watch from under my eyelashes, if you were just told too many times when you were little to keep your hands to yourself, or if you spent too much time in middle school tripping and crashing into things with your new height, or if you are so unconsciously conscious of some flaw that you spend your physical energy trying to hide everything about yourself.

You aren't always like this. What is it that makes you try to fold all your limbs into your body, drop your eyes, bow your head?

I wish I knew.

I feel something stir in my heart, and I want, more than anything, to rise from my seat and raise my arms and twirl and spin and take your hand. I wish I could pull you to your feet and help you spread your limbs as wide as mine, and let the rhythm of the music pull us away from this place where we're afraid. I ache to let my spirit unfold in the center of my chest, to let it breathe and expand to touch your spirit, to let them soar and weave together.

What are we so afraid of? Is it the dance, the arms-wide vulnerability, the possibility of being seen?

I think so.

the season of bright sadness

When, two or three years ago, I first started "doing Lent," it was quite poorly done. I was actually fasting just to prove I could. And, secretly, I hoped to make God like me more, to impress Him with my own piousness, attract His eye, and hold His ear close to my prayers.

I've been learning, slowly, that fasting doesn't work like that. It's not a gimmick to attract attention, nor a simple exercise in self-discipline. So what is it? What does it mean? And why do I desire to practice it, since I know that there is nothing I can do to attract the favor of an impartial God?

I've struggled through this over the past few years, gone through stages where I flatly refused to fast at all because I was pretending not to be prideful. Obviously, that was a rather strong backlash, and not biblical either.

Perhaps the best explanation of fasting I've found is, not surprisingly, given by God Himself.
On the day of your fasting, He accuses His people, you do as you please [. . .] You cannot fast as you do today and expect your voice to be heard on high. Is this the kind of fast I have chosen, only a day for a man to humble himself?
Clearly not. However, God proceeds to explain exactly what He requires of fast-ers. Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice, and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?

I hate self-denial, really strongly hate it, and I am really really bad at it. But if fasting gives me more time . . . or energy . . . or new perspective . . . and gives me extra space to pursue God's presence and implement His will in my own heart and in the world around me, then yes. I'll do it.

Last Sunday, our priest spoke on fasting, in preparation for the Lenten season. The crux of what he shared was this. Fasting is denying ourselves so we can more clearly hear the voice of God, putting aside an activity or object temporarily to make specific space for our hearts to be quiet and listen to the Spirit, refraining from a legitimate pleasure in order to gain the superior pleasure of the presence of the LORD.

In short, giving up the good for the best.

So, whether you observe Lent (February 22-April 8 this year) or not, whether you give up Facebook or meat or plastic or smoking or sweets or bathing on Fridays (please don't), whether you practice weekly meal-fasts or not, whether you are involved in a liturgical denomination or not, here is to a life of fasting--to living as people who defy injustice, who reach out to the needy and oppressed, who do whatever it takes to hear the voice of God, who change the world.

Good Lent.

boushk

They are three, one each with her hand on my knee, one with her hand pressed underneath my right shoulderblade. They are praying for me, strong prayers, standing up because I cannot, and like the first time, I am crying, tears trailing down my cheeks and onto my jeans.

Then she is speaking to me, her hand tightening on my knee, and she is telling me renounce it, tell it yourself. And I open my mouth and try to speak and I am shaking, shaking harder than I have ever shaken in my life and I am afraid. I am afraid of what I know I need to say, I am afraid I will sound foolish, I am afraid I am wrong, I am afraid to never be good enough, I am afraid I cannot breathe.

The hand on my shoulderblade presses harder, and the voice beside my ear is whispering words I don't understand straight to God, and I am still shaking, but I am breathing and I am speaking, and I tell it leave now, you have no place, I am bought with His blood.

And I stop shaking, but I am still crying, and they step in where I fall off and they pray until I stop weeping. Then she says, to me again, talk to Him now, tell Him you know it was wrong.

So I do and it is nearly harder than the first thing. I am not shaking, not with the same violence of sobs and breathlessness, but I have nothing to say, no words that are enough to speak to His glorious face. I manage to open my mouth, to let my heart speak its remorse and its worship, and I don't know what exactly I say but I do know that suddenly . . .

I am not afraid.

The full moon over snow
      is a better prayer
   that I could compose
          over the span of eternity.

on silence

  sometimes

     life is more beautiful when it is kept out of print

                                             and tucked deep into hearts.

You see

There is a wild beauty to the names of God given Him by primitive tongues. When He met Hagar in the desert, and promised her that her son would not only survive, but thrive, what was it that so amazed her?

It wasn't the promise. It wasn't the meeting. It was something completely surprising.

He sees me. So floored by this, she called Him a name to reflect such awe.

L'chai Ro'i--the God Who sees.

No one told Hagar what to expect, or how God worked "in our time." Presumably, she wasn't deemed worthy of religious instruction. So when she encountered God, she was not disappointed, nor suspicious.

She was, however, exceptionally amazed.

He sees me.

In that one phrase, she cried a beautiful declaration of faith, of awe, of hope.

You are the God Who sees me.


May this be our cry.

blue eyes

With him, I feel . . .
           no comparison.

  This is why
      I so naturally fell into being around him,
why his presence is so easy and freeing.

      With him,
   I can smile,
              and laugh,
         and be serious,
              and be like other people,
           and be distinctly unlike other people;

 and his gaze,
      leveled on my face,
                   doesn't change.

His eyes are the same brilliant clear blue,
           no matter what I do . . .
                                  or don't do.

O'Halloran

His wife is in a home, he tells me, though he's told me before. Yes, she's in a home, and they take real good care of her. Oh, yes, he visits, every day at least once. She's getting used to it, someone else tending her, and they're learning what she needs and wants. But yes--yes, he misses her. Maybe he'll make arrangements, bring her back home. It was just too hard, being with her all the time, night and day, no time to really rest.

He tells me this, talking fast, eyes flickering away from mine, and I understand suddenly.

He needs me to tell him it's okay. He needs me to say that no one else is angry at him, not like he's angry at himself. He needs to know that he hasn't failed in letting her go to live somewhere else. He needs to know that it really and truly is all right for him to need help.

I cannot do that for him, cannot convince his aching heart of the truth. So I listen, and nod, and cluck with sympathy, and murmur how I'm praying for them both. But I know that next time, his eyes will flicker the same way, and he'll tell me the same story.

Yes, she's in a home.

not very fine

Wine eyes
   are disorganized,
 scattered,
        sort of frenetic,
     yet somehow molasses-slow.
But they are happy, happier than you can see from the outside.

Wine heart
        is tired,
    a little achy,
  scattered,
jumping from emotion to emotion.
But it is full, so very full.
    And grateful.

men like trees

Behind me I can hear him coughing, and it is breaking my heart. "No!" I want to shriek. "I want him to be healed, I want that to be gone! I want there to be magic, miracles!" Gone is my suspicion of prayer-healing, gone is my cynicism toward living whole lives. Instead, I find myself grieved and shaken, wondering what and why God is doing. Why hold out healing, I wonder, only to draw it back?

I don't know. But I do know I would rather have the growing questions about why God's working as He is, than the blank flat droning belief that He does not deal at all in miracles.

knit your hearts together

You sit, quiet in your corner, feet crossed through the back of an empty chair, head down and eyes quiet as you concentrate on your work. He's flitting around the room, laughing, smiling, hosting well. Then he comes, pauses, and sits in the chair in front of you. He sees you, though, for he puts both hands behind his back and cups your bare feet, gentle in the curve of his fingers. I try not to let my eyes linger, but it is such a lovely sweet gesture that I glance again. Maybe you see my gaze catch, because you twitch your toes, uncross your feet, withdraw. And he is left sitting, hands awkward and empty, and I imagine his shoulders droop just a fraction of an inch.

It makes me angry, truly it does. I want to go to you, make you put your feet back into his hands, or better yet, lean forward and clasp his hands in your own. I want to shake you by the shoulders, tell you, "Don't you know what you have?" I want to lean down and whisper in your ear, "Never be ashamed that a good man loves you."

But I cannot do or say any of those things, and with regret, I know that moment of quietness and beauty is gone, and somehow, my heart and throat ache over its quickness.

Don't you know how many girls would die to be loved by a man who would cradle their bare feet in his hands?

Don't you ever take that for granted.

the color of God's eyes

And there will always come the moments
     of dreadful introspection,
                of fear,
           of sure despair.

But sure as the morning,
         definite as the seasons,
    positive as the rain,
 Your love falls,
       cleanses away the comparisons,
     caresses away the weeping,
               cradles the brokenhearted cries.

So when the moments of darkness come,
      I will tip my face to the light,
    and I will clench my hands and refuse to loosen my grip,
 and I will be persistent as the women You marveled at.

And just maybe, as I petition and hound and refuse to give You peace,
                        You'll answer,
             break through the clouds and loose Your vengeance on my enemies.

Or maybe, just maybe, the heavens will remain closed,
       my tears will remain thick and hot on my face,
   and Your voice will remain unheard.

But I know You are there.
    I have tasted, and I cannot be deceived again.

Oh, give me the strength to cling to Your silence
      as stubbornly as I do to Your words.

not given a spirit of fear

Courage is doing something again, despite the disaster of the first try.
Grace is making it look beautiful.
Hope is expecting a better outcome without any solid reason.
And love is doing it purely for the good of another.

volunteerspeak

We speak a tongue you will never understand, with words you've never heard before tossed in for good measure. We've married Hebrew, English, Russian, Spanish, German, Polish, Arabic, and Swedish in a roaring polygamous ceremony; and we won't apologize, not at all. We abuse all languages liberally, making messy Hebrew plurals out of English nouns, Russian verbaging any word we please, remembering the correct English word by hearing it in Spanish first, making good use of the delightfully serious German specificity, lending strict and beautiful Polish pronunciation to everything.

It's only two of us in the office, but combined we possess four different languages. He sneezes (in Spanish, I presume) and I bless him in Spanish, and he thanks me in English. Without thinking, I answer in Hebrew, and it is only then that we realize what we have done, and he looks at me and asks if I, a child of English, really just said what he heard, and I read his eye crinkles and we laugh for just a moment while we load our baskets.

But really, my heart is breaking, because I know that this time is short, that my days immersed in this pidgin are numbered, that soon I will leave, and there will be only one language to use.

And much as I love my mother tongue, I know it will be flat and boring and colorless after the shimmering vibrant tumult that is conversation here.

blistering wickedness

Slash it open, let the infection and filth drain away in a painful flood.

Cleanse it, let the sting of purification overpower everything else.

Cauterize it, let the burning agony sear and seal, keeping at bay a relapse.

And keep it, let goodness and wellness and wholeness invade, leaving no room for reinfection.


Oh, God, let it be.

and I'm home

"Pass the peace."

And what terror I feel at those words. There is absolutely no peace in me at the thought of having to greet a roomful of strangers. My sister stands next to me, but in front and behind and beside me are people I have yet to meet. My heart pounds, and I feel sweat breaking out along my shoulderblades.

I have always hated passing the peace.

But I turn, pasting on a fake smile, hoping the fear in my eyes doesn't outshine the friendliness I'm fighting to project. The two men that were next to me are already out of the row, down the aisle and shaking hands with people they know. I look over my shoulder, but the people I came with are in conversation over part of the service and I don't feel like interrupting.

Even before I turn back around, I know he is there, and I turn to find him in my row, not even a foot away, smile wider than the ocean. He spreads his arms just as wide, eyes twinkling blue-grey, and pulls me into a hug as he laughs and greets me by name. I put my arms around him and smile, unclenching my fear in the face of his delighted joy.

And in his arms, I find everything in me letting go, and the peace that was missing rushes back in as he holds me close and tells me how glad he is that I'm there.

There is nothing flirtatious about the way he wraps his arms around me, which makes it even more precious. This is an embrace to surrender to. I rest my chin on his shoulder and lean into him, feeling so grateful.

And it is just a moment, but it seems like days of fear have melted away by the time he releases me and moves on to grin and laugh and hug my sister. Somehow, I cannot shake away the bubbling freedom he passed along in those few seconds.


I want joy that communicable.

five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

The photos I took over the last year tell a distinct and lovely story. They say that life was good, happy, contented. The photos say that I had meaningful weekends with dear friends from university, that I learned to love my family in ways I'd never dreamed of, that I hosted and brainstormed awkward yet hilarious get-togethers, that I maintained crucial relationships, that I learned to give gifts like I never had before, that I took steps that would always before have terrified me, that I celebrated new beginnings with my friends, that I found adventure in the unexpected, that I steeped myself in the loveliness of my home state, that I fell in love all over again with my extended family, that I lived happily and with humor in awkward contexts and tumultuous days, that I love my new job, and that I adore skirting the margins of cool.

And while those things are true, they are not the full story. I trace my year quite differently.

Discovering the depths of my heart's rage in the winter, learning what depressed truly means, fighting despair, caving in to the destruction of comparison, believing ugliness was not just in my face but in my heart and soul, resenting everything "wholesome," screaming words I regretted at people who just needed a listening ear, and disdaining American Christianity; destroying standards that I had set for myself in the spring, rebelling against expectation, wearing whatever I felt like wearing without feeling guilty, spurning time constraints, and beginning to believe that love can successfully govern any conflict; taking my restlessness to visible levels in the summer, refusing to wear shoes because freedom is a very lovely thing, taking time to read children's books with my heart, giving up on holding back the tears, locking myself in the bathroom to avoid screaming fits, crumbling to the terror, and listening to the voicemails over and over and over to convince myself I was safe; taking steps back to reevaluate in the fall, learning to celebrate love without feeling empty, knowing with a horrible lateness the depth of my love for four littles I'd resented for much of our time together, renewing my promise to love the fatherless and widows when it is not easy, rejecting the easy/acceptable/present in favor of the difficult/best/future, and being humbled again when I thought the process was over; defying guilt in the winter (come back like an old nemesis after new blood), learning gentleness as I should have earlier, fighting to write and feeling like an old dried-up well, facing down the old ghosts, slamming into the shocking realization that it is my heart that God deems precious, refusing to give in to the past, willingly submitting myself to vulnerability and need, discovering with delight that the Spirit of God does speak to me . . . and was probably always speaking, all those months when I felt devastated and abandoned.

Exhausting. Horrible. Strenuous. Discouraging.
Beautiful. Peaceful. Heart-breaking-and-building.

Discovering the contradictions . . . and embracing them as good gifts from my God.

It has been a year of mercies, a year steeped in grace.
A year of learning Who God really is, not a magic wand or an angry ruler, but my Father, my Friend, my Provider, my Shepherd, my Lover; and discovering that He is more powerful and comforting and frightening and amazing that I could ever have imagined . . . and as I never would have seen had it not been for this rather-brutal year.

And I think, just maybe, I wouldn't trade it for anything else.

windows to the soul

Killer eyes.
    And I don't mean
             wow, those are great eyes.
 I mean,
       I am ninety percent certain that if this were a dark alley,
                                I'd be dead right now.

sweet summertime

We lived however the summer took us
           words changed here,
        feet swished there,
                 laughter everywhere.
We lived free.
       We lived joy.
              But mostly
          we lived.