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.