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