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.