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.