clothing: [not] optional.

If I'd
Wanted a job
Where people tossed money
At me, I would have become a
Stripper.


[not a cashier]

for my child, and your child, too

Every year, our world goes silent, for just one day. Twenty-four/seven businesses close (a personal hurray), highways are empty, families reunite. We string lights on trees and prepare lavish meals and light candles and sing old familiar songs. There are different traditions, considering the region, of course, but overall, this one day is observed as a day of of goodwill toward fellow man, of good works, and peace on Earth. In our grandparents' day, even warring armies laid down their weapons and played Christmas music over the frozen battlefields.

And believers scoff at this. We listen to the songs, that proclaim war is over, that yearn for peace at least in our children's lifetimes, and we shake our heads sadly. "That's ridiculous," we say, our faces good proper religious masks of mourning. "Poverty will never be abolished. Prisons will always be full. Disease will never be eradicated. Oppression will never cease. Peace will never come to Earth."

And so often we stop our thought there.

 That is not the Bible I read.

The Spirit of the LORD is upon Me,

because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.

He has sent Me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners,

and recovery of sight for the blind,

to release the oppressed,

to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor.

Forgive me, but that sounds a damn lot like war is over, we'll see the day of glory.

No matter what you believe about the millennium (or if you even believe in a literal thousand-year reign of Christ over the Earth), if you call yourself by His name--Christian--then you are quite obliged to believe in peace on earth. It's what the angels proclaimed at His birth; it's what He Himself promised He would bring. If you claim to believe that Jesus is Who He said He is . . . then you claim to believe in literal peace on earth.

The main difference, I think, between the world's hopes and our belief, is that believers know that peace will only come with the return of the Son of God, Who will wipe all tears from our eyes, the One Who tells us, Behold, I am making all things new. We know that we need this renewing, this changing from within. We know that we ourselves are helpless to usher in peace on earth, for we have war in our hearts.

So we cry out, Come, Lord Jesus, and we watch the sky, and we do our best to walk the way He walked and heal the way He healed and bring peace to broken hearts as He does, and we celebrate His first coming and we ache for His second.

And we remember, each year, the day when I AM stepped out of eternity and wailed His first breaths from a Jewish baby's lungs in order to live a life of anonymity and die a shameful death and rise in miraculous glory, to bring us a peace that will last long after time has ceased.

Happy Christmas.

the washing with water through the word

Look at us, and realize how beautiful we are. We are entwined, whether we acknowledge it or not.  You laugh, and my heart leaps with joy. I weep, and your shoulders are soaked with tears. When one stumbles, the others' shins ache too; and when one struggles, the weight of the whole body is thrown behind him. I hear, and it is your mouth that speaks the words I want to say. You see, and I take my hands and do. It is your talents that make me strong, and my strength that pushes you toward your goal. We are different, yes, but the same Blood pulses in our veins, the same Spirit energizes us.

We are many, but we are one. We are broken, but we are healed. We are a strange mix, but we are perfect, set into place just as our Savior desires. He has brought us here, and given us to each other.

But we don't always acknowledge that, do we?

Some days, we seem like an infant, just discovering how all things are connected. My hands flail, and scratch at your face. You take wobbly steps forward and squash my dreams. We become exhausted, bruised, bloodied, by our very own foolish acts . . . yet we wonder why our joy is gone.

Other days it seems we have contracted an autoimmune disorder. You poison hearts against me. I cut my eyes at you and ignore the cries for help. We look all right from the outside, oh yes, of course we do; but inside we are filled with betrayal. We suffer from our very own attacks . . . yet we wonder why our life is ebbing away.

What if we lived, you and I, like my own well-being really depended upon yours, and vice versa? What if I didn't put out my hands without first considering whether it benefited you? What if you didn't step forward until you knew I was ready to be there with you?

What if we were a body, not of an uncoordinated child or a dying man, but of a vibrant and joyous bride, whose every action and thought is focused toward one single thing . . . the happiness of her groom . . .

blindside

It's that squinty-eyed feeling, that shit,
      they've been planning this, been creeping up on me this whole time;
    that shameful flushing stupidity of
          why didn't I see this coming;
            and the heart-and-stomach-sick knowing
    that they were mine,
              someone I opened my arms for,
                     someone I laughed with,
                 someone I gave my heart to.

out of chaos, life is being found

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his hatred of the man in front of him, the man who took his sister, ruined her, and now dared look her brothers in the eyes and ask for her hand. A single glance at his closest brother, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and smiled, spoke his own oily words.

Yes, of course you may have her. Only fulfill these conditions.

Three days later, he took his brother and a sword and slipped into the city. The air was heavy with sweat and the stillness of agonized healing. There was no need to be quiet once they were past the gates; there was no one capable of fighting back. He gripped his sword, squinted his eyes, and kicked down doors, facing incapacitated men and terrified women and children. He shattered homes and hacked and maimed and slaughtered. He destroyed human life with a rage known only to the wronged. He snatched his sister from the rapist's arms and slit his cowardly throat. As he watched the man's blood seep onto the ground by his feet, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my sister and restored my family's honor.

But no.

"You are a disgrace!" his father shouted. "You and your brother have brought shame and terror to the household! What have you done to me?"

And the shame was repeated in his father's dying words, like the thudding of a weary heart.

You are a violent impulsive man, one who is untrustworthy and unpredictable. Curses on you! You will never have a place to call your home.

~*~

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his disgust at the chaos surrounding him, his own brothers and sisters who ran rampant days after being freed from slavery, who spit in the face of their God. A single glance at the prophet, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and clenched his hand by his sides, listened to the horror of the order.

If you believe the LORD, slaughter them all, the very ones you love.

The air was woven with lust and the wailing of immorality. There was no need to be quiet; there was no one ignorant of the violence of the day. He gripped his sword, set his jaw, and entered the fray, facing his own brothers and neighbors and friends. He stood firm and swung with strength and drew blood and slaughtered. He destroyed human life, those lives so precious to him, with a rage known only to the warrior of God. He snatched his nation from the false lover's arms and bled away the shame. As he watched the idol burn into powdery dust, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my God, and restored the LORD's honor.

And it was so.

"You are holy to the LORD," the prophet whispered. "You and your brothers brought peace and healing to the nation. What can He do but bless you?"

And the honor was repeated in the prophet's dying words, like the skirling of a battle cry.

You are a strong warrior, one who is reliable and fierce. Blessings on you! The LORD Himself will give you posterity and stand against your enemies. The LORD sets you now in the place of honor, as mediator between Himself and His people.

So the LORD chooses who He will,
the most unpredictable, the most untrustworthy, the most impulsive of violent men;
and He makes them priests and prophets and healers.

Amen.

[Genesis 34, Genesis 49:5-7; Exodus 32, Deuteronomy 33:8-11]

son of the cloud

I don't even understand how he stays in one piece. When he passes me in the hallway and our sleeves brush, it's a violent force I didn't think possible from such minimal contact. He's always moving, always making some sort of verbal noise, whether shouting that he's got the hot pans out of the oven, bellowing pleasantries and startling customers, or (a few days ago) rapping about the jobs he's doing. He makes my head ache, and I know I'm not the only one who sighs with relief when he retreats to the bakery.

All day long, there is chatter about him, whether over the headsets or face to face. What does he think he's doing? What kind of bake list has he made up? Why is he shouting? Is he . . . rapping . . . again? He's a presence that cannot be ignored, that is certain.

And most of the chatter isn't positive. He's annoying, he refuses to listen, he's learning too slowly, he doesn't really fit . . . so they say. Somehow, I find this comforting. It's nice to know that I'm no longer the most incompetent employee, a relief to be sure that they're not talking about me on the headsets I'm banned from during mornings, delightful to be siding with my coworkers and not feeling like an outsider.

He dances his way down the hallway and I hear the whispers begin. Under my breath, I snicker; they're exactly right in what they're saying, and it's pretty funny. But just as I open my mouth to say the same sorts of things, something hits in my chest, right in the center of the breastbone.

He is just like you.

I freeze, clench my fingers at my task. No. That can't be true.

It is true. He is like you--impossible to understand, and harder to love. But that didn't stop Me from choosing you.

I reflect. I was loved before I was anything, before I even acknowledged my God. I am loved when I raise my hand against Him, when I scream that I will do anything but that!

It's times like these, when it's hardest, that I know I must heed that instruction of all instructions, or fly in the face of all I say I believe.

Love, without demands, without mockery, without feelings of superiority. Love the unlovely; love the obnoxious. Love the dirty and the rotten and the wicked. Love without fear of the pain you know will come.
Love as I loved you.

It is not really just a suggestion.

dreadful independence

It was a long, slow day, made longer and slower by the white flakes drifting down from the rumpled sky. All the work was done--twice. The one male employee went outside, clutching a shovel, and blew back in, covered in snow and chill, more times than I counted. We girls zipped into jackets and huddled behind our registers until the heat came on. The owner arrived, then drifted away, with instructions to send someone home because there were too many of us and too little work. The plow truck ran through the lot, shoving the snow before it, building violent piles against the curbs and beside the lamp posts. Customers were few and far between.

We watched from the window, as the truck passed, plow scraping against pavement. "The other guy would come ask us to rotate our cars," she remarked to me. "This guy, he's just plowing us in." My heart sank. It was already going to be a tight day, timewise, I knew. I had to go from work to home, shower and change, and make it to my next job in the space of an hour. The snow made a quick drive impossible; now this plow man was making a quick escape just as impossible.

I tried not to think about it; I pushed trays through the dish machine and scrubbed pots and waited on customers and cleaned the lobby and chatted with lonely strangers and refilled all the paper products and made sandwiches and poured soup and coffee until I thought my head would burst with monotony. Then the clock said the magic numbers, and I was freed.

In the breakroom, I wrapped myself in my coat and scarf. I was wearing four layers and still shivering, even inside. My socks cut below my ankle bones; my gloves were flimsy dollar-rack buys. I hadn't even stuffed a hat into my pocket. I glanced out the window before I braved outside. It was as grey and steely cold as it had been the rest of the day. I hunched my shoulders and pushed open the door.

As I trudged across the parking lot, I fought the grumbles in my heart. It's not fair, it's really not, that so many other women have men to dig out their cars. It's not fair that I find myself having to physically, spiritually, emotionally, fend for myself, not just today, but every day of my life. It's not fair that You--yes, this is Your fault, too, God--have left me alone like this. It's just not fair.

By the time I reached my car, I was feeling rebellious and irritated. And then I saw it.

Someone had shoveled out my car.

For a moment, I just stood and stared. Then I glanced at my coworker, outside starting up his own car.
"Did you shovel out my car?" I asked. He shrugged, shook his head.
"That wasn't me," he told me, but as he walked away, he called back over his shoulder, ". . . maybe."
All I could do was smile and shake my head.

It is true, I am alone, unmarried and single and independent. And it is horrible at times. But, in those moments when I despair, when I cry I am not strong enough, not for this, and God is the only One Who hears . . . He provides. Whether it is a man to dig out my car for me, a woman to hold my hands and cry with me, a child to snuggle, a puppy to wrestle, a cat to feed, a job to do, He gives me exactly what I need.

Yes. He always, always provides.

Bless the LORD, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless His Holy Name!
Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits . . .

you siwwy

We were in the kitchen, just us two,
        a strange moment when the other three were off making shenanigans elsewhere,
    or maybe they were actually playing quietly.
He was telling me a story,
    and for a moment, it was just like old times,
              like I'd never left,
        like we could just go back to the way things were.
Everything was just the same,
      his snapping blue eyes,
    his laugh,
         the baby teeth between his smeary lips.
I was just smiling to myself,
   reassuring my soul that things will never really change,
 when it happened.

He opened his mouth,
     and an L slipped out cleanly,
   over his tongue and between his lips,
          before either of us knew it.

He kept talking,
      totally unaware that he had just smashed open my heart.
  In a moment,
       in that L,
     I knew things were always going to change.
               I knew he would grow up,
            stop going to bed at dark time,
          stop calling me siwwy Katie! when I made a mistake,
        stop chuckling over Mrs. Gwidden's stories,
      stop singing the Five Wittle Fishies song whenever I told him it was my favorite,
     stop calling his pretend best friend Jame.
 Instead, I knew with certainty,
       he would become a big man,
                     taller than his daddy,
                  but just as good;
                         fairer than his mama,
                     but just as hilarious;
             smart as a whip,
                        but still kind and generous.
       I knew he would be a daddy, someday,
                   that I would coo over photos of babies just as blue-eyed,
                 and just as beautiful,
                               as he was.
But I knew, also,
      that the baby I loved so much
                   the toddler I snuggled and tickled,
                                    the little boy I read books with,
  were gone . . .
         and in their place,
     stood a little man
                   who said his L's perfectly.             

beneath the skin

It is the rapist who is ruined,
                not the victim;
      the cruel parent who is marked,
          not the whimpering child;
   the master who is dehumanized,
               not the slave;
the torturer who is broken,
           not the prisoner.

It is when we crumble to our cruelest thoughts,
             our basest fantasies,
         our darkest selves,
  that we become the exact opposite
        of what God meant us to be.

        Light shiners.
    Hope bringers.
           Life givers.
    Image bearers.

   When we set out to destroy another human,
            we become anti-God.

It is the monster that is branded,
         not its prey.

nothing more than wishes

When we are small, we have big dreams.
         Teacher, doctor, firefighter, policeman, missionary, president, world-shaker.
  It seems,
       somehow,
           the bigger we get
                        the smaller our dreams.

Why is that, do you think?

     Is it because we grow practical,
 understand we have limits?
  Or is it because,
              as we get older,
        we begin to believe the voices that say
                     No, you can't; you never will?

   How do we ever hope to keep dreaming
                                 without becoming dejected?

          Maybe, just maybe,
    it has to do with Who we choose to believe,
               with the Voice we decide to hear.

 Maybe, it's believing that Jesus takes the tattered smallness,
               and makes it grand and beautiful,
                    that makes us shoot for the moon,
              yet remain content with the earth.

the confession

I am the hard bitter woman
      I am the wandering wife
I am the child who screams in the dark
      I'm the one wasting my life

Yet You take my hand in the darkness
      You kiss this face stained with shame
You call me lovely, complete, and remade
       You shelter me with Your own Name

[Psalm 20:1]

in sickness

He holds her arm, her crumpled little arm, in the crook of his elbow. He orders for her, makes sure we know she's there, too, and asks that her cup be only half filled so her shaking hands won't spill it onto her lap. He curves his arm around her body, while she gazes and lists aimlessly, and he steers her safe to the table. He seats her, arranges her coat around her, makes sure she feels secure, and he brings her the coffee and muffins.

He always tells us the truth when we ask how are you doing? Some days he says, we're doing good. Other days it's well, we're making it.

She's no longer the woman he married; her mind is spiraling into a place he cannot follow. But he made her a promise, till death do us part, and he is keeping it.

It makes me wonder, and think, watching them. Fairytale love is what we all wish for, if left to our own devices. It is so lovely, but rather gilded, I think. It is this love, the love that holds the shaking hands and wipes the drippy fingers, that is true, that bolsters those rash starry-eyed vows.

This is the love we're all looking for. And the love we're all seeking to become, too.

visions in the night

I used to dream—unconscious epic-length stories of espionage and adventure, of terror and unspeakable joy, of old friends and new faces, of angst and peace, of God and love and man and life. Sometimes they were realistic, and my feet plodded earth the entire time, and sometimes, just sometimes, I could speak Hebrew and run faster than the wind.

I don't dream anymore, at least not like that. Instead, my sleep is full of coffee-making and angry customers, of cash registers and never stopping to rest, of darkness and the crackle of the headset.

I am so very very tired.

a Sunday in the fall

Pumpkin-grinning, seed-flinging,  flip-flops-in-October, soup-and-grilled-cheese, sunshine-on-our-shoulders, piano-in-the-kitchen kind of happy.

But more than that.

Man-taking-initiative, girls'-unworried-laughter, glory-of-the-glowing-leaves, comfort-of-God's-promises, thankful-oh-so-thankful kind of joy.

And that can never be taken away.

why I write free verse

The truth?

I am terrible at rhyming.

Rhythm, yes, I like to think I have that, the kind of rhythm that pulses in hips and heart and language.

But rhyming is too time-consuming, too thought-blocking, too rigid.

Give me a blank sheet, a pen, and let me scrawl my own rhythm, my heart-thoughts.

But don't make me rhyme. Please oh please don't ask me to rhyme.


My heart doesn't beat in rhyme.