to be ezer

Every time he came into the shop today, he told at least one person she will be my wife soon. I should have gotten used to it, expected it. Instead, every time I found myself ever more undone.

I used to hate that word, wife. It felt degrading, a humiliation. Husband led, planned, named; wife followed, obeyed, answered.

Yet in his eyes, his arms, his voice, I have relearned my broken assumptions.

Wife is a treasure, not to be taken lightly. Wife is a gift, given with deadly-serious joy straight from the hand of the LORD. Wife is a helper, not second-class, but a vital member of the partnership. Wife is refuge; wife is rest; wife is water and new life itself in the dry dead times.

To him, I am not a nice little addendum to his life, someone to quietly cook wholesome meals and clean around the house and wash his dirty socks. I am not a creature to be controlled or dominated or ordered about. Neither am I the controlling factor of his life, someone to whom he grovels before making any decision or around whom his world revolves.

And for all this I am extremely thankful.

To him, I am precious. I don't understand; I do not, I cannot, comprehend why or how he loves me as he does.

But I do know that when he looks at me, blue eyes filled with adoration and delight, and says she will be my wife, that privilege is all I want. To learn to receive his love, and to love him with the power given me by my God. To be his wife. To be his ezer, his helpmeet, his partner, his love.

To be his.

It will be enough. For the rest of my life, it will be enough.


Oh, my Blue Eyes. How grateful I am for the way you have taught me to love. Someday, I pray I can give back to you even half of what you deserve.

How I love you, dearest man.

surprise!

We'd planned to surprise her,
            to have good food and fun,
          prayers and blessings,
                      all the things we knew she really wanted.

Then, there she went,
      planning a party herself,
   mapping out the exact things we'd wanted to give her.

[Half the surprise is showing Look, see, we know you and we care.]

So often I do this, too, I think.
        I plan things myself,
      because, quite frankly,
                        I don't believe anyone
                                           loves me
                                        hears me
                                                 well enough to throw
                                                                         a surprise party
                                                                                             just for me.

the cradle to the grave

Inexplicably
         old men loved her--
        from the time she was just a wee little girl,
                    crinkling baby grins and trundling around and tumbling out her little words;
               to the days of long ponytails and short time,
                       when her eyes were dark-circled and she verbally outran them.
 Inexplicably,
             old men loved her--
       always had, no matter what.
   Perhaps she reminded them
                 of someone who lived in their past life.
          Or someone who should have.

do what You like

I woke up, two-thirty in the morning,
    unable to sleep,
      and no reason why.
             But as I lay there,
      I felt a Presence,
             bending over me.
  I turned, and there You stood,
            sword in hand.
Without a word being spoken, I knew.
             You had come for my lizard.
"Kill it, kill it now!" I shrieked, gleeful.
         You raised the sword,
                held it high,
            then handed it to me.

heart abandoned

I set out the evidence, bring testimony, call witnesses. I argue with passion; I point out the obvious and emphasize the subtle. I begin with my goal in mind, and I build my case perfectly, till the points leave only one truth.

You see, I conclude, eyes sharp, heart dull, You see how I am far too set in my ways, why I am unfit for another set of chances.

Across the room, He smiles, mouth gentle, eyes brimming over with love.

Ahh, My child. He shakes His head. If only you fought evil as hard as you fight being loved . . .

cooler than me

The most arrogant
          (and idiotic)
       thing a man can say to a woman
   (or, really, any person can say to someone else)
 is this:
      See, I got you all figured out.

dark-eyed

   When you are too tired to write
             (or even read)
          love letters

there is a problem.

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.

forever is a long long time

Pretty bare feet and shining long hair are easy to love--light-coffee skin and slender waist and smooth face with laughing eyes, too. Flashing grins and fluttering eyes and light-trembling words are easy to forgive. Patience and accommodation are easy to endure.

But what about someday, when the toenails curl and yellow, and babies make the waist swell beyond shrinking, and the wrinkles pile up around the eyes and mouth, and the eyes fade and droop shut, and everything--hair and skin and spirit--turns grey grey grey? What about when the heart forgets love itself, and snappy mouth and bitter words are all that's left? What about when patience drains dry, and selfishness sears black?

What then? Will you still grin down into the dull eyes, and will you still wrap your arms around the baby-thickened waist, and will you still press your nose into the coarse cropped hair and laugh warm against the ticklish ear? Will you still wrap fingers round shaking hands and whisper, stop worrying, I forgive you? Will you still pause with tilted head and dark steady eyes and study the face with intensity meant to draw back the soul, to remind it this is not who you really are?

Will you? Or will it be worth it to you, even then?

zephyrs and buds

Spring
is a little girl
in a frilly dress
whose favorite color is
Green

All these years
     I knew you were the one with all the issues.
                  In fact, you were the issue.
And now
       (good grief)
    I find that was actually me,
                all along.

to be affirmed

I felt it, deep in my bones, the voice saying,
     Yes, do this, it's for you.
        
         But I so mistrust my own hearing.

And then you, standing so close to me,
            engaging the conversation, turning to me,
                        shocked me with the question,
                   Do you want this?
     
           I do, yes, I said with truth.

And then you, touching my elbow with your fingertips,
           blue eyes shining in the sunlight,
                           floored me with the statement,
                I knew, as soon as I heard this, that it was for you.

           I was speechless in the face of your confidence.

           Really?
   I wanted to ask you both.
            What is it about this,
                      about me,
              that makes you so sure it is right,
                           that I am right?

And then I realized
          it wasn't me
                it was His voice;
      that was what made you sure.

  I was overwhelmed with gratefulness that
                 when I am weak
                           He sends me strong ones;
               when I am uncertain
                           He sends me sure ones;
         that He has placed us,
                   each one,
     exactly as He knew was best.