walking with wonder

i didn't even feel like drinking coffee,
hadn't even wanted to change my nightly routine.
yet i dutifully kissed the air around my boys,
dropped a toonie into my pocket, slipped on my flip-flops,
and drove uptown.

i scanned the coffee shop and found her,
back toward the door, watching whatever was on the big tv.
"hey, you!" we greeted each other with a hug, i bought a coffee,
and as the evening air wrapped lovely around us,
i realized i felt happy with her.

side-by-side we walked along storefronts, around parked cars,
beside tourists, past landscaped properties, under boulevard trees
and to the park. and we talked about music and we sat on a bench
and she asked me about me and i told her a few things,
but i was thinking about her. i wanted to know.

and she told me -- oh boy, did she tell me.
with face unflinching and voice sweet, she spoke words
that should never be spoken. of grandparent-hurt and mother-wrong,
of father-ugly and brother-fierce. of lover-enemies and of children-pain.
of no home and no hope -- these were the cards she was dealt.

the depth of her misfortune cannot be measured.
i cannot possibly understand, for i grew up with love that she never had.
the beauty of her soul cannot be measured.
i cannot possibly shine as brightly, for i have never lived through such dark.
she is, quite simply, a wonder.

she will never wave from her own storefront -- or even her own car.
she probably won't travel far or even landscape her own property.
but as she walks under boulevard trees and rests on park benches,
i hope that you will have the chance to meet her,
for she shines.

and, glory be, she's not Home yet.

mercy triumphs over judgment

tiny, little people
scurrying about in the dark.
thinking murder. practicing deceit. decorating ourselves self-righteous.
taking our ease. wanting wanting wanting. playing it cool.
sitting pretty.

Otherworld-Apartness
blazing holiness. piercing brightness. shocking purity. shining heat.
hating murder-thoughts. raging against deceit. tearing through "righteous" rags.
punishing ease-taking. devastating covetuousness. spitting out lukewarm.
burning the fences so we have nowhere left to sit.

the one, life-long instant.
me, laid out for God to see.
filth, waste, shame.
my inevitable demise.

an Interceder.
sinless blood, covering me.
Jehovah Tsidkenu - the LORD our Righteousness.
the verdict: Not Guilty.

returning to Eden

i've been hearing a whisper.
i''ve been feeling a tug:

return to Eden.
return to freedom of feeling.
return to purity of heart.
return to submission.

remember Adam: man of dust,
communing with God of Life-Breath,
billowing with potential, swirling energy.
so utterly lonely.

remember Eve: water-woman
carried by Hands of Image-Maker,
dripping with beauty, shivering warmth.
so utterly Adam's.

and Adam needed Eve.
and God made sure he knew it: let him search sky-to-sea for a completer,
until, finding none, he wandered back to his dust pile. alone.
aha, this was it: the moment to form woman.

you know that feeling you get when you make something
really, really special for someone you really, really love?
how you set the stage, clear the table, turn off the noise,
fix your eyes straight upon theirs, and then... present the gift?

i bet that's how God felt when He brought Eve to Adam.

water to dust.

and they were naked, and they were not ashamed,
and they were joined together, like clay,
and God named them "leader" and "follower", for He knew them,
and He walked with them.

and then everything shattered.

and now i chafe for dominance
as we all chafe for dominance
and i resist the Spirit
as we all resist the Spirit
and i step on people
as they step on me
in our fight to the top --

trading innocence for fig leaves of pride,
shattering vessels of clay.

turning submission into an ugly thing,
when it was meant to be so beautiful.

so, Lord, turn my heart toward this man you've entrusted me to.
enmesh us, water and dust,
and make of us something beautiful.

in a new light

cheap pigment sat hard in plastic trays
as little brothers dipped imagination into water.
"swirl, swirl, swirl" we said, and water softened paint
and paint stained brushes
as brushes wiggled a rainbow dance.
and little fingers learned gentleness
and little minds learned art
as we turned red, yellow, blue
into orange, green, purple.
and mommy learned gentleness
as mommy taught art
and a family saw cheap pigment in a new light.

baby girl sat soft in dusty sand
as her sometimes-brothers dipped bravery into water.
"rain, rain, rain" we cried, and light shone from diamonds
as diamonds became lake
and lake became gray sky.
and dancing rippled across the shore
and skin shivered gladness
as thunder echoed distant
and lifeguards emptied lake.
and babies squealed delight into mommy arms
as mommies delighted at squealing babies
and a family saw gray in a new light.

find more diamonds at emily's place: http://canvaschild.blogspot.com/

being little

my children, you are stars. you each blazed into my existence with a shock and a cry -- stung my eyes into awakeness in this long, dark night. pierced holes of light straight through my miserable tapestry of selfish contentedness.
please, burn me up.

my children, you are creatures. you each shook my flesh with unborn rolling -- cramped me into shivers of sweat and cold at the urgency of your aliveness. nuzzled warmth into my breast, trespassed into heartbeat-near spaces, collapsed my soul upon your need.
please, soften me.

my children, you are mine. you were each pulled away from my prostrate body with surgical cuts and gasping cries -- ended my stories of you to your earthly father so that he, too, could hold you. keep holding my hand, kissing my eyelashes.
please, never let go of me.

my children, you are borrowed. each belonging to the One who made you -- triune beings, body-soul-spirit, of mud and of mind and of eternity. each destined to return to your Maker, each awaiting final judgment, each preparing me for mine.
please, redound with joy.

forgive me, dear boys, for my failure. failure to jump heart-high at your early morning calls. failure to crumple my days into a swaddling blanket. failure to let my back ache hollow over the form of faces-sleeping, the feel of hair-silken, the rhythm of breath-soft. failure to love unconditionally-sleepless, to rock-a-bye hours-long.
please, learn mercy from this.

my friends, do not grieve the Spirit. do not underestimate your depravity. do not neglect the gift -- perhaps not yet given -- of children brought into your trust. do not overwhelm them with the burden of growing up...

instead, be little.

growing pretty

i remember a little girl, sitting in a grade four classroom.
eyes lowered, she sucked in her nine-year-old tummy.
pushed her glasses up her nose.
blushed with shame.
so unpretty.

i remember an eleventh-grade girl, sitting in the backseat of her friend's van.
breasts small, she noticed hair on her toes.
tucked them underneath.
blushed with shame.
so unpretty.

i remember a nineteen-year-old girl, sitting on a couch in a student lounge.
i remember a tall, dark, handsome boy going to sit beside her.
i don't remember at all how that girl looked, now.

i remember fingertip touches, cheek kisses and hard hugs good-bye.
hours on the phone, a box full of letters.
a diamond ring.
a question and a promise.

i remember a gorgeous white gown, lip kisses and no more good-byes.
golden rings.
vows before God and a church full of friends.

i remember feeling so pretty.

i remember four blue lines.
one miscarriage.
one belly, rounded three times.
three precious baby boys.
three scars, intertwined, straight across my belly.
three little stretch marks.

right over the spot i still keep trying to suck in.
but it's different, now.

now, a tall, dark, handsome man
and three short, blond, beautiful boys
will scan a crowd and burst into smile when they see me

because i am, after all, pretty.

asking Dr. Frankl

dear Doctor Frankl,

i read your book, Man's Search for Meaning.
you are a very good writer, sir.
i am glad you wrote that book.

i am sad it had to be written.

you marched my half-willing imagination straight into a concentration camp.

there, in the cold and dim, huddled on wooden bunks,
we feared and dreamed
and struck out fear and clung to reality
and shared our search for meaning.

you said, quoting Nietzsche,
"he who has a why to live can bear with almost any how."

you spoke of our evolution as a species,
contending that those who find purpose in life
are the strong, the survivors.
you shared your fight to survive.

your observation on page 19, though, so stark and deadly-true,
is what haunts me:

"...there was a sort of self-selecting process going on the whole time among all of the prisoners. On the average, only those prisoners could keep alive who, after years of trekking from camp to camp, had lost all scruples in their fight for existence; they were prepared to use every means, honest and otherwise, even brutal force, theft, and betrayal of their friends, in order to save themselves. We who have come back, by the aid of many lucky chances or miracles -- whatever one may choose to call them -- we know: the best of us did not return."

how, sir, can you crown such men --
the meek, the humble, the self-sacrificing --
the dead --
"the best"?

such morality is not consistent with your worldview
of Natural Selection.

you have borrowed from Another:

"And He opened His mouth and taught them, saying:
'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
'Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
'Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.
'Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
'Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on My account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.'"
Matthew 5:2-11