Monday, December 28, 2015

It Was a Weird Christmas

My spouse wasn’t feeling too well;
it was a lonely, cold feeling, knowing family and friends were far away and would not celebrate this night with us; and
there were no decorations taken down–no tinsel or twinkling lights (except those in the sky)–because, well . . . it was just a weird sort of Christmas.
There was a deep sense of disappointment and rejection from those we thought were worthy of our trust, and
that added to the pain of it all.
So we just hung out together–just the two of us.
Until there were three.

We did have a kind of weird Christmas alone and with sickness, but it got me thinking that the first one was a bit weird, too, until all heaven broke loose. :-)

Monday, December 21, 2015

People Don't See You


People don’t see you; they see
your cane,
your chair,
your walker.
They see your tremor and your white hair, and
the you you used to be and
the you you are
are supplanted by images and stereotypes and judgments.
You were young once.
You had dreams once. You have dreams now.
And momentary kindnesses feel patronizing, just putting a round peg in a round hole
they think they know all there is to know about you.
This weakness snuck up with little warning, and there you were full speed ahead—and your life blended in with all the other capable doers, even though you were ever trying to stand out—
be different.
And now you are.
But you don’t want to be this different—so different as to not be seen
or listened to
or valued.
Because people don’t see you; they see
your cane,
your chair,
 your walker.
And they judge you as you pull into the handicap spot; but
when you peel yourself out and start to hobble, there’s the momentary tut-tut of support before you become invisible once again, and all that is left is
the cane.

I have been hobbling around lately because of a knee injury, and it got me thinking as I relied so heavily on a cane (resisted the walker). Often when we view those with health aids, we see the disability as the person. Somehow it is hard to look past the device. The personhood of the individual becomes invisible to the predominance of the device. The handicapped become a category; and unless you push in and get close, it is easy for their personalities to disappear in the disability.
I felt this somewhat a few years back when I used a motorized cart in a store when I was first getting out again after breaking a rib. It was an odd experience to feel some people were looking down on you literally and in other ways, too--judging your need, assessing your worth, pitying you. And in those moments, I felt a lesser version of me to these strangers than I would have before. 
When we meet people out and about, when they roll or hobble in to our churches and our places of employment, do we go out of our way not just to perhaps help or make a broad path; but do we see them as people worthy of getting to know--people with personalities and worth who stand apart from their weakness?
I am going to try harder.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Christmas Gift

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Carried for nine months and birthed far from
Heaven’s hallelujahs into Israel’s
Rough fringes—a Bethlehem town,
Incarnation, God come to be one of us—a
Singular identification with
The lost and the loved: It was a lowly  
Ministry to a dying
Adamic race, desperate to
Save, destined to

Give hope where there was none, exchanging the glories with the Father for the
Isolation and humiliation of life with the
Fallen, and we reach out from our disgrace
To receive Heaven’s gift.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

With My Pen

I process with my pen,
its inky laughter and tears spilled in vowels and consonants and grammatical scraps.
Through fingertip to paper, the thoughts pinging off the inside of my cranium find
form and voice; and
if it were not so, the thoughts would escape disjointed and be
part of the myriad muffled conversations in the universe that buzz and buzz—
the white noise of life.
It’s like living under high voltage power lines. So I write
to capture the meaning of things,
to process the jumble of my mind that keeps me thinking,
waking and sleeping,
and try to make sense of it all—well, maybe not all,

but at least me. 

Monday, August 17, 2015


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It is so hot here that my sunflowers are on fire . . .

and all the color has baked off the roses.  111 F yesterday; 106 today so far.  Agh!

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Saturday, January 24, 2015

The Wounded

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We are the wounded.
We are the ones whose histories have been rewritten,
critiqued and re-configured,
pushed through the grids of others—
those who think they only see clearly,
those who see themselves as somehow in control of perception,
of truth.
We are the wounded.
We are those who bleed from the strikes of accusers, as well as
from self-inflicted gashes
from poor judgment and bad choices.
And here we stand, geared up for a marathon, but crippled,
expected to push on to the winners’ circle, but wounded—in need
of another to carry us.
And He was wounded . . .