I Want to Return

 

I want to return to that place—

the comfort and ignorance of childhood,

the rooftops, the trees, haylofts, and attics,

the fast river and railroad tracks that led nowhere and everywhere,

green fields and barbed wire fences, and salt licks for sampling.

Free days.

I remember the scent of my father, the oil and hay, stale manure, and Old Spice.

In church, I explored weathered hands with blackened nails,

sucking Lifesavers while adults thought about Jesus.

I remember mum in floral house dresses with sensible shoes,

baking cookies, tender crusted pies, and fried bologna we thought was a treat,

berry picking and chauffeuring to Jeffrey’s Lake for a muddy swim with leeches.

Free days, happy days—at least for a child.

I want to return to that place before the angry shouts of opposition parties,

the heated debates about border, fentanyl, and sex trafficking,

the hot tears and anger with mass shootings and invasion robberies.

To the place with unlocked doors and no coded security systems,

to the place where every neighbor was a friend and helper and

not suspected of being on some sex offender’s registry.

Free days, ignorant days.

But there is no going back, I guess;

there is no unknowing and unseeing what the world has become,

and we would desperately protect our own,

hold off the darkness as long as possible; but

somehow it seems we have dragged our little ones along to this troubled place.

But I would return if I could.

 

 

Respect

 

I have been thinking about respect lately—given and received. I guess I often thought of it as shouldered up against love. The admiration and thoughtful regard that had any meaning, any authenticity, would be so close to love as to be almost indistinguishable. But I have changed my mind about this.

Someone can love me and yet show disrespect in how s/he treats my ideas, my feelings, my needs. I have felt the distinction, and I’m sure have been guilty of doing the same.

It is not easy, though. Not easy to disagree emphatically without showing a disregard for a person’s feelings and particular point of view. The tricky thing is that when disrespect is consistently practiced, love diminishes. It becomes a word used in meetings and greetings, but a word that weakens with use because the soul food that nourishes love is poisoned by the criticisms and insensitive barbs.

Respect is the doorway to real relationship—the foundation of genuine love.

 

Roseate Spoonbill in Motion

 

The Limping Church Triumphant

L-ife is to be lived with love as our mandate; but too often,

I-maginations are soiled with the cares and constraints of bolstering up this

M-ansion here, rather than the one

P-prepared for us. Wishing to stay and wishing to go

I-s for those closest to heaven’s door and

N-ot for those distracted with position and purpose,

G-rounded, it seems, in earthly things. And we wound each other with

C-areless words; and we

H-arm the weak and disarm the strong, without

U-nderstanding we are servants one of another, chosen not by destiny but

R-edeemed and uniquely

C-hosen by Christ. He is the One we serve—not ourselves—with grace and

H-umility, forgiving one another, seeking each one’s best.

T-herefore, as God’s people, let us clothe ourselves with compassion; let peace

R-ule our hearts, forgiving all grievances, responding

I-n love as Christ has loved us,

U-nfettered by ambition and pride and blind passion.

M-aster of all, Lord of Your church, it would seem our faith

P-aralysis is not a reflection of You but our

H-alf-hearted devotion, our crippling sins.

A-rise in our hearts; revive your chosen ones that we might

N-ot be so earthbound, but set our hearts on

T-hings above. This is my broken prayer.

***

Colossians 3
Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. 2 Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. 3 For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. 4 When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.

5 Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. 6 Because of these, the wrath of God is coming. 7 You used to walk in these ways, in the life you once lived. 8 But now you must also rid yourselves of all such things as these: anger, rage, malice, slander, and filthy language from your lips.

9 Do not lie to each other, since you have taken off your old self with its practices 10 and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. 11 Here there is no Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all.

12 Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. 13 Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

14 And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

15 Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. 16 Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. 17 And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.

Seeing with New Eyes

 

I had cataract surgery done a week and a half ago. I chickened out last year–something about a knife near the eyes bit! But I was getting desperate, so I did not read any contraindications and just went for it. I had not been able to drive at night for over 2 years, and even daily activities were becoming a strain. I probably should have asked more questions, though, because rather than a piece of cake, this “routine” surgery was more like liver and onions–more uncomfortable than I thought it would be.

I am very chemically sensitive, so having gotten through the procedure with fairly minor and endurable hiccups, the worst part became the reaction to the steroid drops which are needed for speedy healing. This is a five-week process, and I have quite some time to go, but I hope the worst is over.

That was the bad and the ugly. The good part is that somebody turned on the lights! Whites are whiter and colors are brighter, not to mention that everything has distinct edges and not fuzzy, ever-changing ones. The green in the traffic light is . . . well, green green! It is almost like a different color. It is not preferred by me to undergo any surgery, but given the positive change in my sight, I think it was worth it!

My eyes are blue blue again. Haven’t been like this since forever! You don’t think about it because the discoloration and hardening happens slowly over time. Even my own photographic work is brighter and more colorful. And I have discovered I am a much better photographer than I thought. 🙂

We don’t become aware of the hardening process that alters so much of what we see because it happens bit by bit, year by year. And only when it cannot be ignored any longer do we even recognize it is something to be dealt with. I am thinking that is kind of like what happens with our hearts. If betrayals and loss, disappointments and disillusionment build up, then over time the hardening becomes something to radically deal with. It interferes with our ability to prosper and see life and mission clearly. But it starts small, and it builds layer upon layer. I am not sure how to prevent that from destroying my joy, but my desire is that I would become aware of the hurts that bind and settle down into my spirit.

May I hold lightly to pain and hold tightly to renewal is my prayer.

Have Mercy

Oh, Lord of the broken and heartsick,

of the world weary and tumult tossed,

have mercy.

Oh, Lord of the fractured and failing,

of the wounded and flailing,

have mercy on us.

May our beliefs align with Your truths,

and may our weakness not hinder Your kingdom work

here in this battleground

between earth and heaven,

between the cross and the crown.

Oh, Lord of the blind and beleaguered,

the willing but wanting,

have mercy on us here below.

May our hearts break for the living lost

and our hands be quick to holy tasks

here on this hallowed ground

between world and wonder,

between sacrifice and song.

Oh, Lord, have mercy on us here below we pray.

Once Again

These witchy trees, bare and lifeless, cold and leafless:

One might wonder where life has gone and if all hope is gone,

receded into the dark earth. But

in one moment, that gifted second,

a nub of green sprouts, a speck of promise appears, and the sleeper rises,

stretches to the sky. Renewal happens once again—

from death to life.

That these dormant praises in me would rise again, unchained.

That these sleeping sermons once more would reach my mouth that I may speak of Your wonder,

once again.

These Carnal Threads

I look down at my hands and know that within those tissues and cells, blood is coursing,

coming from,

going to,

minute after minute, circuit upon circuit. But where is my soul in this pink, freckled flesh? Where is my spirit in this troubled, pondering life?

Is the soul hitching a ride on red blood cells as they careen by the white?

Is my spirit holed up in one of my vital organs? My brain, maybe? Concentrated in a command center, overseeing all my worldly cognition. 

Perhaps soul and spirit share space, intertwined in the four chambers of my pulsing heart.

But when the soul is gone, the hands are still there, and even the blood; but what stops really when we say life is gone? As the flesh cools, lying motionless, is the me-part that is really me immediately absent,

or hovering, waiting for further instructions?

It is said to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, but I am wondering when the absent happens. What changes in that one fragile second to another when what was thought alive is now

dead

and these carnal threads release their hold?

3-9-18

Surrender

Surrender feels like failure.

It feels depressing, like giving up.

There is a darkness to it, a weight to it—the unwilling outmanned, outmaneuvered, surrounded, and pressed to defeat.

Surrender feels like exhaustion.

It feels compressing, like yielding up the last breathless bits of me.  

And yet You call me to this laying down of arms jazz

in exchange for Your loving arms.

And I find that surrender to You is not as much giving up as over—not as much failing as falling into a tender pull,

deference to one more wise and able, after all my best ideas have faltered and failed,

after all my excuses have dried in my mouth,

after all my tears have washed away nothing.

It is the unclenching of a fist, the unmasking of a façade.

It is the baring of a war-torn will, the stripping of all that chokes and hinders.

And I find that surrender to You is not as much like crying “uncle,”

but more like a hallelujah.

Willing To Be Defeated

I used to be cocksure,

willing to trample fragile souls for the sake of being right. And

it hurts to think I was so unlike Your sacrificial kindness, so unlike Your bleeding, selfless truth.

May I be willing to be defeated to win one. May I grow accustomed to embarrassment to at least appear humble as the pride prickles are chiseled away—one by one, by weary one.

My kingdom looks ever dim in the bright hues of Your shining presence—and may all see You

in spite of me.

If I would feed on Your words more than I feed on my need, I would be so much more nourished

with life to give.

A Limping Life

I heard your whisper in the wind, and

I leaned to listen; but

my lisping voice rose rough and rasping, replaying all the shame moments,

the named moments—over and over,

owning their bite.

I glimpsed your face in the green breeze of spring, and

I opened my eyes wide to see and be seen, but

the haze of doubt drifted down like a curtain, so I was unsure of what was there; and

blinking long and hard only tired my eyes,

my heart,

my will.

I put my knee to ground in weakness,

convinced that my limping life would never be anything more than this,

that tears would ever flow; but

you met me there

where

words are soft and

light is clear and

belief is birthed from unbelief.

*****************

Be still and know that I am God. ~Psalm 46:10a

Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief. ~Mark 9:24b

The You That's Me

There is a grieving for opportunities past, opportunities lost. It’s like the world moved on when you just stepped off momentarily to take a quick look—and it’s gone. Not the world,

but the world you thought you knew.

There is a grieving for the identity you had carefully (or maybe not so carefully) nurtured—okay, it kind of just happened,

but the happening seemed real and sure until one day you woke, and you realized you are not important anymore. Well, maybe you weren’t before, but at least you thought you were. Didn’t the world somehow revolve around you?

You are patronized that you can do some things well—and at your age!

When you are young, those things you do well are fuel for an ever expanding future—the first step to a waiting, dazzling world, begging for your grand entrance with its greatest hits.

But those same skills and gifts at 60-something are quaint, anomalies in a fading body and aching mind.

You have had to step aside for all the young, pushing from the rear—

because the utilitarian you is now seen as an impediment to the dreamers closing in.

And you are known more for your aches than your art—

more for your halting step than your racing mind.

Wisdom is underrated by the young; but

for all you have lost, that you have indeed gained,

but there is something muddled in this system when you finally have a substantive message but have lost your audience.

**********************

II Corinthians 4: 7-8, 16-18:

We now have this light shining in our hearts, but we ourselves are like fragile clay jars containing this great treasure. This makes it clear that our great power is from God, not from ourselves.

We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair.

 That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. 

For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! 

So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.

Of the Desperate

Brushing the robe, halting hesitant,

two fingers barely touched the hem—

desperation

bleeding pain and disappointment for years and tears.

It was a desperate touch, a face-to-ground, weighted-down touch.

And in the moment He knew, and I knew.

In the jostle of swarming feet, flying dust and flailing pleas,

insignificant me,

me on the fringe,

gripped the fringe of his garment; and in one moment, the tiny thread that held me tethered to life and hope became sacred bonds of the everlasting,

and I was healed. 

    

Contemplation is Preparation

What people see are externals; physical attributes, profiles and position, passions and power—

or lack thereof.

People see actions and assume motivation;

people see doubt and assume weakness. What people see is not me.

I am more than my package, more than my history, more than my gifts, and

I need to be listened to.

I shouldn’t need validation, but how do I know I really exist if I don’t hear back from the universe I walk in?

Reading alone in a window seat, viewing nature from my perch, writing poetry and capturing all I see in drawings and photos, words that rhyme—I used to think that would be enough. It would be like playing cello on a deck in a wild, ethereal Alaskan wood—no one listening except the trees and sky and creatures hidden from view. Mystic communion with the world.

Romantic nonsense.

Contemplation is preparation—not enough just as is.

If it does not prepare me to worship or serve or commune with others, meditation and creation are empty romantic drivel. And if there is no one to hear, then

the ribbon of music drifts on the air and is just as lost to the cosmos as if it had never been played.

So I need to create, but I also need you.  

Are you listening to me?

My Neighborhood Predator

Fall White

Moon Over Miami

Posted on May 7, 2012 

Okay, it’s not Miami.

We’d need more ocean, Cubans, and humidity–

more beach and less desert.

Moon over two houses and three coyotes!

Luscious sunset, a reward while waiting for a moonrise,

then yellow-orange ball, old man lazy in its rise.

Post super-moon is not too bad a show as it lifts itself higher into a clear night sky.

I scramble to the top of a sandy berm, bare beet finding every errant tumbleweed prickle.

Click, click. Is this a good setting?  Hard to see in the dark!

Scramble down the berm to be closer to the car for fear of

coyotes biting off my toes,

gang bangers cutting off my toes.

Click, click.

Then home to the bathroom window to catch a few more shots,

its brighter face waking to the promise of the heights,

and I trapped you in my camera.

May 6, 2012