Nature's Grafitti

Stopped on my bike to snap this one . . . then another day -->

a few days later

Azure Skies and Diggin' It

Sometimes a phrase comes along and articulates in a fresh new way something that we just need to say.  But it is only fresh for a time before it is overworked and irritating. 

For example, azure as a descriptive was totally awesome and prodigious in its day, but reading “azure skies” today smacks of teen romance novels.  Gag!

The following ones . . . well, I am just so done with them.  Dig it?  . . . Not! 

(Assume there are probably exclamation points after each one!)

1.      Whatever

2.      Duh

3.      No-brainer

4.      Big time

5.      You go, girl.

6.      Awesome, dude

7.      Totally awesome

8.      Quality time

9.      All my ducks in a row

10.  I’m just sayin’.

11.  I need closure.

12.  Like . . . yeah . . . like . . . like

13.  Yo

14.  Hooking up

15.  Take a number.

16.  Your call is important to us.

17.  It is what it is!  (Okay, I’m really not done with this one.  It slips out all the time because it is suitable in so many circumstances.)

18.  And cool and gnarly are forever!  So get over it!

Do you have any pet axioms that are starting to get under your pelt?  (Don’t you love using the synonym function?)  J  And while I’m thinking about it:  What would life be without emoticons!

Okay, fill in the void:  I hate the phrase _________________________________. 

Shame

9-11

Shame:
its spindly, iced fingers intertwined with spines of guilt,
subtlety weaving criss-crossed webs of black,
embedded in memory,
blocking vision with its darkness,
trapping dreams in venomous fibers,
twisting up expectation into tangled chaos--saved to be digested another day
and another
and another.
     What?
It is finished.
     Have you not heard?
You are forgiven.

Hope and Despair

Hope and despair,

side by side, comingled like lovers,

estranged but intimate—

of necessity joined

in a world that feeds both.

Hope looks beyond to the “other”—

promised, longed for.

Despair looks to what is,

heavy and real—

the pressing darkness

of a world given to

thorns, labor, and frustration.

Complications and too many too manys.

        Where is the pillar of fire that leads?

        Where is the cloud that calls us on?

        Where is the still, small voice in this hurricane?

If You, Holy One, are a resident guest,

why does my faith-walk seem like a script I’m reading,

rather than a life I’m living?

*  *  *

“In You, oh Lord, I have taken refuge;

let me never be put to shame;

deliver me in Your righteousness,

turn Your ear to me,

come quickly to my rescue;

be my rock of refuge,

a strong fortress to save me.

Ps. 31:1-2

A Manger Without a Baby

I equipped the big walk-in closet in the living room of our tiny duplex with a green second-hand crib and stocked the built-in drawers with soft little layette items.  Long, wispy, white curtains tied back with yellow ribbon made an inviting entrance to a close room.  Everyday, my tummy grew larger.  Every day, I fingered and rearranged clothes, blankets, and toys.  I felt happy and excited, despite the christening I gave many toilets and gutters.  Even with the little white pills, I threw up several times a day for nine months.

The baby squirmed and punched, kicked, and danced.  I massaged hands and feet that fluidly traveled across my abdomen, pressing tight under ribs, giving me indigestion.  The mountain of head and back rose, fell, and shifted.  I had always wanted to be a mother, and now I was.

 November’s sun began dipping to the south.  The air held a slight chill, even for California. I counted the days—expectation high.  With my friend’s stethoscope, I listened to the music—the strong, steady rhythm of life. But two weeks overdue, the rhythm stopped.

Kelly and I met in mid-August 1973.   We worked with an over-zealous ministry that concentrated so much on Christ’s soon return that we made many decisions abruptly and unwisely.  One of those was to marry quickly with little preparation or counsel.  I guess we feared the Lord might come back before we had a chance to have sex. The night Kelly introduced me to his parents for the first time, we calmly announced our engagement.  For all they knew, I could have been an ax murderer.  Actually, for all I knew, Kelly could have been an ax murderer.  After we left, his folks “discussed” our decision long into the night and woke with hangovers in the morning.  But they bravely came along side, and we did marry.  In this time of “Maranatha madness,” we were encouraged by our pastor not to have children, but to totally commit to the “work of the Lord.”   We married in October, and by February, I was violently throwing up—a sure sign I was to be a mother.  We figured my pregnancy just had be a miraculous work of God.  Of course, as our friend Jo put it, “Those who use faith as birth control are called parents!”  And so we were to be.

By the time I was six months pregnant, we moved from the ministry’s communal quarters to a small duplex down the street.  For the first time, Kelly and I lived alone.  It was a precious and necessary time to actually get to know one another after several months of marriage. 

Then the baby died.  November was a blur of death, tears, comfort, cremation, and far flung ashes.  Thanksgiving came and went.  It was hard to feel thankful when my arms ached to hold my little one.  As cheery Christmas songs began to filter through radio speakers and shopping mall sound systems, my ache grew to intense pain. One part of my heart leaned in to the Savior, understanding that He too felt pain and loss.  I wanted to trust that I was safe in His love and care.  Another part of my heart felt cold and brittle, betrayed by life and Lord.  A battle raged.  Tears seemed never-ending, dreams dashed.  Questions went unanswered.  Joyful Mary knelt by her beautiful baby Jesus in nativity scenes all over town, but my manger was empty. 

Years have added layers of depth and understanding to my loss, but even today there is a raw place—a place of longing for our baby girl Noelle.  With a new Christmas season right around the corner, I have been reflecting once again on the incarnation.  What does Christ’s birth really mean to me?  My thoughts, as they often do at this time of year, are interwoven with thoughts of the death of our first child. Noelle was named for Christmas—a reminder of the miraculous event when God came to earth as a baby.  It has crossed my mind, “What would our lives be like if Mary’s manger had been empty.  What if Jesus had never come?”  My sense of loss is great, but the devastating loss of Christ as God’s gift to the world would be unfathomable.  No high priest to intercede for me, no forgiveness, no fellowship, no whispers of comfort in the night, no eternal promise of heaven. 

After the funeral home cremated Noelle’s remains, Kelly and I drove to a secluded wooded area near his grandfather’s cabin to spread the ashes.  The tiny white box fit in the breast pocket of Kelly’s plaid shirt.  He held my hand tightly as he led the way uphill, brushing by scratchy shrubs and tree branches.  Weak in body and spirit, I struggled to fix my steps on the narrow rugged path.  Tears fell and feet fell.  When finally we reached the top, we prayed.  We held one another and the remains of a life so little known, then threw her ashes to the wind to become a part of the trees and bushes in that special place.

Christ carries my death next to his heart.  He came to set me free from the spiritual consequences of my sin.  I am free, but the way is often rugged; and through my tears, I don’t always see too clearly.  I have no idea what’s up ahead. But He is in the lead.  He holds my hand, and all I need do is stick to the path and match Him step for step. 

I met that tearful Christmas many years ago with empty arms, but because of the babe in Mary’s manger, because her manger was not empty, I continue to have hope.

Feeling Hawkish?

I had planned another blog for today, but I had a vistor call, and I thought I'd share him / her with you. 

I have been trying to catch pictures of the birds at my feeder, but they don't like me standing around where they can see me.  So like a very UN-Martha Stewart kind of gal, I cleaned only the inside and outside center part of the window by my desk that would still allow me to take pictures from inside should the birds present me with a photo op.  :-)

I was getting my camera ready since sparrows were coming, then Whoosh!  They all flew off, and there he was, perched on my fence.  I snapped and snapped and snapped, hoping I'd get at least a couple of good ones before he flew off.  He looked right and left, then straight in my eyes!  Spooky, in a magestic kind of way.

All of a sudden, he flew off, and here's the guilt part:  I think he had one of my sparrows in his talons!  So I am a co-conspirator.  I lured the innocents to the predator's maw with a few cheap seeds from Target!  . . . Okay, he is still a very magestic bird.  It's just the food-chain in action!  Someone said he is a Coopers Hawk, but he looks more like a Sharp-shined Hawk in my field book.  A beauty!

And I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I'd washed the whole window! 

THE PREY!

The Wizard of Us

Peek behind the curtain.

Am I the wizard you expected?

Control never looked so tentative,

a bit of a mystery,

but not bigger than life—

small, but able,

plain, but willing.

                                               

Draw back the curtain.

Are you the one with the ruby-red slippers

who can click home whenever,

while I twist dials, draw strings,

do things that need doing—

disappointed, but determined,

misjudged, but committed.

Move past the curtain.

Am I the cog you expected?

The system is bigger than me,

but I’m here,

doing what I must—

insecure, but passionate,

diminutive, but necessary.

Pull aside the curtain.

Am I the wizard you expected?

In this odd land of

wonder and obligation,

promise and jeopardy,

ordinary miracles can pour, perhaps,

from everyday people.

Lilly Green

 6-4-07