Lives Interrupted

It makes me feel like crying, this suffering we do.

The rain pelts the earth; the stratus overlay presses down—and

the burdens within and without are heavy

with rain,

with tears.

It doesn’t make sense—all this brokenness.

Well, maybe on one side of the brain, the prickly side.  But

the heart knows when redemption seems still far off—and

the earth groans, and

the weak and infirmed groan, and

I groan with all this groaning.

Grey drifts by the waiting room window, the room where loved ones sit and sigh and pray while the infirmed wait, and the world cries for all to be made right.

And the sky rushes earthward, and it weeps the tears of atmosphere and groans for redemption.

Little matchbox cars and trucks off in the distance do what they do and go where they go,

while 6 floors up and 8 miles down, the grey-black troposphere pushes the weight of the world on these lives.

And our time stops as our watches march on, and what matters changes consultation by consultation.

The fog drifts in—in and around cars, buildings, trees, light poles—mundane silhouettes against this pressing vapor,

the rolling something that looks more like an ominous nothing.

And it shadows the fog in my brain in these tenuous times

when what was

can

in a moment change to the dark that is.

And faith looks for perspective, and faith looks to the sun above these wafting mists

to find grace,

the face of God in lives interrupted.

Me in My Hoodie

On the Wing

On the Wing

Posted on February 5, 2014by apronheadlilly

The Song is Still There

Time has been hard on some things, soft on others.

Hands that planted, hoed, kneaded, washed, spanked, played, and praised

are soft with disuse—

in many parts the feeling gone.

.

Where once fingers crunched numbers,

curled hair, cooked, crocheted, and quilted—

precise and prodding—

they are now in some ways unresponsive, lap-sitting, waiting.

.

And the wrinkles have come,

sagged sage,

leaking out time after time—

and it seems unfair for one so capable to be so dependent, lonely,

planted among babbling others who are reliving horrors and wonders,

imagined and real.

.

The vibrato is elastic and uncontrolled,

but the song is still there—

words carried along on the memory and soul imprint

from days and months and faithful years of

worship.

.

And the miles walked and fires stoked and kids raised

are etched in lines across your face.

Much of the meaning is tweaked or gone,

but the heart is still loving.

The dreams are misplaced,

but the mind is still dreaming

of a forever

when weakness and age is swallowed up in pure

kingdom.

Unrestrained

Every time blond child is allowed in the front yard,

the wide yard, the wild world,

and ever since she has discovered how legs work,

and how wills work,

she makes a bee-line for the street, as fast as her little toddle can waddle.

She runs toward danger,

toward pain and tears,

laughing all the while because she still doesn’t know the danger,

the terrors,

the death in choosing that kind of unrestraint.

But unrestrained is not freedom.

She ought to trust that she is always safest in Father’s arms.

If Christmas

If Christmas were all about glitter and lights

and gifts under a Charlie Brown pine,

perched awkwardly, displacing a more permanent resident chair;

if it were just about cards and carols sung off-key at children’s plays,

with lop-sided crowns and angels sporting withering wings—as cute as that is;

if it were just about expectation of giving and receiving more stuff,

then I would be the Grinch’s biggest fan.

Disappointment would not be worth the price of turkey and pumpkin pie.

But as much as it can be about family and fellowship, the good and ugly

in all of that;

and as much as it is about traditions and nostalgia, the good, quaint, and sometimes trite

in all of that;

even more, it is about the crèche, lost in the parade of tinsel, tumult, and talk.

It’s the spectacle of God humiliating Himself to accommodate a fallen race,

becoming of us,

to buy us back,

willing to live and suffer for that joy beyond it all.

And if we have truly missed the wonder because of the raving repetition of traditions,

the busy busy of buying,

then we have missed it all.

This year, I think I should have one decoration, at least in my heart:

a baby in a manger come to redeem His beloved and to fill the hole in our hearts with

His joy.

The Life of Dog

Oh, that my life were like my dog’s–

simple, accepted, and sweet.

Affection is enough,

belonging is enough,

easy forgiveness and howling joys.

Head to head with the master with no doubt

and only an occasional dark fear, made well by warm assurance.

Oh, that my life were like my dog’s–

simple, accepted, and sweet.

Daily food is enough,

access is enough,

easy rest and spinning fun.

Head to head with the housemates,

no work and only occasional stresses, made well with smiley scratches.

There is that anxious cleansing time,

but oh,

I would like my life if it were as my dog’s.

Hmm, wait . . .