Rescue Me!

Posted on May 21, 2014by apronheadlilly

This little baby hummingbird either tried to wing it before his time or was a victim of foul (or fowl) play; however, a rescue operation is now in effect at the “Doolittle” home.

We took him to a vet who does rescue, but given that he flew around the room, they sent him home for us to release.  But he is not ready to be on his own.  He had perched on the same branch (my neighbor placed him on) all night and all morning.  He had no food and was crying.

And he has not even tried to leave the box since we brought him home.  So as of now, we are rehydrating him and keeping him in the bathroom till he seems strong enough to make it and not be cat food.  So cute!

Silence Meets Silence

Posted on May 12, 2014by apronheadlilly

There is a kind of silence that nourishes the soul,

allows pain and busyness and life to recede to the sharp margins,

leaving space,

room to breathe, room to be.

But there is a kind of silence that cuts like a knife,

walks through the mind with a clattering,

each step an unexpected resonant defeat,

a bully and a thief.

There is a kind of silence that breeds prayer upon prayer,

and the would-be blanks are filled in with communion—

to You, from You.

And there is life-substance in the weighted calm,

but not the weight that heavies the soul.

But there is a kind of silence that isolates,

birthing spits of anger

in and around the prickly edges of this wordless accusation.

And the unknowing

and the lack of resolution hardens by degree

what once was supple and red.

Where one silence meets the other is in these upturned hands,

this shattered, upturned heart that feels

so ill-equipped for trouble,

so helpless to control conditions, so unable to forgive, and

silence meets silence in  blessed and sacred surrender.

————————————–

Psalm 91

1 He who [a]dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall remain stable and fixed under the shadow of the Almighty [Whose power no foe can withstand].

2 I will say of the Lord, He is my Refuge and my Fortress, my God; on Him I lean and rely,and in Him I [confidently] trust!

Of Trinkets and Treasure

And we collect trinkets our whole lives,

this’s and that’s—so much useless stuff,

scraps of memory designed to hold the moment now long gone,

and it doesn’t matter in the end, when others sift through the detritus of a life, not valuing what you valued,

only seeing your treasures as burdens.

The literary wealth of a Dickinson stuffed in an overlooked drawer is an anomaly at best, when most treasured things will have been treasured by us alone.

So maybe the time, money, and affection was misspent after all.  And maybe these carnal things are, and have always been, the chains that bind us to this decaying corpse when we were made to

fly. If

I could go back, would I live differently?  . . . Perhaps,

but maybe not,

because the closer you reach the end, the clearer the vision, and

the nearer the transition to realized eternity, the more open the hands.

I guess it’s just the way of things.

Spent--Too Much

I think too much.

My wonder causes me to wander to rocky, unsettled paths

where questions grow like weeds,

poking holes in my confidence,

crowding out joy.

I stink too much.

This old, carnal rag I drag around,

attached to my will by threads of world,

holds me back and blinds weary eyes to what is

truly true.

I sink too much.

This seeking first and worrying not

is swallowed up by circumstance,

and my energy is spent struggling for air in dark deep,

till I remember . . .

that

grace is enough;

death will be swallowed up;

flesh will be made new;

and every darkness even now is overshadowed by unfailing Love.

Open my eyes.

——————————-

Proverbs 13:12

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.

Selfies by Allen

Posted on March 10, 2014by apronheadlilly

Actually, it might not be an Allen’s Hummingbird; it might be a female Rufous.  The more I search, the more confused I get.  Even some of the male Rufous are red-brown.  So I figure if I sound really convinced, maybe I’ll be right by default. 

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