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?

For Something More

I woke early in the dark and cold with only red numbers projected on the ceiling, confirming that yes, it is early, and yes, it is still dark 04 hundred.

I lie here awake. The pain has been my alarm, and I am so tired,

tired of tired,

tired of it. And I long for heaven.

When you are strong, heaven is an ever-after long time ahead—a warm, fuzzy promise for after I have collected all my joys

and toys

and am done with them, ready to move on. But as time wanes and the body fails,

what I have played with seems much more shallow;

what I thought would last forever is fading fast, and

my perspective is turned to what is ahead rather than what is behind

. . . or now.

And the nice ever after becomes a longing, and the firmly held hope becomes a thing of desperation because if there is nothing more—nothing beyond

this,

weakness,

betrayal,

the emptiness of Solomon days,

then there is no hope at all. It—

life—energies spent—

will have been the unproductive works of fools. And we will know that as we drift toward annihilation.

Hope makes sense of it.

God makes sense of it all.

Why would violence unsettle us?

Why would unfaithfulness feed bitterness in our hearts?

We might as well cry as laugh—just as well harm as help. Nothing would matter—

and yet it does.

Even those who profess a no-god know we are made for something more.  

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. :-)

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

because

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.

Christmas Gift

 

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.

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

lost,

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.