A Faith-filled Dream

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sD83Y6EVpZQ

An Easter Story

            “She was the bright and beautiful blond.  He was the gorgeous, gregarious jock.  Everyone said they were a match made in heaven—at least that’s what we thought.”

            “But ya know, they say children are better off in divorce if it’s not a happy home.”

            “I wonder.”  THUD . . . THUD!  “Did you hear that?  What was it—an earthquake?”

* * *

            “Why do I have to drive this old, brown jalopy.  It almost left me high and dry this morning.  Man—late for work again.  Thank goodness for AAA.  My manager just got a new red Mustang, all tricked out.  His hubcaps cost more than my car.  Why should he have it and not me?  I make as much in sales, and he’s such a jerk.  I deserve it more than he does.”

            “Maybe ole leadfoot will roll the thing.”

            “Ha, ha.  Now that’s a wicked thought!” 

            “Hey, by the way, you should see that latest bunch o’ pics I downloaded.  Man, you are going to love these . . .”  THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.  “What was . . . Hey, are they doing construction in the building somewhere or what?”

* * *

            “What a beautiful, sunny morning.  I’m going out for a jog, Mom.”

            “Not in that you aren’t, young lady.  Get something decent on.”

            “What IS your problem?  All the kids wear the same thing—I’m no different.  And it’s hot.”

            “I don’t care.  I’ll not have a daughter of mine dressing like THAT!  Now get back to your room and change into sweats right this second!”

            “I hate, you.  I wish I’d never been born!”

            “The feeling is mutual, you horrible, ungrateful thing!  I’m telling your father!”  THUD . . . THUD.  “What . . . (sigh) Oh, I need to get myself together; the gardener must be here already.

 * * *

            “The 7-11 at Chestnut and Royal was robbed at gunpoint again this morning.  The robber made off with $50.00 cash and a six pack.  What he left in his wake was one dead teenage girl.  Her boyfriend is in critical condition at Mercy with a gunshot wound to the chest.  Update at eleven.”  THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.  “Hey, did you guys hear that?  Something happen in the control room?  I hope that didn’t go out over the radio.”

* * *

            “Lord, You could have called thousands of angels to Your rescue.  Why did it have to be like that—so much suffering, so much pain?  Why didn’t those wicked Jews and heartless Romans understand who You really were?”  THUD . . . THUD.  “It’s just not fair.  I mean . . . if I had’ve been there, I would have recognized who You were.  Look at all the miracles You did.  I mean . . . really.  I wouldn’t have been one of those creeps yelling, ‘Crucify Him, crucify Him.’  I wouldn’t have been the one to nail You to the cross.  It makes me mad and sad all at the same time, Lord.”  THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.  “What is that incessant noise?  I’M TRYING TO HAVE MY PRAYER TIME HERE!”

            “Lean a little closer, child.”

            “Who said that?”

            “It’s Me.”

            “Me?  Me who?—You mean . . . ME?”

            “Yes, that’s right.”  THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.

            “You mean . . . You actually showed up to my devotions.  THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.  “Could You do something about that noise, so I can hear You better.”

            “But you’re the one that has made the noise.”

            “No really, it’s—well, actually, I don’t know what it is.”

            “It’s your sin.”

            “My what?  But, Lord, I’m in the middle of devotions, and it really does sound more like someone is hammering nails! . . . Lord, are You still here?”

                       

           by Lilly Green 

           

           

           

           

                                   

           

Very God of Very God

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Aunt Eva

            Aunt Eva lived in a small addition attached to Uncle Wilfred and Aunt Dorothy’s grey stucco farmhouse.  She lived alone. But with her eight nieces and nephews next door and the steady stream of piano students, never alone. 

            Her black hair was sprinkled with hints of gray and rolled into a tight sausage that circled the back of her neck.  It must have been the hip style in the Holiness Movement because my mother wore hers the same.  I remember one time being surprised to see Aunt Eva comb her hair out.  It fell halfway down her back—thin, with a hint of a wave.  She washed it with raw egg.

            Every Tuesday, I walked from my one-room school in the Canadian countryside to Aunt Eva’s for a fifty-cent piano lesson.  It was a good deal for an hour of piano, tea, and cookies.  I’m not sure if she wasn’t a good teacher, or if I was just a poor student, but I never learned to read music very well.  I had a good ear and would memorize those Royal Conservatory pieces, then play, looking at the sheet music, pretending to sight-read.  She probably wasn’t fooled, especially when I’d improvise, though she never seemed to mind my own special touches.  We sat together at an old upright.  On top of the piano sat a cherished china figurine of Liberace at his piano.  She admired him.

Sometimes in the winter, my hands would be so cold she’d have me warm them by the old wood stove until I could move them enough to manipulate the piano keys.  They were never quite warm enough for scales and arpeggios, however.  That required too much discipline and practice.

            She didn’t hit me on the fingers like one of the nuns I’d heard of in town, and she never stopped me from expressing my own voice in music.  However, I never did place in piano at the local music festival. My performances were rather “individual.”  The adjudicator’s remarks always included things like: “A nice start, but . . .”  or “Good expression, but . . .”  Regardless, Aunt Eva was proud of her students, and she was always proud of me.

            She had never married.  Eva appeared content the way she was except for the fact that she had been “dying” all her life.  I wouldn’t say she was a hypochondriac, just fearful and addicted to worry.  As a young girl, she’d contracted scarlet fever, and whether there were real and actual symptoms left over from that, I don’t know.  But, at times, she was convinced death was near and would panic. Who knows what she was really feeling, but I think perhaps I’ve inherited her disorder. 

            Since we assumed Aunt Eva was perfectly content with her multitude of relatives, piano students, and church acquaintances, it came as quite a shock when, with blushing cheeks, she announced that she was to be married.  To Bill.  She was sixty-three.

            Bill was a man of great patience, I guess, for he had asked her thirty years before.  They were married in our little church in town, and there never was a more radiant bride.  Aunt Eva twinkled!  Not a small thing at sixty-three.

            I noticed a remarkable change in my aunt.  For one thing, she appeared softer around the edges as if she was always moving in diffused light.  She loved and was loved.  It washed over her in waves of smiles and blushes and a knowing look. 

            Bill and Eva were married for about ten years when the car accident happened.  I don’t know whose fault it was—just one of those things.  But Eva went down hill over the next couple of years.  She weakened.  I visited her in the hospital, and my sisters and I sang some hymns.  She smiled for us, but continued wasting away.  I think she had stopped “dying” for those twelve good years with Bill, but at the age of seventy-five, she really did die. 

            I miss Aunt Eva’s wonderful brown sugar candy.  I miss being served tea in a fancy cup and saucer.  I miss the way she pronounced the “O’s” in the word “cookie” like “cool.”  She loved music.  She loved God.  She loved us, and she really loved Bill.  When I’m sixty-three I hope I won’t be afraid to try something new—to take a radical step, to stop dying and live.  And maybe even twinkle.

           

A Prayer

I almost feel guilty going about my normal day,
rearranging furniture,
juicing,
picking up my organics,
cruising over in my Japanese-made Honda to scour the plenty on the shelves at Trader Joe's.
With so much suffering, raw and fresh,
I feel like I should be weeping,
weeping and not stopping;
but these are not my immediate family,
their faces are not familiar.
Yet seeing homes and cars and real and desperate people
swept away as nothing
to become the flotsam of yet another disaster,
another media event,
how can my heart not ache deep and long for
the loss, the agony, the torrent of suffering.
Broken world, shaking and quaking,
moaning, crying out for redemption:  Oh, God
bring solace to those caught in the crosshairs of this eternal tension.

LG 12 Mar. 2011

Peach-pink, gold molten,
blue wisps of breath,
slivers of molecule--
a sun rising, while I am unable
or unwilling--
tucked in my bed.
Waving and crackling
tired few leaves
call the morning,
hanging on by tiny desperate strands
for one more
winter morning.

When . . .

When does purpose and drive become arrogance?

When does surrender to God’s will bump up against the kind of giving up that breeds hopelessness?

When is faith presumption?

When is humility just feeling a lack of self-worth?

And when does analysis become pure criticism?

To think—to be—such a mix of dark and light, of bristle and silk.

The will wobbles back and forth between leaning in and running away, between giving up and holding tight fists.

Oh God, are we performing empty rituals, cup and bread, songs and sermons, trying to find meaning when there is none,

. . . trying to convince the world and ourselves we have found all the answers?  When we don’t even know all the questions.

If there is meaning,

If there is purpose,

Why are there so many barriers, the path so thorny?  Why the clouds and chaos?

As days flit away, filled up with critiques and commas, baking and brooding, there is a kind of desperation, a deep searching for You.

What a black heart I must have to have journeyed so long

and come only so far.

When does doubt yield to wonder?  Wonder to glory?

~Lilly Green 2-2011