hand-made

Feeling empty-handed, she
Reached down to pick up each
One, every shred that had fallen.
Mercy whispered, You don't have to do that.

Running her fingers over every fiber -
Each one different, each one dark -
Gathering them and laying them across her knees she
Remembers exactly how she'd gotten
Each and every one.
Tired but determined
She threads the scraps together.

Time moves on and each piece,
One by one, is painstakingly (stubbornly) added.

She stares at it, lying in her lap -
Heavy, black, thick - then dutifully wraps her shoulders.
Are you really going to wear all that? but
Mercy is a voice she can't hear anymore.
Enveloped in her shroud, she falls to her knees

and buries her face in her hands
--------------------------------

"What is the difference between SHAME and REGRET?"

This question was posed by my sister on her blog They Hang Like Paper Lanterns. The question made me think hard about what that difference might be. I intuitively thought that there was a difference, but it was hard for me to come up with a way to articulate it. Eventually I decided that it would be best to describe the process, in my mind, that takes someone from one to the other.

Reading down the left of the poem the letters say "FROM REGRETS TO SHAME" because I believe one stems from the other when properly cultivated. It's titled hand-made because I feel like every time I find myself weighed down by shame I can see how it was because I intentionally and "painstakingly (stubbornly)" dwelt on my regrets in my own mind. I run my fingers over them again and again, I piece them together and try to connect the gaps, and I build them into something that is cold and dark and thick.

If only I would listen to the voice of Mercy before I begin designing my heavy burden to wear. If only I would let Mercy tell me I don't have to do that. If only I would let Mercy keep that unnecessary weight off my shoulders.

But instead, I have a closet full of these cloaks, and innumerable more layered on my back.

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.
~Galatians 5:1

The Voice

I brought no light along with me
so blind, I faced the black
until a doubtful voice came out
and walked a few steps back.

"I know that voice," I told myself.
"Of course, it sounds like me!"
"Turn around," it said, "no need to go
through a world you'll never see."

"Oh, I can't go back," I told the voice,
and I took another step.
"Although...never seeing is my fear,
And the end's a long way yet."

Again the voice spoke to me,
but this time clear and bright.
"Don't be afraid," I heard it say.
"I'll lead you through this night."

But then I heard his raspy breath
and smelled it on the wind.
I saw no form behind the voice,
but I knew that it was him.

With the voice of a princely angel
he spits poison in the air.
The clawless, toothless lion
whispering in my ear.

"His teeth were removed. He was declawed at the cross. He can't harm us...but he still has a voice."
~Dr. Rick Chitwood

Claire R. Wauer (June 26, 1916-February 12, 2006)

I miss them.
I never knew them smooth.
I never saw them young.
But I felt them - wrinkled and aged and short and sweet.
I remember
how they kissed life,
how they kissed time,
how they kissed me.

I miss them.
I never knew them clear.
I never saw them unsunken.
But I looked into them – dark and circled and bright and stern.
I remember
how they watched life,
how they watched time,
how they watched me.

I miss them.
I never knew them soft.
I never saw them unspotted.
But I touched them – rough and brown and strong and careful.
I remember
how they held life,
how they held time,
how they held me.

I miss you.
One time you called me your great-granddaughter
One time you said “goodbye” while I was talking
But you loved me – talking and playing and smiling and kissing.
I remember
how life loved you,
how time loved you,
how I loved you.

Your kisses, your eyes, your hands, your love
I remember them all.
I miss them all.
I miss you, Gram.


To read my sisters' tributes to Grandma:
http://standre.blogspot.com
http://likepaperlanterns.blogspot.com

A prayer for Hope

Today in church we were told that a young couple in the congregation had lost their baby this week, 7 months into the pregnancy. I can't even begin to fathom the pain in a parent's heart when their child dies.

"a prayer for Hope"
No life inside, no comfort out
Shattered, fragile hearts break
Trembling, dry voices shake
Broken. Our biggest mistake:
Resting our knees on you, not doubt.

Holding to hope, we let go of truth
Life, nothing is sound
Tears, never not found
Joy, “may it abound”
We signed with blood to unseen proof.

Like a “burglar, banker, Father”
Our hearts, pierced through,
strangled, removed.
Now our Hope rests in you,
Please hold her like you love her.

resiliance

Because God has been teaching me so much, and I've been learning so much, and I've been dreaming big dreams, but I sit, and I wait for tomorrow, hoping it'll never really come.

"resiliance"
In the shade of my own tree,
I will fight the good fight
while I lie here a while
with the fruit of my branches
to keep me company.

I will stay here (under my tree)
and watch the river flow
and watch the trees grow
and watch the people go
find trees of their own.

Because my tree is mine
and I am mine
and my fruit is yours
(while my fruit's really mine)

So we'll stay here,
my brother Jonah and I,
and watch.

Because,
when there is shade and despair,
watching is what we do best.

"in a garden of weeds"

when the sun seemed to fade
and all around the silence cried
wilted, shriveled
a head hung (bowed) low
as its beauty, piece by piece,
drifted slowly down

tears can only mimic
the dew mixed with blood
that fell on that parched ground

the sun paid homage
the silence sang praise
to that rose among the thorns

Becoming "Onesimus"

I've been studying the book of Philemon. As I look at it this time around, I'm beginning to understand the impact this story has on my spiritual life. Though it was probably not on Paul's mind when he was trying to help these two men restore their relationship, I suddenly saw a resemblance between the characters in the letter and God, Christ, and myself. I was God's, given a name and a purpose by Him, and I ran so hard just to get away from Him. That's where Christ found me, running and hiding and terrified and angry, and he saved me. Not only did he give me hope, he himself pleaded with God to restore OUR relationship, to take me back as his daughter even though I stole what was rightfully his and denied my purpose and my name. Not only did Paul send Onesimus back to his master (who had every right to torture and kill him) so that they could make amends, but he told Philemon that his slave was finally going to serve his purpose. Onesimus, for the first time in his life, was going to be who he was designed to be.

Onesimus, by the way, means "Useful". He was finally becoming his name.

"Becoming 'Onesimus'"

Here I am
To be my name
Holding nothing
But a letter and my shame
Here I stand
Wanting to be
Everything you have called me

I ran
Through so many lands
To find a way away
No one
Called me “son”
So I looked to the horizon
I cried
I only tried
To free myself from you
I died
So many times
Before I lived
“Anywhere”
He found me there
And showed me how to breathe
He lived
And chose to give
Me part of his own life
I ran
Back through those lands
To meet my brother here

Here I am
To be my name
Holding nothing
But a letter and my shame
Here I stand
Wanting to be
Everything you have called me

Finding Aida

In these past few weeks our generation has experienced something unique to us, namely Katrina and Rita. Being here in Dallas has really forced me to go beyond my comfort of apathy that I was so willing to experience back in Virginia. No, this is happening here, all around me, affecting the people I've grown to love and filtering into the city I temporarily call "home."

Although all of the different things involved in these two cataclysimc storms has brought tears to my eyes at different times, one thing sticks vividly in my mind like nothing else. Last week, while people were rushing to leave their homes in fear that they would undergo the same trauma as those in New Orleans, a bus carrying 40+ elderly people departed from a nursing home in Houston to bring the residents to safety. While the bus sat in traffic not even 20 miles from Dallas, which was its destination, it caught fire. Immediately the staff and driver started getting people off the bus, but it wasn't long before they heard an explosion: the oxygen tanks, the breathing tanks, started exploding. Before anyone knew what was happening, the bus was englufed in flames along with the 23 passengers who were still on board. There was no hope for rescue.

During some interviews with rescued passengers and with a nurse on the scene, there were heartbreaking stories told of people who would never recover from what they had seen, from knowing that the person who was sitting next to them didn't make it, from the realization that they were helped off the bus first. Among these stories was an old man on a stretcher who pulled off his oxygen mask as they were loading him onto an ambulance. He wanted to tell the rescuers "thank you" for saving him from the bus which he described as a roman candle. He went on to say, "they carried my like an infant to safety." The nurse, who was sitting in traffic a few cars behind the bus and rushed to help when she saw what was happening, told a story of a man who she was helping right after the explosion. He said, "I need you to help me find my wife. She was sitting right next to me. I need you to help me find Aida." The nurse said, "I told the staff person I needed to find Aida, and she just shook her head."

"Finding Aida"

Could you help me please?
I let her hand go
They carried me away

Have you seen my bride?
She needs me now
She cries on this kind of day

Fighting myself, I live myself
I die, I bring it all back again
My fears won’t fall
While she cries to sleep
I leave my world, my mind
Only to find her hand

I need you to see
If she still wants to dance
I can wait ‘til the next song

Ask if she’ll forgive
My clumsy hands
That forgot to hold on

Fighting myself, I live myself
I die, I bring it all back again
My fears won’t fall
While she cries to sleep
I leave my world, my mind
Only to find her hand

Bring me my darling
I’m feeling too weak
To call her name

When I let her go
I didn’t know to see
Her for the last time

Fighting myself, I live myself
I die, I bring it all back again
My fears won’t fall
While she cries to sleep
I leave my world, my mind
Only to find her hand

I watch the candle
Holding my joy
Like my arms held her

Bring me my darling
Let me see my bride
I can’t go on
with this ghost in my side