Archives for category: history

Perhaps youth is always hubris 

Although not always so baldly unhinged

I can still see

The mistaken room, ensuing melee

As though an intimate troupe of primate acrobats 

Had used their clever

Prehensile tails to

Tornado the borrowed room

Swing from the wooden dowel in the closet

Tear the beloved childhood

Memories apart, just words on pages

isolated pictures

can summon the ghosts

Of me and you and us

All gone now

Illusion I could

change you into angels

Can’t 

Sleep or

Administer the antidote

With words of

Your mispelled sins

All our

broken 

Promises rise

To life.

I tie bandanas on each

Think she should name them

At some point in time

We must all name them

The right and the left

Outstretched arms

He did not reply and Pilate was amazed

Looked into the crowd of angry…

Helpless, broken 

Justice, mercy

Sorrow, hope

Pairs of things

With ancient, original and sacred names on them

File into the ark

Mute and two by two

Flood or resurrection

boat or Cross

Immissa, patibulum

Someone must carry them outside the sanctuary
Up the hill 

To his end

And our beginning 

Freed to walk, or even fly

But tied to Him, forever 

To this day I marvel that I believe this guy–slicked-back hair, in the bereavement business.  He was hired by a funeral home owned by a lawyer who was embroiled in what could politely be described as a baby relocation scheme and less politely–felony kidnapping.

So the man with the slicked-back hair told us all that “they” had studied people who were grieving and found that those who repeated the story frequently healed better.

So many verbs, adjectives, adverbs, quantifiers.  Could you really know?  Could you actually assess the silent grievers?  What does it mean to heal or recover?

Nonetheless, I believed him.  Sometimes to extreme.  I have told, written, squeaked, howled, and shouted stories of autobiography and grief.

Has it helped?

I think so.

I think that the recitation of a story can help process and organize the meat of it all.

Emotion, chronology, whatever.

So I am going to try it.  Tell the story.  Same-ish story.  Over and over again. 

See if the lugubrious man in the funeral home was onto something.

i tell them it is a Lenten fast

(Not a broken heart)

Then eat furtive bits of things

Stale cookie crumbs, scavenged pecans, half-eaten

Fruit

I miss peanut butter sandwiches

Toast 

The feeling of sitting down to a

Proper meal

Love this feast

Set a proper table 

Glimpse the King

Returned whole 

To find his furtive 

bride

combat boots hidden beneath

A garage sale dress

All things made new 

I wear a mouth guard at night and a completely different one in the day

The night guards my nightmares
Things I fear will be
Because things I fear have been

The day guards my mouth
A boxing coach in the corner of each object I hit
Going 20 miles an hour

You can pray with your mouth open or resort to words you have needed
All your life Jesus I say over and over when all others fail

I say Jesus see Jesus
Never let go of my hand

I have not being writing. For three years I wrote, thinking I needed audience, change, and answers.

I am trying to adjust those expectations to–this is therapy. I am writing to be something. Not someone. Something.

A basket

A plait of hair

The doing of the thing

Words, strung together

Years ago I set out looking for signs of God’s expressive love for me–butterflies are signs. There are others…

But one of my favorite is the found penny. If I see a penny on the ground or in a random spot I take it as a personal reminder–sent from God that He loves me.

I usually leave them where I find them. I don’t need the pennies, just the love note.

A while back I sent a beloved gift to someone and they rejected the gift. I am not surprised. We do not agree on much and we are not on the same path.

But the gift was so infused with the message of redemption that the rejection of the gift seemed unwise and incompatible with faith.

How can anyone find offense in Jesus?

The answer is easy–we all would, if we truly saw him disfigured for our sins.

But the wise understand that Jesus made himself hideous so that we could be beautiful.

He gives us beauty for ashes.

He was despised
Despised and rejected of men.

If he was then, I should not be astounded he is now. But I am afraid, afraid for those who chose not to see-

The Cross
The Man
The love

Poured out for us.

All of us, so lost without him.