Archives for category: Jesus

Dearest E,

I know you struggle with the see-saw conflict between knowing I love and see you and being a messy, sin-riddled person.

My love is manifest in my ability to save you through years of squalor.

Make that mystery what you focus on, a train-your-eyes-to-focus exercise.

Focus on my voice, character, ability to be who you need in all things.

Me the remedy




And don’t forget what I told you about losing things, the freedom of truth, narrow paths and where they lead.

All the big and small ways

I show you

I love you.



I started this blog a few years ago when I was trying to tell and grieve-through a pretty ugly and unhappy-ending story.

Somewhere(s) along the line I began to question whether any of it would do any good. Were the words like trees falling without listeners?

I once read about one of many really awful and probably unnecessary studies. Rats were dropped into buckets then fished out after a few minutes. Others were left to drown. The rats who had been fished out could keep swimming for much longer than those who had never been “rescued.”

I have to assume this was supposed to be a study of hope? It seems to be more about the human capacity to willfully ignore suffering.

But I digress.

Times I have empathized with the bedraggled bucket rats.

But words do matter.

Your voice is heard.

So keep singing.

And if you can’t sing-whisper…

Cry, shout, or stomp.

I stood on an accurate scale and despaired at its arbitrary number.  Then whined to God: why can’t I lose weight?

His answer: trust your body.

As usual, for Him, anchoring words.

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


Sleep or

Administer the antidote

With words of

Your mispelled sins

All our


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 

first the don’ts:

Don’t wax

Don’t spray tan anything 

Don’t take it too seriously

Don’t expect to win

Don’t do anything you wouldn’t want your grandchildren to see

Now the dos:


Accept your body

Embrace the humor

Ask why?

Honor the other participants

Give sound advice

Listen to their stories

Verify they are old enough for what is about to happen

Draw strength from the Cross

(Also, it helps if you can get some practice.  Things that helped me to prepare for my bikini contest were thankless jobs and other contests where I knew I would not win.)

I am short, chunky, very middle-aged with a buzz cut and old lady glasses.

Not your average bikini contestant.

When I say that I believe that God wanted me to join a bikini contest…well, you will add “crazy!”

And it was a little crazy.  I kinda obsessed over the whole thing.  I am not a fan of body image contests in general and was really not enthusiastic about displaying my own.

Once I secured entry into the contest, I thought–best diet ever?!?

But God pointed out that desperately altering my body image for a contest I was not sold on was defeating the purpose.

So, no diet.  He was aiming for a display of my inner beauty. Typical of Him.

I worried about my motif–my theme, if you will.  If you join a bikini contest to display inner beauty, what does that look like?

I started by realizing that the people I would have invited to a bikini contest would all be memorable for their personality–Harriet Tubman, Einstein, Father Brown, some ladies from my water aerobics class..skinny dude sporting a speedo on his SUP with his retriever…Leslie Jones…

Oldies, fatties, and oddballs would all be welcomed–because I am all three.

I had several themes I adopted to anchor me in all of this.  “My bikini contest” was a theme, and that was the chrysalis for a second theme–

Be memorable.

We spend so much of our lives worrying about the size of our asses.  What does the world look like when we worry instead about the shape of our immortal selves?

We don’t talk about our immortality that much. What if we did?  What if we obsessed about who we will be?