growing pains

When you're going through a growth spurt, you've gotta remember some things:

1. God deserves praise for giving you the nutrients to make you a prime candidate for growth.
2. Things are gonna look different.
3. You're gonna look different.
4. Emotions peak.
5. The process hurts.
6. You'll need lots of rest and, yes, even more food.
7. You'll be able to do things you've never done before.
8. Some people won't know what's happening.
9. You might not even know what's happening.
10. You'll never be the same again.

unexplainable

You can only explain so much, and then you must leave the explaining to God.

the Pain inside her

She tears madly at the pink packet of Sunshine sugar, and tiny white grains shower all over the Plexiglass table top. The water ring from her goblet of iced tea seems to attack the sugar, leaving it drenched and sticky.
“And you’ve had enough time with the menu, ma’am?” a voice rumbles.
She looks up at the tall, blonde server. “Of course. But I think I’ll have the special.” A sparkling grin sends him away.
Bodies, in the shape of a family, sink into a nearby booth. The restaurant’s too dark. And stuffy.
Really, they ought to refill her iced tea. It’s gotten all watery.

She feels it within her.
Kicking. Moving. Growing. Screaming.
Pulling, wrenching at her heart.
Sometime, she thinks, her heart will just come out of her, and will lie, panting on the floor, tired of fighting. Tired of trying to believe she can’t feel it.
Breathing. Living. Crying. Dying. Hoping.
Hoping she won’t ignore its presence. Every once in a while, it seems so easy, like she can just put a lid on the container, seal it up like it doesn’t matter, put it on a shelf somewhere and pretend it doesn’t exist. But it’s still bleeding.
Giving. Sharing.
Sharing every pain. And when she thinks it’s only her, feeling her physicalness, feeling human, then it screams out its pain, deep inside, and it’s so terribly hard to ignore the cutting.
Swelling. Carving.
Whittling her apart, making its place, just like it thinks it can, without invitation, or warning to her about its power. But yet it goes about its business.
Loving.
Because that’s its job. Sometimes she wonders if it can do anything else. If it knows how.
But then she wonders: Why would something that loves me tear me into so many small shreds, spread me out and make me utterly helpless?
And so, she believes the lie that they’ve all been telling her – that it’s dead. That what she’s been feeling is only her mind playing tricks on her. Or emotions. That’s all. They pass. Surely. After she can take that crying, wrenching mass and toss it out. Like it’s nothing.
Then the emotions will go away. And then there will be nothing.
But memories – kicking.
Moving.
Growing.
Screaming.
Pulling, wrenching at her heart.

He hands her a piece of white cloth.
“You’ve dropped your napkin, ma’am. Here you go.”
“Oh! Thank you… Jerry, is it? You’ve really been an excellent waiter. Really you have.” She smiles. “I love an enjoyable dining experience. It just seems to relax me, you know. Are you featuring any desserts this evening?”
A petite menu appears from behind his back, and she orders the crème brulee.

:: written in 2002 ::

passion born

It crept upon me and seized me because it was directed by the Spirit of God.
Where else could it have come from? Not from me, that's for sure. One month ago, worries and prayers were in its place. I longed for others to help chase away these problems -- location, job, church, everything.
As worries flee, joy -- great joy! -- replaces them. And with joy, passion.
And then I remember... I prayed for this passion. But so brief, so seldom was my prayer that I almost forgot I had prayed it. But God heard it...

and planted,
and watered,
passion
for Him
and for His people.

And now I can pray for them, that they can have passion.

skill and punch

I've seen both -- the skill without the punch, and the punch without the skill. I've also seen the skill and the punch together. Dear God, could You teach me both?

make me thankful

If I become distanced, and count you an enemy instead of a friend, remind me of your love. If I forget to speak, ask me questions. If I forget you've traveled this road much longer than I, tell me about how you've tripped and fallen and then kept walking on. If I forget to listen, pray for me. If I forget to be real enough for you to understand what I write and speak and do, remind me -- but gently. If I forget to tell you how very much I love you, tell me you love me... and then I'll remember to tell you too.

"trying" is a futile word

You laugh in the face of the thunderstorm, while I thirst for its rain. You scoff at the black, dusty earth, but you forget that all roots are buried within it. You eat the fruits of the land with relish, but sneer at the bruises on their flesh. Locusts come. You don't care. You are proud to call yourself a farmer. The bruises come from your hand.

::

Trying is a futile word, reserved for boys learning to ride bicycles and students winning good grades. It's not for me, who's done all possible to make this thing work, waiting for an act of God to push the power switch. ON. That's the signal I'm waiting for, while I learn to be satisfied with the OFF if that's all there is for me. Is my lightbulb broken?

::

I dig my hands into soil, black and rich. It smells, it looks, it feels fertile. Nothing grows. Dirt gathers under my fingernails, and the sunshine is hot on the back of my neck and arms. I sweat. I pray. But when nighttime comes, my hands come up black and empty.

untitled

Why do you come, when you know all you'll find is a land stripped bare? Is it really worth your journey, when death is the likely outcome? You've seen corpses of your relatives, lying abondoned -- alone. Yet you still come. Must you test the authority of this land till they're compelled to exterminate you all?
I've seen you drag yourself through pollen, coming through it, coated like a candy. I've seen you crawl and dig for that meager scrap of food that everyone else -- even I -- overlooked. Do those desperate searches really fill you? Do they really satisfy your cravings?
Search for the world of deeper fulfillment. Go back to your home, where the grass and dirt feel cool against your feet, and the sun rests warmly upon your backs.

You won't do it, will you?

Stupid, stubborn ants.

evidence

From the unpublished post, torn, written earlier today:

"I'm torn between jumping at an opportunity for which I was not searching, and sticking with a plan that may gradually turn sour."

There's nothing quite like hoeing up a garden in 92-degree heat just before noon on a Friday to make a girl realize: "No, I don't want to be a secretary. I want to be a writer."

Even if you fail?

Yep, even if I fail.

a stab at poetry

I wish
I could be like them
and not be afraid
to write --
just write!
I wish I didn't have
to be afraid
of the comments
criticisms
praise
falling
down
over my words
like water,
weakening them,
strengthening them.
I wish I didn't have
to be afraid
of giving
meaning
to the words.
I wish
I didn't know that
giving meaning
means
a microscrope
has been placed
over my life.

wheelchair woman

Forgive me, ma'am, for calling you "wheelchair woman." I guess in my head, that's all I know about you: that you're female, and you're in an electric wheelchair.

Oh, yeah. I guess there's something else: last time I saw you here, at the car wash, you asked me for money. I saw you before we talked, and you were digging into the change slots of the vending machines, hunting for forgotten coins. I was glad for the opportunity to give you a dollar, and I patted myself on the back for the good advice I lent: "In this heat, maybe you should get a water instead of a Mountain Dew; it'll quench your thirst longer." I doubt you listened to me.

I'll admit, I was a little disgusted to see you here again today. Oh, great. She's made a profession of this. I planned what I would say when you wheeled up to my parked car: "Let me go buy you some water, and here, take this Testament; it's living water for your soul." That would be stepping out of the box for me, and I guess I was looking forward to the challenge.

But I washed my car, and you didn't wheel up to me. Maybe I was prepared for the challenge, but I was also a little relieved to not have to deal with the situation.

As I pulled out of the garage, I looked back at you in my rearview mirror. You were dipping your fingers into the change slots of the vending machines. You hadn't asked me for money; you hadn't asked me for anything.

Ma'am, I'm sorry I judged you. In all my planning, I forgot to love.