scuff

Sometimes my poetry
seems so base
it's a wonder I put it out there
like air
flecked with allergens
to sicken those who breathe it.

It's not the elevated voice
I thought "poets" used
(who keep me writing)--
but it's dirt, debris,
the wreckage of
weak living--
mess-ups, mishaps--
instead.
It's words out-of-place
stuck here--
together--
where they grope--
grasp--
at making sense
and making amends
for me

but are honest enough
to admit they're just
a scuff on the floor.



dedicated to M
Thanks, chica.

reality check

This morning I sat in my chair and prayed. Enough of stale words, I thought. I need to get out of this funk.

"Lord, increase my faith," I said. I hadn't prayed that well-worn line in awhile. I thought of all the bad things that happen to people -- faith-increasers. And from somewhere in the depths of me, I heard the words "but don't take the life of my son."

I shut my mouth and didn't let them come out. My son? Less than three weeks from his womb-to-world journey, do I think he's my son?

The Lord gives... takes.... Blessed....

"I'm sorry, Lord. He's Yours. Before You even give him to me, he's Yours. And after You do -- if You do -- he's still Yours. Every breath he takes of this earth-air is a breath enabled by You and not by me."

Increase my faith.

And now, I sing to myself Keith Green's song:
"I pledge my son to Heaven for the gospel,
though he's kicked and beaten, ridiculed and scorned..."

bathsheba

I disrobe myself -- paste it out there for all to see. And you see; you take it all in like famished children. A few of you smile, or nod; you acknowledge me.

The others stand and stare behind sheets of one-way glass. I know you're there. My sensors are up; you leave your evidence -- food wrappers and footprints.

My food! My soil! But I can't tell who, or why. I only know when, and I know how many. Sometimes the footprints are few. And they match the soles of the shoes of those I love. Other times, the footprints are that of an army -- uniform, cold, silent. I disrobed before an army.

And now I disrobe again...

touched

Sometimes the beauty of words just amazes me. The way that words can touch the soul, breathe life into the barren mind... it's just indescribable. Take our local McDonald's, for instance. They capture the hearts of the world with their sign out front, which reads: "WE ARE CELEBRATE THE PEOPLE DAY."

We are celebrate the people day.
We are celebrate the people day!

Can you feel the passion? It's almost as if the heart of McDonald himself just emanates from the restaurant. So few words can say so much. A splash of life -- with just a slice of mystery -- is enough to bring tears to one's eyes. This is poetry, this is life. This is a picture of hearts beating together: we are celebrate the people day.

Treasure it. Let it inspire you. And never let it go.

the test strip and the coward

It's Tuesday, and I look over at Isel. She's riding in my passenger's seat, chewing on one of my used blood-testing strips that I've tossed into the door handle compartment. I hope my inward gulp isn't splattered all over my face.
"But I've got to tell her!" I think. "She has no clue!"
"Sweetie, can you stop chewing on that?" I hear myself say... in my head. In real life, I don't say anything. I think: At least I don't have any communicable diseases. And she doesn't know what she's doing. Telling her -- the girl who freaks out when I pick up a moth ("Gross! Ew! Ew! Ew!") -- would only alarm her unnecessarily.
So I don't tell her. I grip the steering wheel and keep glancing over, hoping something big and important will capture her attention before she looks over at me with her dark Latina eyes and asks, "What is this thing anyway?"

booksbooksbooksbooks

Hm.

So, do you think I'm in the middle of too many books right now? (See right panel.) They're all interesting, which is why I can't give up on them altogether. You know. That would just be wrong.

Reader survey: What books are you reading right now?

i, nebuchadnezzar

I feel this pressure to write, but I don't have anything. I'm blank. I know the pressure comes from everybody-else-doing-it, and if everybody else is -- Rachel's friend Jill, newly-married Michelle -- well, then, by all means, I ought to be too. After all, I'm the "writer."
Till now, my blog hadn't been updated in probably weeks. When I read, all I can see is everyone else's proficiency in words and sentences, and my total lack thereof. Everything I write sounds the same.
I wish I could break free from my intense desire to compete, and really just write for the sheer joy of it. Then, when I read, I wouldn't feel so inadequate (or is it that I feel challenged?); I'd just glean the authors' beautiful harvest of words without feeling like I'm stealing their food. I do find some sense of joy in the writing process, but too often I just bask in the glow of "I wrote something comprehensible. I am a writer."
But writing isn't the only thing I macerate in pride. I do it with about everything, I just realized.
I wash the windows and think: "I bet these are the cleanest windows on the street, even if they're not perfect." I even said to Kyle yesterday: "I bet hardly anyone washes their windows." What was I thinking? That I deserved an extra pat on the back for being so above average?
And then I look at my successful pregnancy. I walk through my house and say to my imaginary inquirer: "Actually, I'm feeling great for being eight months pregnant! I never expected to feel so good at this stage." What a wonderful body I must have to be so suited for carrying and bearing children! Never mind the fact that the notoriously hard part -- childbirth -- looms somewhere in the future.

"At the end of twelve months [Nebuchadnezzar] walked in the palace of the kingdom of Babylon.
The king spake, and said, Is not this great Babylon, that I have built for the house of the kingdom by the might of my power, and for the honour of my majesty?" -Daniel 4. 29-30
And, well, we all know what happened to him for the next seven years.

Here's Kathleen Norris, who brought me back to earth (or maybe up from it): "Christians often speak of having a call to a particular form of ministry. But from the earliest churches, it has been brought to our attention that this is mostly a matter of a pedestrian inheritance. When Paul, in his first letter to the members of the church of Corinth, asks them to 'consider your own call,' he emphasizes that 'not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth.' Declaring that it is for this very reason that God chose them, so that 'no one might boast in the presence of God' (1 Cor. 1: 26,29), Paul makes it clear that if we take inordinate pride in the spiritual gifts we have been blessed with, the joke is on us" (from Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith).

displacement

And so in spite of city life
sucking,
it is my home.
I live here and
happen to believe
God put me here.
And in spite of it being
unhealthy--
or whatever--
perhaps it bolsters
my immunity.
Perhaps it teaches me
lessons that
your town never could.

temple

Shoddy human, did you know you're enough? Did you know what you've been given is... enough to be the temple of the Holy Spirit? Did you know that? 'Cause I don't mean to insult your intelligence or anything, but... you really don't seem to know it. Or at least you don't seem to believe it. You keep sitting around, like you're waiting for God to make your muscles more capable of lifting, your heart more capable of caring. And I don't know, but I've been watching you for a long time, and nothing seems to be happening. At least nothing beyond what's already happened. You just keep sitting, waiting. And I just keep watching you.

There was this news bulletin awhile back, and I'm sure you saw it, 'cause... well... quite frankly, everybody else saw it. But in case you forgot what all the hype was about: the Holy Spirit's moved in, along with all His stuff, and that's, like... everything. You don't need anything else.

Just wanted to make sure you knew that.

summer's last hurrah

They called it "summer's last hurrah," but here it rained all day, which was okay with me. We listened to the rain and to each other. We bought hot drinks and could at long last enjoy them. I counted the weeks left -- one, two, three... seven-and-a-half -- and knew we wouldn't have much time left to just do nothing.
Summer's over; fall's coming. I love fall, so I think it'll all be okay. The dripping rain keeps my heart from pounding, so I close my eyes and listen. It teaches me to stop... and read... and praise... and wait. And the next day, the memory'll remind me to sit and listen to the fountain splashing on the water. It'll teach me to be calm about wondering what tomorrow brings. God knows so I don't have to.

carnality

for not caring,
for not wanting
to try
or feel
or live,
for wanting to go back
to the mundane,
the earthly,
the everyday--
forgive me.

tablemates

In his book The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning writes about a friend of his who said her greatest anxiety about going to Heaven was not being able to choose her tablemates at the heavenly banquet.

And then someone told me this joke a couple months ago, in which St. Peter was giving some new residents of Heaven a tour of their new home. He walked them down the streets of gold, showed them the various mansions, and let them see what was behind the doors. The group walked down a small hallway, past a closed door, and Peter shushed everybody -- finger on his lips. "Now you have to be very quiet," he said. Everybody wondered why. "Because behind that door..." Peter said, "that's where the [Southern Baptists, Catholics, Apostolic Christians -- you fill it in as you choose] live. They think they're the only ones here."

I laughed.

The humor has faded; the joke is not funny. It is sad and sick and twisted. Whether exclusive Christianity is common in one denomination or another is not the question. The question is: how often do thoughts of my exclusive acceptance in Heaven cross my mind, not necessarily excluding Christians of different denominations but individuals?

How do I love with the love of Christ, the love that says to the sinner, "Yes, you were a prostitute, a liar, a miserly tax collector, a homosexual. But go, and sin no more. You are a child of the King now -- His child. I love you." Under the blood of Christ, I have no room for haughtiness, looking down on the people I think are more annoying than me. I have nothing to boast about. I'm as sinful as the next guy. Do racism, anger, pride, little white lies displease the Lord any less than murder, homosexuality, robbery?

In Heaven, my forgiven tablemates are overcomers. There is no heirarchy. God looks at my brother who, on earth, struggled with pornography and sees "clean." God looks at me -- my lips that used to drip with complaints, my body that used to be drenched in slothfulness, my mind, my eyes, my feet, my hands, my heart -- and sees "clean."

We sit together at the table (in Heaven... or is it right here, today?). And when my tablemate tells me he never had a church because he never stopped going to mosque after he started believing in Christ, I don't want to have to doubt how that could be possible of a true Christian. I want to rejoice that I know such a man, an overcomer, covered in the blood of Christ just like me.

discouragement

written 06.july.2006

Dear God, this is the part when I’m supposed to remember that You are more than enough for me. This is the part when I’m supposed to feel You fill all my inadequacies and rest in the peace of knowing that You have.
I’m not remembering.
I’m not feeling.
Instead, I’m wresting in my incompleteness. I’m knowing I’ll never measure up. I see my failures all over the board and can’t see the above them. In spite of being “smart,” I can’t figure out how to succeed. In spite of being passionate, I have no passion for You – or at least I don’t know how to live it out.
Your Psalms await me. I can’t face them.
Every part of me wants to pull through, but I try one thing: it fails. I try another: it fails. I fail, and fail, and fail again.
Oh, God, when? When do You rain Your power on me? When is the part when I realize I need to be broken? And when’s the part when everything makes sense because You breathe sense into it? When, Lord? When do I get to stop feeling like a failure? When do I find purpose? When do I learn it’s not about me?

falling in love with God

I believe we have to fall in love with God again before we desire to spend time with Him, reading His thoughts that He left with us, talking to Him in quiet whispers. We have to feel Him reaching down and touching us with a sunset, with rain, with delicious food, with the quietness of rest or the beauty of forgiveness. And all of a sudden we remember why we fell in love with Him the first place. And then it’s harder to face the day without Him; we desire Him then, in the morning hours; we need Him like we never knew we needed Him.

When we aren’t intimate with someone, we forget how much we love that person. And then it happens again, and we remember -- in a wash of beauty and grace and love and peace and joy -- and all we can do is catch our breath and bask in the remembering.

baby training

My mother-in-law Karen says that God does little things with our pregnant bodies to prepare it for motherhood. I don’t think she has any medical or spiritual proof of this, but I believe it. The getting up at night because your bladder is about to burst is good practice for getting up all the time with your wailing newborn. (C’mon, I know you see the similarities.) And I think maybe, too, my arms are being strengthened by pushing myself up into a sitting position, because my abs sure don’t work anymore.

I think God does other things to sort of make the landing on the motherhood pad a little softer than it could be. For instance, I was baking pumpkin bread today. I scooped the pureed pumpkin out of its can, getting it over all over myself in the process. It looked like baby food to me, squishy and orangey-brown. I had pumpkin bread dough splattered all over my shirt and arms by the time I was done mixing the batter. I thought, “This is great. I’m going to have to get used to looking and feeling like a sticky, poopy slob for days at a time.” (I’m not saying I want to look like one.)

I wonder if God’s training my feet, too. I don’t know for sure, though. Seems like if they had a break they wouldn’t be the worse for it. Two nights ago, they were all red and swollen from standing up practically all day. I had been baking monster cookies barefoot, and my heels were all callused and dirty from the kitchen floor. I gave my ankles sympathetic glances every once in a while because I had never seen them so swollen (although, I’ll admit, they were normal enough to make me question whether they really even were swollen at all). But I was still able to coerce Kyle into a foot and leg and lower back massage, and he was an absolute darling about it.

I’m getting up earlier these days, and completely voluntarily. I don’t have to get up very early, now that I only leave the house for doctor’s appointments and getting groceries, so I usually get up at eight. This morning, though, I woke up at 7.15, and I thought to myself, “You know, I really don’t need any more sleep.” So, I got up. It was a big victory, so don’t scoff at it. I think God puts the desire for earlier rising in me, and I thank Him for it. There’s something peaceful and miraculous about mornings, and there’s no other way to feel that except to get up for them.

Nesting is another way of God preparing me for motherhood, I think. It’s hardly instinctual; it’s more what I expect myself to do, so it’s very planned. I’m wiping down doors, touching up the walls with paint, baking for all I’m worth. I told Kyle I thought we might need to get a deep freeze by the time I’m done making all the food I want to make for when the baby comes. Aside from the red, swollen feet, it’s really rewarding to have made so much food lately. I’ve got pumpkin splatters on my shirt, but I’ve also got two lovely loaves of pumpkin bread cooling on the counter.

Something’s happening in my heart, too. This morning, when I was swimming in the pool, fretting about the sign that had warned, “Adults should not swim alone,” I was thinking how I was ready to plead to my murderer for my life “for the baby’s sake.” And I meant it, too. It wasn’t some cold-hearted, selfish scheme to get him to change his mind about killing me. In fact, I thought about arguing next that he could kill me as long as he called 911 first, so they could at least rescue my premature baby.

I’m trying to figure out where I got this love for this little being I’ve never seen or heard. When he kicks, Kyle says he practicing soccer, but I know the truth: he’s sending little love messages and playing games because he knows we’re out here, wondering quietly, waiting for his next move.

falling up

The great paradox is that getting to the point of living radically and wholly for Jesus means we must fall rather than go or get anywhere, do anything, or be something more than nothing.

those days

There are those days--
when words and works
just don't come--
energy, enthusiasm--
buried beneath
layers of "just don't feel like it."
And the things
you know you're
s'posed to do
lie stagnant, still. So--
you wait for grace
to drip down
in its gentle shower.
But still
you know--
grace is already
driving down--
in torrents.

practice run

I've been learning some things about writing. I've been learning that if I want to be a writer, I need to write like crazy, and get all (read some) of the bad writing out of me before I even start to pretend it's good and before I think I need to share my profoundness with other people. (Disclaimer: This blog is the exception -- I promise. I've just been blessed with some nice, non-critical readers, who let me make believe that I'm a real writer when I'm really only just practicing.)

I've been reminded about the practice-makes-closer-to-perfect thing a few times in the last couple days, but Anne Lamott said it best in her newish book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith: "I know that with writing, you start where you are, and you flail around for a while, and if you keep doing it, every day you get closer to something good."

You'd think I'd have known by now that it takes years and reams of paper to get good at writing. And I know I've read it in books about writing before because it sure sounds awfully familiar. But I've only believed it for about one day.

How do I know I believe it? Because I'm writing. I'm writing junk -- whatever comes to mind -- and I'm not expecting it to be profound or publishable. I'm just writing.

(I hope the belief sticks; that'd really be something.)

"yes, ma'am"

I think I must be getting old. Maybe it's being pregnant, or reading books in public -- alone, or maybe it's the fact that I now wear a wedding band. These things confirm to strangers that I have moved to a new stage in life. To be honest, I don't think I look a day older than I did when I graduated from high school. Well, maybe a day, but that's it.

I certainly didn't look a day older than those two girls I saw in Taco Cabana (which, by the way, is the most wonderful of all fast food taco joints. There, you can get two tacos, access to a full salsa bar, plenty of chips and queso, and a drink for only four dollars. But I digress...). The girls were really polite. I was standing in front of the door, rummaging in my purse for the keys to my sexy, totaled Honda (maybe that was it -- the digging for my keys), and when I realized I was blocking the exit, I moved aside, apologizing. They apologized, too, like they were getting in my way, which I thought was really nice. In the meantime, I found my keys, just as they were walking out the door. They both checked me over, and the girl with tattoos across her back held the door for me.

"Thank you," I said, wondering if it was the pregnant belly that prompted such kindness.
"Yes, ma'am," she said.

Yes, ma'am? I've been called ma'am by grocery store clerks and by people who are trying to get my attention and don't know my name, but never in that tone, not with so much respect. It was a warm Southern salute, and I basked in its afterglow.

I have a middle-aged friend who used to say it made her feel like an old lady to be called ma'am -- like it was a bad thing. I always thought that was dumb, since she really was noticably older than the people who addressed her. But me? I thought it was wonderful, even though as I've said, I was hardly those girls' elder.

I hope I never grow tired of being "yes, ma'am"ed. I think Solomon says somewhere that to be older is to be wiser, and it's a beautiful thing -- that there's honor in it. And I choose to believe that. There's nothing sad about wrinkled eyes and veiny legs, the sagging breasts of mothers who've nursed their children, or calloused, peeling feet (please don't ask me in ten years if I still believe this). They are as beautiful as... being called ma'am.

she adores you (to number 53)

She adores you, you know. When it was Tuesday night and she fell to pieces before you -- oh, she was a mess, 54 was. She didn't know which side was up. She didn't know how to be comforted or what to do once she was. She could only melt into your arms and pray you knew she loved you.

How do you make her smile again? How do you bring hope to that helpless wreck and make her believe she's worth something beyond Send/Receive and an empty title on the wall of her study?

You love her -- that's how. You love her in spite of her disrespect. You're brave enough to let her cry, to break the cycle, to give grace... one more time. That girl -- she adores you.

the living church

Before we fell to what we are, I believe there was a living church. I believe there were men and women in community who had faith -- not merely that God exists, but they had faith in Him; they trusted Him radically.

The living church lives through relationship -- and not relationship forced because "we both are faithful attendees of Church B," nor relationship that merely exists "deeply" until attendee A or B sins too grievously for that deepness to continue. The living church lives through relationship with the God-Man Jesus. His amazing grace flowing down over lost and broken souls catalyzes human relationship -- automatically and miraculously. It's not forced. In our innate humanness, it may be hard, but it's never out of obligation, and it's never based on anything less than the awe of the gracious blood of Jesus.

I believe the passion of the living church is getting God the maximum glory, and I believe this exists only by making missions the primary thrust of the church. Worship, fellowship, Biblical study -- they all combine to push forward the mission mandate of Matthew 28.19-20* and the promise of Matthew 24.14**. Wanting the world to be, as Keith Green would say, bananas for Jesus -- that is the goal of the living church. Missions ignites when the town drunk is embraced, when the hurting one finds love and hope through people who admit they know what hurting means too. And missions exists when the living church uses its resources to get the gospel to those who won't hear it any other way. Missions is at the very heart of a church.

I believe the authentic church still exists today, but I don't believe it's in the forms of "proven methods" of worship. Worship, after all, is anything but methodical. It's often spontaneous; it's always risky; it's heart-felt and heart-inspired. I don't believe the living church is made up of anyone convinced of their own righteousness. I believe the church is made up of the hopeless, the broken, the fallen, the abused -- the scalawags and sinners who know that by doing they can't prove anything to God about how they deserve to get into His heaven. At all levels, the living church does not forget how to say "I was wrong," "I'm sorry," "I forgive you," and "I love you." And the living church does not forget to mean it.

And then, people of the living church, in their radical faith -- though they may doubt, cry, pray, and drag their feet -- are not afraid to say, "Yes, Lord, I'll go to Lebanon," "Yes, I will give away all I own," "Yes, I will invite this dirty, bedraggled stranger into my home..." simply because their Lord asks them to. The living church has no power to do this of themselves; yet they claim the sanctifying power of the Holy Spirit, and through it, create a presence in the world so rare, so precious, so alive that it cannot be mistaken for anything but the living church.


* "Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you..."
** "And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come" (italics mine).

the shield

I hide behind my shield. Behind it, I laugh, I cry, I dance, I scream. With abandon I live -- behind the shield. I know you are real -- all of you readers.
And you can be
because you can't see me.
You only hear the dance, the laugh, the cry, the scream, the echoes of which are long subsided before you see me again.
And so I'm protected.
And you're protected.

solitude

Thank God for family. Because then when the chasm between new and old friends is so wide, you still have somebody to keep you sane, somebody to just love you for being you.

I wonder what would happen if I took off the Band-aids and showed my big, ugly scars, if the sopping emotions bared themselves as part of the me-package. I fear people would run. "Those things are supposed to be kept under wraps. Don't you know everyone suffers? But we don't have to talk about it."

Is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life? Was I just super-blessed before? Is this leaving "the fellowship"?

You get to loving your solitude, or at least you tell yourself you do. Perhaps God has built a bridge -- a narrow one -- out to our island, and we wait for someone to wander across the gap. But the bridge is narrow and hard to find. Folks can see the island, and they judge: interesting enough? smart enough? normal, average enough? real enough? enough?

And so we wait, still wondering: is this growing old? Is this moving away? Is this life?

homecoming

We didn't know which words to say, so we just picked some and hoped they were okay. We hoped they didn't make the wound deeper; we hoped they bridged the chasm. Days pass -- and we feel the distance tightening in. That's a good thing, we decide.

I choose to believe we're all gonna come home someday, and maybe it'll be because of you. Maybe you'll teach us how to say the right words, and to love, and to forgive -- not out of duty, but because you know like none of us knows: there's no other way.

to mom

I remember the day I first loved you
and knew it

You were standing in the kitchen --
little you -- so big to me
Woman of grace
and honor -- woman of God
There was a day I couldn't have told you
I love you
But that day's over now

Now you can just be my mom
and I'll be happy

writing love: thoughts on a tuesday

This may be my one last chance to write before the baby comes. When he is born, and life is more about him than us (and shouldn’t it be?), the writing will be secondary – weak – compared to showing the love I could be writing.

Perhaps all great novels – all novels whose characters’ morality far exceeds yours or mine – have their roots in love. Love is the theme; love is the point; love is their only reason to exist. I believe this about A Wrinkle in Time, Les Miserables, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. God is love, so if novels are to show God at all, they have to speak love.

Steinbeck and Lee -- they inspire me. They break my dead, hard earth with their rain of life-words. They make me believe in fiction again. They make me believe that novels will always be stronger than the essays that that analyze them.

It’s appalling that men think they’re capable of creating goodness. Goodness – and the expression of it – is a God-gift. All expression of goodness in written works is straight from God. I’ve read novels that men call great, but they have no hope and they have no love. Madeleine L’Engle wrote in one of her books (Walking on Water, I think, or maybe A Circle of Quiet) that if a story offers no hope it’s… well, hopeless. A story needs to offer the reader something other than a dead end. I agree with her. But I don’t think I can place that hope there on my own. I didn’t come packaged with the most hopeful thing of all: love. What I know of love is my God-gift, so I give my words to Him and ask Him to spin something out of them that’s far beyond the borders of my being, my intellect, or even my soul.

you muslims

I visited your house of worship thinking, "This will be such a strange people, with a religion much different than anything I've ever known."

We watched in a dark room, overlooking you men bowing, standing, praying, bending, worshiping "God Almighty." The imam sang the Arabic words; a hundred men responded. You believe this is true worship -- shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe.

But who is Jesus to you? A prophet -- equal with Muhammed, but one given miracles instead of the Qur'an. He was a man -- only a man. His death was an illusion and so he lives until the end times when he'll die a natural death. That's who you say he is.

But what of the things He said? I wanted to ask you. What of His claims to be the way, the truth, the life? What of His claims to be the Son of God? Was He a liar as well as a your prophet? If you believe in the virgin birth, then who -- Who? -- was His Father?

You Muslims sat on the floor and talked for over an hour as I shifted my legs under me, beside me, in front of me. You answered questions like it was easy, and so I know you truly believe everything you've said. You believe in everything you do.

Everything you do. That's the other thing. You believe God is holy. Perfect. Sinless. And we're not -- you and I. Funny -- I believe that too.

But what do you do at the end of the day when you recognize your depravity and God Almighty's glory, perfection, omnipotence, beauty, worth, holiness? You say, "It's time to work. It's time to get in good with the Creator of the universe." And it's funny because the story you're telling -- the one I thought would be so strange -- is so familiar, almost like... the thoughts that rattle around in my mind. But you Muslims -- you work. You do. You live like you're supposed to. You put me to shame. You are good. You Muslims are so good.

in my eyes.
but I am not God.

So at the end of the day, what do you do? What can you do...

without Jesus the Christ?

me and the drunk

Me and the drunk -- we gathered up our pieces, the only ones we saw of our tattered lives. There could have been pieces more important to the big picture, but that was all we could see, so we had to work with what we had. We picked a few up -- broken shards, memories, and the like -- hoping, knowing we'd be able to see better soon.

afraid

I'm afraid to move
afraid to breathe
to work and live

but there's nothing else
to do

except not move,
breathe,
work, live

and I've already tried that
and discovered something
better

this is freedom

This is my little piece of reality from the world. This is what convinces me the writing must go on in spite of me. There were weeks -- months? -- of silence, but they break at this sight.

Who told me it was all about me? Who told me I must have one last snippet of freedom and laziness before children break my individuality? "Sleep all you can now." That's what she said.

No, live all I can! Write all I can! Worship, sing, fly all I can! Not because I'll miss my chance come October (though I may), but because I'll miss my chance -- come tomorrow -- if I don't.

This is freedom.

the man in the middle of the street

There's a man in the middle of the street.
And his wheelchair has replaced his legs.
He holds a sign for help.
And I drive by,
wondering what his life is like
and why he chooses sign-holding as his career.

But I never ask him,
so I never know.

for all lost

For months lost,
for readers lost,
for opportunities,
for words
lost.
For worship lost,
for all lost --
I have gained.

finding the hero

I found the hero today. Or I found his edges. He was off in a corner full of the dust of my house, still as heroic as ever. I set him up on my table and asked him about his heroic deeds and why he had done them. And he told me it was all because of the love that he had and the love that was him. I smiled because I knew that answer. And he didn’t offer anymore information about his heroism because I already knew, and he knew I knew.

But he remained with his eyes just fixated on me, so I decided to keep talking so things wouldn’t get uncomfortable. So we just talked about all sorts of stuff – marriage, my problems and depression, other people’s problems and depression, and more about him.

And I asked him what else he did for a living. And he named a lot of things, but what I remember is that he said he really liked art. All kinds of art. And I thought that was cool. He said his art reflected him but that it was not him. And I thought that was kind of an obvious thing to say, and kind of weird. But I just nodded. He offered me one of his paintings then, and I took it gladly, thinking that that made it all worth my while, taking him out of the corner and onto my table like I did. He seemed glad that I liked the painting, so I smiled. And he was smiling back.

I think he liked me a lot and liked to talk about his stuff too.

And then I backed up and looked at him because, you know, I had just realized that I really liked him too, and I couldn’t believe I had left such an intriguing guy to sit and get dusty in the corner. I backed up mentally, too, just to take it all in. He had told me about all these things he had done and how wonderful his character was and everything, and for the first time in my life, I kind of felt like he was the only guy who really deserved to talk about himself like that. And I just found him so interesting, you know? So perfect and talented and good and loving. So that’s why I backed up – because I had suddenly realized that my stuff wasn’t even really worth talking about and his was.

And when I backed up, he was just so beautiful… I can’t… I can’t even… His beauty just so outshone mine that I really just disappeared – kind of like a fragment of color in a whole big painting. Then we just sat silently together, admiring all his stuff and him. And he was God.

clamour

They shot around words and ideas
like they were the enemy
instead of the tools of the enemy.
Others dodged bullets and called
for fairness and a fight.
They called for “justice for all”
and liberty now and here,
unaware that they’d have it
if they’d just shut up.

I watched and smiled – and cried –
because I felt like I was on the other side
and in the hand of peace,
still sad to know that they thought
it was all about the fight.
But maybe I was still in the fight.
I didn’t know because everything
was just so loud.

I told myself I was on the safe shore now –
the dangerous one –
where we take the hits and speak love
and all for the glory of God.

think it's about you?

"And Jonah stalked
to his shaded seat
and waited for God
to come around
to his way of thinking.
And God is still waiting for a host of Jonahs
in their comfortable houses
to come around
to his way of loving."

-Thomas Carlisle, from "You Jonah"

poetry

I don't know much about poetry. I've always been intimidated about posting my own, for fear someone who knows more about poetry than I do will read it and my secret will be out: I don't know the rules of poetry.

And then I changed my mind. (I do a lot of that.)

I decided that that's the freedom of poetry. Think of it as God-freedom, salvation-freedom, freedom from forms and formulas and checklists and periods and punctuation. Poetry lets you use the words that mean something, the words that expand your heart larger than it deserves to be expanded.

To accept poetry means you can say things like "bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh" (Genesis 2.23) even though others may say, "That doesn't mean anything." But oh, what it means! Poetry means everything; it means there's life beyond what you see and hear and smell. It means there is life, and it's to be had.

Poetry lets you feel deeply, hurt deeply, and love deeply. Poetry says, Yes, you can repeat that as many times as you want because "his mercy endureth forever" (Psalm 136). And it also says you can put words beside words they've never been beside, and the words will commune and interlock and bear offspring of truth. And then the truth will set you free.

miracle

heal heal heal
touch
and wince
and cry cry
listen

for once

it’s the breaking moment
look
at her
she’s your friend
not your foe
she hurts
cries
longs
like you

maybe
you can help
each other
now

:: written 03.january.2006 ::

war and Jesus

I’ve never known if it’s okay to hate war. I have a lot of patriotic Republicans in my life, and I like George W. Bush, so that makes for a tough combination if I hate war. But then, all those people surely hate war, too.

But I really hate war. I think it should never have to happen. I think if we really believe the Bible, we wouldn’t say that war is just something a nation has to do when our values are attacked. We’d do something more like Jesus did – love the enemies, and suffer if they torture us. There would be a lot of other things we could do without physically defending ourselves – evangelize, speak the truth about peace and love.

That’s the boldest message of all.

People probably think we – the good people – would be exterminated if we just took all the hits as they came. But I don’t think so. I don’t think God would let His witnesses be completely exterminated.

Or maybe if they were, one of the Jesus-hating enemies would find a Bible among the rubble and read about Jesus and about how he loves his enemies, and about how love is God, and how physical death isn’t the end for those who love God. Maybe then the enemy would look at the bloody, rotting body lying at his feet and see the peace all over the dead face, and he’d feel sorrow for the first time in his life. And then all the witnesses wouldn’t be exterminated anymore; there’d already be a new one.

why I disagree

So Sunday we had a Bible study around the kitchen table: a mix of family, some so seldom seen. We talked about the Holy Spirit -- His character, His functions, His history. Someone -- I don't remember who -- threw out the comment that what was most important was that we as Christians know what we should be doing; studying God's character is such an immense task that we can never know everything about the Holy Spirit. So it went without saying that learning about Him shouldn't be our focus; doing our job should be.

I nodded; that sounded logical.

But wait. What exactly is our job? And if understanding God is too massive a task, is that saying that understanding and doing our job isn't?

I'm feeling sheepish for agreeing with such an idea. Putting my whole heart into understanding God is central to my relationship with him! To claim otherwise may be one of the most dangerous fallacies in Christian theology.

Let's say that in my marriage, I wanted to serve my husband according to biblical doctrine. I'm told to submit to my husband, and reverence/respect him. Okay -- time to do my duty. I start taking care of the home -- which I heard about in the Bible -- and I submit to the things he tells me to do. Check. Check. Check. But get to know him? Men are complicated -- way too complicated. And as a woman, I can never fully understand how my husband's mind works, so I might as well stop focusing on that and keep doing my job. Forget this relationship stuff. I'll just do what the Bible tells me to do.

It's ludicrous, isn't it? I can't even understand how to do my job as a wife unless I know my husband, unless I try to understand what makes him feel respected and what makes him tick. Relationships, learning about God's character: these things are not the fluffy stuff; they're the foundational stuff.

So, you say, what about "if you love me, you'll keep my commandments"?
I would answer: this does not say, "in order to love me, you'll keep my commandments." It says "if." First comes love; commandment-following is the fruit.

"And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." -Jesus Christ, John17.3, italics mine

january fifth

And then they stopped -- the empty words, the clattering of my brain. They reached to God and asked for power and meaning. And God said, "I will give in my time. I will make all things new."

God kept his promise to Abraham. The son was promised -- again and again -- and the promise was kept to the very letter. So God will give the words He has for me. He will not hold them back to cause me pain. He will give and give and give again. As He now gives.

* * *

Drink from me--
the water
Drink from me.

Love, live, laugh,
grow.
slow.

There will be words
love
actions

Wait
and drink.

* * *

My nose is sore, my eyes dry from all the crying. But I am at peace. The pain, suffering, crying -- you know it would be yours, will be yours, if you would have the Saviour. The cross -- it is an instrument of torture. Torture me, then, and I will sing Your praise.

The itchy nose reminds me of the fight. It reminds me that the fight is not done; it is only begun. It reminds me of the soft arms -- strong -- the lips upon my head, saying, "My daughter, my bride." Most precious roles ever had. I would not be other than a daughter and a bride.

best books of 2005

Whoa. I've got practically all nonfiction on my best book reads for last year. Pride and Prejudice is on my list, but I'm not sure it really counts, beings that I had read it in high school. I just added it to balance things out a bit. I read some other fiction during the year, too, but I guess the books weren't as powerful for my life, so they didn't warrant this esteemed blog posting.

Hard to Believe by John MacArthur: "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me" (Luke 9.23). This isn't a how-to manual, although there are plenty of points I could've added to my to-do list. MacArthur's thesis claims that Christianity isn't some softsoap belief system whose tenets one can pick and choose as he pleases. Rather, true life in Christ compels its followers to a lifestyle of daily surrender and worship.

Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller: Wowee. I loved this book. Miller is witty and talented in his essays on what he calls "Christian spirituality." He blazes over some of the hang-ups of the modern evangelical church, pointing readers' minds toward the love that should be central to every beleiver's life. He's honest and, in his own raw way, charming.

God's Smuggler by Brother Andrew: Okay, so you're getting the idea that mainly Christian nonfiction has overtaken my "best books" list this year. I did read other genres; this time around, they just didn't measure up. But back to God's Smuggler. This book challenged me in ways I didn't expect. Brother Andrew tells account after account of how the mighty hand of God worked miracles as he brought hope to believers behind the Iron Curtain. As a car ran hundreds of thousands of miles when it should have been in the landfill, and Bibles became invisible to border patrolmen, Brother Andrew's message became crystal clear: God is really, really big. There is no excuse for shaky faith.

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen: So after groaning my way through this book in high school, I decided to pick it up again. After all, too many women had said they loved it; it was their favorite book. While I can't claim all that, I will it say it was a pleasurable read. In high school, I only saw ball after boring ball; every once in a while, someone would get married. Yawn.
This time around, I was patient enough to pick up on some of Austen's wit and satire. Go, Elizabeth! Way to be a normal woman, marrying for something other than money or in desperation. I'm excited to see the movie.

Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott: I got interested in Lamott from what I read on the back of Blue Like Jazz -- that Miller was like Anne Lamott on testosterone. My sister was right about what she told me when she lent me this book: Miller is way toned down compared to Lamott. Lamott sometimes made me want to hide the book cover while I was reading in public. But she's loving and honest and passionate. She takes a similar approach to Miller: here are some blurbs of my life and things I learned. In spite of the temptation to think I was an infinitely better Christian than she, I will admit -- Lamott did teach me a thing or two.

Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis: A must-read. Or a must-listen -- however you can get to it first. I listened to this one (and for those of you who think that's cheating, it was unabridged). Starting at the simplest stage possible, Lewis argues why there is a God, and he later delves into a rational but powerful case for Christianity in particular. A good exercise for the brain and the soul.

romans 14.8

And now I feel the freedom.
It washes down like gentle rain
that will mingle with tears and joy.
It will not despise the dry season,
for dryness deserves its respect,
for dryness and Sun make things grow.

But now I feel the freedom.
And no one would tell me to stop this
to do my duty.
For this is duty -- in freedom.
And freedom waits, loves, seeks,
and joys in the Giver of freedom-
and not only in the freedom itself.

embrace

Together – you women are all alone. You have no friend, none that really cares, none that loves you as much as you love. Do you love? You scorn them that don’t love. Can you love and scorn at the same time?

Together – you women are alone. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It isn’t supposed to be this way. Touch the hands that are reaching out. Touch with your cold fingertips as you stand in a circle – together. As you are reaching, with eyes closed, you will feel the fingers that are reaching out, belonging to the woman – the women – with eyes closed.

And then open your eyes. See beauty. Start to see love. First, and always.