AMEN

Sometimes...
Sometimes I just don't want to be
the gracious woman
anymore.

I want to be
A tantrum-ing
Kicking
Arm-flailing
Screaming
Conniption-fitting
Child.

Sometimes
I weary of
Arm-patting
Hand-holding
Tissue-issuing
Hugging.

Alright...
Once again
I guess I'm supposed
To step aside
To let you move
To where you
need to be.

But this time...
This time
I will be
Noisy
About it.

I will knock over
The planter
Leap on the table
Strip off my clothes
Hold my breath
Stomp through the hall
Cuss
And spit
And yell
To high heaven.

Because sometimes...
Sometimes
That's the purest
Prayer.

A Walking Prayer for Richard Twiss

Walking south to you Grandfather, sweet wind of hope,
my mother the sea
rushes to my side and runs back,
rushes to my side and runs back;
whispers at my feet.

Ask, she says.

I cannot bargain with the Mighty One.

Ask, she says.

Each step a plea,
a drumbeat.
Each step a wail,
a laugh, a dance.
Each step a prayer.

I cannot bargain with the Mighty One.

You can struggle;
You can wrestle,
You can ask.

Each step a plea,
a drumbeat.
Each step a wail,
a laugh, a dance.
Each step a prayer.

Walking south to you Grandfather, sweet wind of hope,
I see a great tree
standing tall like a man
alone on a hill.

Feet still upon the path,
arms reaching to your face,
fingers strumming your sweet wind.
A tall tree,
a graceful tree,
a bold, piercing, laughing tree
standing lone on a hill.

Stretched
Between
Us
And You.

Each step a plea,
a drumbeat.
Each step a wail,
a laugh, a dance.
Each step a prayer.

Walking south to you Grandfather, sweet wind of hope,
I see my heart.
That I am selfish.
That I want his feet upon the path.
That I want to anchor his root.
That I have already forgotten
a tree never dies.

Each step a plea,
a drumbeat.
Each step a wail,
a laugh, a dance.
Each step a prayer.


February 2013: In memory of Richard Twiss -   https://www.facebook.com/RichardTwissLegacy

I Cannot Deny

I cannot deny
Intentional Love
Toward me
From without
From within

Experiential
Intentional
Love

Signifiers
Sometimes a whisper
Sometimes a shout
Heralds
A Truth
"Beloved."

Beyond knowing
Yet known
Beyond seeing
Yet seen
Beyond touching
Yet touched

From without
From within
We dance

Experiential
Intentional

Love
Toward
Me

God.

Ode To Muse

An invitation to surrender
To worship
To sacrifice, lay bare
the echoes.

The loft - a sanctuary
Surrounds me like a hug.
The writing table - an altar
Invites me to kneel.
Calls me to reverence
Beseeches me to spill out
To trust
Woos me to Truth.

I balk
Tremble
Toy
Sigh
Walk by you, touch you
Walk by you.
Sigh again.

You tap my shoulder
Whisper in my ear
"I will meet you there."

And I know "there"
Is the altar of my heart.
The place I fear
Because I am inadequate
Unsure
Confused
Unskilled
Mediocre
Simple
Over my head - way over my head.

And I know "there"
is the altar of the keyboard.
The place I fear
Because I am inadequate
Unsure
Confused
Mediocre
Simple
Over my head - way over my head.

But You say
"Yes, I know my dear.
That's the point."

Oh, To Be Hushed

...........in the wake of Newtown (update, and now Boston);
and the Newtowns of Syria, Gaza, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uganda, Thailand, China, Indonesia, Mexico....


I pray for a Jesus-y voice to rise above the din, a voice that will hush us.

A voice that peels away, sheers off,
our logical defenses
our rationed benevolences
our self-serving agendas
our short-sighted intentions.

A voice that unites us in our shames:
of sensationalism above sensitivity
of glamour above mental affliction
of mammon above poverty
of sword above plow
of individual rights above human rights
of homeland barriers above a welcoming hearth.

A voice so laden with grace, with humanity, with heart-break
that we cannot utter a sound
to counter.

A voice that melts us
drives us to our knees
breaks our hearts.
Hushes us.  Hushes us.

A voice that speaks to the darkness
in us.

Oh, to be hushed.
To be hushed.

unRaveling, unWrapping the Gift

It's been several years since I've displayed my Nativity scene.

Part of the time it was stored away because I was living out of a suitcase.  Then when I found a little place to call home, I didn't have room for it.  No extra shelf space, nothing to rearrange to give it place.  So it stayed boxed up.  And I really didn't mind, because actually I've been sorting out this Nativity narrative for a while.  Keeping it stored away gave me permission to wrestle with it.  In a way I was deliberately abstaining from its presence.  I wasn't abstaining from my faith or the God of my faith, but I was and still am unpacking a lot of theology that has in a way, kidnapped Faith.

In my struggle, I have felt bound to human constructs that frankly squashes the very life out of faith, that denies doubt, prohibits questions, and demands unthinking allegiance.

Because I experienced  (for lack of a better term) a God-encounter set within a framing construct, the two, the construct and the encounter, became synonymous.  How we think about God, how we explain God, how we handle the ancient narratives somehow becomes the authoritative focal point rather than the lens.  Our human constructs become the bigger story, bigger than the God of the narratives.

We don't like mystery; we are puzzled, almost tormented by paradox; we quake in a void.  So we construct meaning we can digest, and we call this Faith.

Intuitively I think I knew this, but when it comes to grappling with Spirit, human constructs are both comforting and stagnating.  Despite the tensions of intellectual, psychological, and spiritual dishonesty, I held just as tightly onto my human constructs as I did to the God of my encounter.

It wasn't until I attended Seminary that I saw a distinction.  That gentle, respectful environment permitted room for wrestling, for sorting out, deconstructing the human elements from the mystery of God.  Layer by layer, after teasing out the literary genre, the historical context, the grammatical tenses, the archeological discoveries, the parallel literature of the Ancient Near East (which all shape meaning), what we were left with again and again was....

.....mystery, paradox, a void.  More questions than answers.

While acknowledging both, our human ability to understand and give meaning and our human inability to understand and give meaning, all we really have left is a response.....faith.

Faith in the Mystery, the Paradox, the Void.


The other day unpacking my Christmas decorations, I came across my stashed away manger.  Because I am living in a different house, I now have room for my Nativity scene.  Habitually I set up the pieces arranging the story like I'd always heard it, but as I did I felt agitated, grieved.  I tried to ignore the blah undercurrent, but I kept asking myself, why is this bothering you?

As I stepped back and caught the "whole story" framed there in my living room, I realized  my struggle.  The traditional setting of the Nativity is orderly, staged.  Everyone has their place and every place has its appropriate thing or person.  Kind of, theological-like.  It feels contrived, not real.  Certainly not real like my-world-real or even real like Jesus-in-his-scene-real.  There was something about the whole thing that felt, phoney.

I was about to put it away, but couldn't let it go.  I wanted it there.  But I wanted it to be more real; I wanted the imagery to reflect truth.

So I messed it up.

I moved the pieces all around; very random.  There are no wise men gatherings or shepherd clusters or barn animals framing a manger.  Baby Jesus is not fore-front but skewed over to the side; Mary's worshipping but she's focused on the angel (and bless its heart, I realized my angel has a broken wing, which now has become my favorite piece).  Joseph is confused and wandering, a wise man is talking to a camel and another is facing the wall.  I love it.

In the mess, Love is present.  In the confusion, God is with us.  In the chaos we are offered a gift, wrapped in Mystery and Paradox, presented in a vortex.  It is called faith.  And the wonderment is how God steps right in as we unwrap, unravel, accept.  

Merry Christmas - Blessed Nativity.                

                

        

Scarred By Love

At first glance, my demographic can be sized up pretty quickly - middle class, suburban, modest, white woman. Labels have always defined me. But as Kierkegaard said, "once you label me, you negate me." I think that's why I love my tattoo.

My crowd would assume I must have had a roaring drunk moment in my youth, or that I am a loose woman prone to impulsiveness, not giving much thought to permanence.

But my tattoo is not a novelty. It is holy ground. It was etched by one worth dying for; it symbolizes one worth living for. It hails a four year old child, my grandson Parker, who died two years ago from a tragic fall from a two story window.

My son and I were stunned in grief. I needed a way to touch that place; to touch it together with him. We had danced around his profession, a tattoo artist. I had come to accept his artistry and vocational community, but I hadn't yet found a way to embrace it that said, "bless you my son."

A few days after Parker's death, steeped in sorrow, aching the loss of my grandchild and the brokenness of my son, I found the touching place. Stroking the inside of my wrist, I knew I had found the place to meet my son, the place to connect in a combination of ink, tears, and hearts.

He designed it for me; he etched it as we clung together in love and loss, remembering a precious little boy who giggled his way into our lives and left his mark in our souls.

Yes; I am scarred with an eternal stain - the stain of Holy love.

Bless you my son(s).