(This poem is a spin off from another (better) poem called The Vision- watch the original, better version here. What follows is my attempt to personalize it in the context of my own vocation. Lines marked with ** are direct quotes from The Vision poem)
The Vision (rewrite, for motherhood)
So this lady messages me and says,
"What's the vision? What's the big idea?"**
I open my chat and words come out like this…
The Vision?
The vision is JESUS – passionately, imperfectly, desperately Jesus.
The vision is an army of women.
You see mamas in yoga pants? I see an army. And they are FREED from vanity.
They are free and yet they are slaves**
of the tiny and whiny and crying
laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs**
They work while it storms, plunging hands in dirty dishwater, ignoring the howls of the wind and world, serving and loving with eyes on JESUS.
They make their temporary homes, their blanket forts, with care,
ready to be transplanted at a moment's notice
Hospitality flows inside, as they light candles and arrange flowers
chosen so as to remind of the garden to which they head,
the light which spurs them on and calls them home.
The nests they make become fortresses, as God takes blankets and turns them into stone walls to keep out the howling winds of the world.
They raise armies under blankets with read-aloud stories of courage and faith and JESUS.
They walk with swollen bellies, heads up, proud to be living gardens of life
and bearing the scars from brushes with death,
the wounds of taking the risks of love
in a broken world.
The flowers they raise are not tame;
they turn from soft beauty into soldiers, fortress-makers, light bringers
They see past the sulking, the rage tornado storms in the heart of the adolescent
they see the barely-lit ember of faith, smoldering
and they breathe on it
The shrapnel pierces.
play-dough gets stuck in the cracks and seams are torn.
They keep breathing life.
He breathes out and they breathe in**
and all have eyes on Jesus.
With clear eyes and open hands
sowing seed recklessly
fighting for joy
sharpening arrows
preparing to launch them
They pry each other’s eyes open, straining glances past the rubble to the promised land
Shooting up defiant gratitude that flies past the dark clouds into heaven and is received gladly by their Maker.
They shun sloth and instead choose service, with heart and flesh and womb and hands
Bruises and stretch marks and wrinkles and heartaches are their battle wounds and they wear them proudly
They pour out and out,
crawling empty to the altar where they are forgiven and filled
where they grin quietly upwards**
and hear the crowds chanting**
again and again**
ONWARD!
With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.**
When they have wiped the last mouth
and launched the last hope-bringer into the the wreckage of this world
they will proudly take their seats
smiling tired, matronly wisdom
commending the garden to Jesus
Boldly resting in the presence of Jesus
Hopes, hearts, outcomes,
bodies, breath, life, death, all in the hands of Jesus.
YES.
I type this out and then I lay down exhausted.
This vision is far too big for a regular morning
when we slept in late and the house is a mess and I don’t want to sacrifice that last piece of bacon to an ungrateful child.
But maybe that’s the point.
The vision is too big because I don’t have it in me
If this is going to come to pass,
it will be done by the strong, miraculous hand of God,
who finishes what he started in us.
I close my laptop,
but my small, shaking, empty hands stay open
under God’s open heaven
My feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great 'Amen!' from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ himself.**
Amen.
Come Lord Jesus.**
