An artist at the festival

He’s a man wearing a Tailor-made life

it fits him perfectly; he pulls it off
He struts around in it with joy, telling his story to whoever will listen

His Tailor-made life has pockets for all his treasures
but they overflow;
so he sells his extra treasure at festivals
offering classes so others can learn
to gather and capture and celebrate
and pour out
like he does

He looks my teenage son in the eye with seriousness, saying
“You miss every opportunity you don’t take,
so take your chances;
it might be a miss but you gotta show up, you gotta try”

He has found his song,
he sings it joyfully,
his gray beard framing his smile,
his fervent invitation

Later that night,
My son captures a sunset.

fired

 I’ve been fired from my job

my (self-appointed) job of running the universe.

God did it.
He found me spinning, frantic
Dousing all the fires
Taming all the rollercoasters
Trying
Trying so much
To stay ahead of it all.

“You’re fired,” he said
or maybe it was
“You’re tired.”
(I’m not sure
I wasn’t looking at his face)

I don’t remember how it went
I just remember rest, received
like a gift, like a nap
Like falling into strong arms with resignation
and relief.

“I quit.”

The doors of my soul are open

Jesus walks freely about the rooms

Come in, Lord, see

You are welcome here.

Breeze, blow through;

Air it out, freshen me up.

What furniture needs rearranging, Lord?

How’s the remodeling going?

Tear down, build, remake me,

Even though it hurts

Doors of my soul, open to Him

It is He who made you and remakes you

He is making all things new.

Let Him.

The shape of hands, giving thanks

The shape of hands, giving thanks

They hold what is given tenderly

With all the weight of attention, right now, here

Savoring, naming what is given

and giving thanks to the Giver.

They share, they don’t begrudge

Knowing nobody gets all the blessings, 

nobody gets everything all at once

and there is enough

They are open

They hold what is given 

and let go of what is not given

If God does not will it, it will turn into worms in these hands

They hold a heart out, 

the real and wanting heart, with the wounds and the worries

the questions and the darkness

the tension of things broken and waiting

to a Giver who can be trusted

They let go of grasping

They let go of fighting for something else

They let go of directing the play

and settle into the character, the scene, given, right here. 

They let go

or they try to let go

and when there’s a fist of grasping that can’t let 

Then there’s a letting go of forcing

and a prayerful incompleteness that can be OK (even not OK)

If He who began this work on these hands

has promised to complete it

The shape of hands, giving thanks

is the shape of hands that feel the heartbeat of Jesus

steadied by His love

held fast by His holding, 

right here.

Jesus, caretaker of all that is precious,

behold

and hold

our hands. 

--------

The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places, 

indeed I have a beautiful inheritance. 

In your presence there is fullness of joy;

At your right hand are pleasures forevermore. (Psalm 16)

 

 my heart, in church <2wks from the wedding

Her little brother has his head in her lap, and she rubs his back

They’ve played house together for so long; 

and just as he’s outgrowing being little-brothered

she’s about to set up her own house, for real.

I stand next to her at the communion rail

feeling the acute reality of the season’s end

I lean towards her just a little; arm on arm

so i can feel the swiftly-passing closeness of her presence, 

just a little longer

Our Lord is with us. His hand on my shoulder, and His other on hers

He sees the grief of our parting; 

He sees the joys and the pains ahead;

He stands with us now, and He loves. 

“I’ll take care of her; I’ll be with her in this next part”

He says.

(To me or to her?

Both. )

the look that multiplied

 “Be fruitful and multiply,” God said, but I didn’t mean to multiply that look on a boy's face when the engine comes alive.

I saw that look in Florida, before we were dating, when he took his Audi through sharp curves that made me startle and hold on; I remember that one time I accidentally touched his hand and then pretended to be angry to hide my embarrassment.

He and the boys are restoring Grammy's old Yamaha motorcycle this week. “How fast did you go?” one brother asked another. “The speedometer is not working” he replied through a smile and blown hair, and the crackling energy of his aliveness, the thrill, reverberated between the boys and my husband; the same smile bounced from one to another, and my wide-eyed womanly hesitations only made the smiles bigger. 

What God has multiplied races past me
I’m watching the terrifying beauty unfold
and groping for the grab handle.

 Some were fruitful, multiplied and were overpowered;

as they beheld the stubborn strength of their offspring

who towered over their shrinking forms

and they saw the terrors of the land, and their eagerness to fall headlong,

and their hands became powerless, and they quaked at the future, 

sleep fled from their eyes and peace from their hearts

Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, 

and he delivered them from their distress.

He held tenderly their weak hearts, and taught them to smile at the future. 

As he opened and emptied their hands, He filled them with himself.

Then they lifted their eyes and were glad, and His Word became their strength.

Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love,

for his faithfulness to generations

(An extension of Ps 107)

still

 Be still, He says, and I nod, agree, and walk faster

it just feels better to keep moving

to jump from one accomplishment to the next, strength tostrength tostrength

running, outrunning it all or at least movingforward fastforward

Pause. Stop. 

Sit in quiet, in shocking, unsettling stillness

stillness like a straight jacket

and feel crawling restlessness in my arms and legs

a heart grasping about for something i should be 

doing-cleaning-improving-planning

a soul, flailing around, unsettled, in empty space

off balance with no direction to point, no goal to race towards

What, am I supposed to just stand here?

Where do I put my hands when they are not busy? 

a restless shuffling of feet, adjusting clothing, fiddling with hair

i’d rather be a speedboat going somewhere (anywhere)

than a buoy, just floating here

passive, moved and unmoving, anchored but not driving

i try to imagine myself, 

tethered and still, 

just bobbing 

in 

one 

place

Can I close my eyes and just BE for five minutes?

without managing, moving, analyzing something, without holding a steering wheel? 

all the speedboats around me and in my brain vie for my attention 

i don’t know where to look, how to look away for a minute

to close my eyes and simply be SMALL

to feel the depths that go unnoticed at the surface

can i keep my hands at my sides, or, even better, FOLDED

for just a moment?

still?

in

one 

place

I hear my heartbeat

feel my breaths

they come unbidden

like the waves

Settle me down, Lord.

Still me, 

and I 

will 

be 

still.

ode to questions

A question wielded skillfully in hand

can be a friendly tap, a gentle nudge

an invitation to a world of thought

a tool to break the lock that wouldn’t budge



a question is a gun, a live grenade

a way to test a mental universe

a dare, a threat, a scalpel and a light

for truth to shine and darkness to disperse

thoughts on boulders

 

Another day of

pushing boulders up a hill,

using back and hands and face and feet

being the momentum behind it all,

fighting complaints, laziness, gravity, the universe itself

holding the boulders up, and the standards

accountability and measuring progress

with shaking arms and sweat and exhausted determination

She’s trying to convince the boulders that UP is UP

when they argue “what’s even the point?” 

thinking that they would be happier if mom would just let them go

that a roll downhill would be fun,

they want peace in the valley

(the mountain is too much work)

and she does too! But pushing boulders up a hill

bearing the weight of each one and the way they should go

(always up,

always up,

miles and miles more to go)

this seems to be her job right now

always up, she pushes

boulders who sometimes hate her for pushing

angry boulders 

who wish they were anywhere else but here

on this mountain,

with her

and the constant pushing.

Will they be happy to know

that her arms are giving out?

Will she be flattened when she lets go?

---

She’s taking a minute, these days,

She’s sitting, for just a minute, and she’s wondering…

Is she living the wrong metaphor?

What if kids don’t actually need to be FORCED through the seasons

What if the growth is what’s natural, not just the gravity,

What if growing up is more like rolling DOWN the hill?

What if gravity and growth are both the work of God

a work that will happen with or without her?

How much of her parenting efforts are like trying to turn a river sideways,

when really all the river needs is a little bit of shoring up on the sides?

Or maybe some rivers do need turning, but she’s not strong enough

If she died tomorrow, time will keep moving and they will keep growing, rolling without her.

They would still grow up.

What if some of her pushing boulders UP the hill is actually fighting the plan of God,

pushing against her own powerlessness,

trying to control what she can’t control,

pushing hard against simply LETTING God’s plan unfold?

What if they are all going to grow up with broken parts,

like she did, 

and what if there’s nothing she can do about that?
And what if God will help them work it out 

and cover it all in grace 

and it will still be OK?

What if He actually has a purpose for them?
What if it includes suffering?
What if she could believe suffering didn’t mean his absence,

didn’t mean all was lost?

What if she didn’t think it was her job to help everyone avoid pain?

What if her work to avoid suffering 

is pushing a boulder up a hill

fighting gravity

AND fighting God?

What if no matter what she does the boulders are going to roll

and her only real choice is to fruitlessly fight it

or get out of the way?

And sometimes even be flattened by it?

What if boulders rolling down the hill

are not always plans out of control, 

or despair, 

or backtracking,

but are sometimes like shedding a weight not meant to be carried,

like joyful resignation,

like

children running down a hill,

learning how legs work, 

how grass feels under their feet

taking the risks of falling, 

wind in their hair,

gaining speed, 

figuring it out

what if the boulders are people, 

learning to run and not grow weary

gravity and God and risk and suffering and joy all together

What if someday she could learn to run with them?