Long before our terrible story your birthday was already
the feast of Servites pruning winter roses. I cling to that now, all the other days this day could be:
Obstinate mountains lumber into obeisant seas
Lame men whole, blind men see
Dead men rise and shake off their shroudy bindings
impossible things all around ya
If only you will
See
Not often enough
Do I think about the light I cannot see
The whole beings made of it who
Could be standing right beside me
defined by light not visible to me
Or smell, or touch or sound or taste
All senses which could be
Stronger somehow–
A male polar bear can smell a mate from 100 hundred miles away
Sharks can smell single droplets of
Blood in the water miles away
What portion of my human brain is cordoned off for
My sense of Love? How far, how long, how wide a net
Will you cast for me?
I learned a long time ago that even a child can have dark spots, scorched places where
Love should have been
She writes to probe an old wound we share between us
A ghost who walks and spits and curses his proper Maker
What can I say?
What can I tell you that has not already transpired between us?
Only that God can tell a girl to go look
For her little sister (to play)
Then set the captives free
In the stories of Jesus’ public ministry there are accounts of people who have been healed of skin diseases which would have set them apart from their communities due to infection prevention measures codified by the Mosaic law.
In some of these stories, Jesus heals them and gives them permission to not tell people they were ever infected with these diseases.
I think this injunction was made (at least in part) to allow them to have a new life, unencumbered by prejudice.
When my family moved to a new place a few years after we found out that our adopted son had sexually assaulted some of our children, I realized that this was our chance to “start anew.”
We had pushed for legal consequences for Charles. We had a good counselor in the aftermath. We moved to protect the children. We were open with everyone in our previous community.
But we chose to continue
To tell our story.
The result has been fascinating and lonely.
There is a lot of prejudice about victims of sexual abuse and their families, maybe especially in churches.
We could be contagious?
Maybe
Or maybe it is our openness that scares them.
Either way, we call it “the island.” We live on an island
An island made of truth and pain and loneliness
With a single, unwavering resident
The one who heals us.
The one who knows this quiet place.
The one who tells us the truth will set us free.
My family is healthy, happy, and stable because we have never tried to hide
The story of our grief
But it can be quiet
On the island.
Weeks ago I emailed a woman
Whose purpose in the world is to
Raise funds for abortions in Texas
Her job is taking children
Out
I got an automated email in return
I will be out of the office until…because…
Maternity leave.
“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.”
Even Voltaire had his foolish chains
I doubt he reveres them any longer
In the bowels of all
Eternity
I pull down the old book, look for recipes for cultivating children, like the time she sewed the earth with dragon’s teeth and made them into men…
I don’t want men
I want daisies
Dozens and dozens, hundreds and hundreds, legions and legions, fields upon fields
Filled with Bellis perennis–beauties everlasting
Because only God can
Make lasting
Children out of words
And wildflowers
They boarded the plane. Put their bags in overhead compartments. Scanned the list of drinks and snacks on what they thought would be a long flight. Buckled in the children. Watched the international pantomime for safety on an airplane. Assured flight attendants they were old enough for exit seats.
None of us are
Ready for the impact
The percussion, the fire, the fall
As though the story we had been always told about Icarus was a slanderous lie
He did not fly too close to the sun at all
No warning, no premonition, no string long enough to thread them free of
The labyrinth, the
Friendly fire
The moon ploughs up, silver boat on the sea of night. You see it all clear now, I suppose, about the way we become and belong to what or who we
Worship
If not love, then war
Which will
Tear a man to pieces.
Psalm 20:7 NIV
[7] Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
The cat thinks morning tea might lead to cream, or better yet–canned food. She follows me to the kettle and I tell her hope springs a turtle.
A quote from you, of course
You from the past
Me from the past. A person who seems so remote to me now.
I had to let you go
Would be content with a turtle
For all that hope
I had for you and me
Still eternal.
Carrying Light 