Category Archives: God

Church for the rest of us

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I don’t go to church. I should. I used to speak in church. Also teach aerobics, Sunday school, and youth group. It was like a one-man band.

The reason why it was like that was the apathy at the heart of that church. It was a social club, not a place of worship, a fact that became quite clear when I went to the leaders about a self-confessed pedophile.

Church is not a building
Church is not good coffee
Church is not the offering plate
Church is not babysitting
Church is the cathedral of the world, built by God not man.

Maybe you are like me–so burned by the wolves in the sheepfold that you don’t want to risk yourself on God or His messy people.

If you feel burned by it all, you probably have a good reason.

So try this–
Ask Him to show you His love
Falling leaves? Squirrels? Snow? Your children?

The world is full of signs of Grace. Look for them.

Then try Jesus. He is church–the strong tower of love. Open the books of Matt, Mark, Luke, or John and read a story –a verse, five verses.

Then listen. Find a quiet place and listen.

He loves you.
That is church.

(God loves us so much that He sent His only true soul’s child to scoop us out of despair and the hells we make for ourselves and give us hope, love and a place of sanctuary close to his motherly heart)

Church.
Built by the hands of Love

Surviving the Perfect Storm

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I went to Cape May once, Atlantic City twice, New York City a handful of times. Places of national iconic memory as well as personal.

I have also survived hurricanes. I know about their massive deadly power, the way they stir the sea. When you are waiting for a hurricane you pray two prayers–God, keep people safe and God, not us.

Most people don’t like to admit to the second one. It is a selfish prayer, a prayer of survival.

I think of the Krims. Their perfect storm was providing kindness to a stranger they thought they knew. The waters will recede, cleanup will restore the streets of New York, but each minute of each day will be a terrible hurricane of loss for an ordinary American family.

My prayers remain, just as I pray for all those who struggle to survive the violence of loss, another kind of fierce and deadly storm.

The Servant King

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Isaiah 42:1-4 (NIV)
“Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
my chosen one in whom I delight; I will put my Spirit on him, and he will bring justice to the nations. [2] He will not shout or cry out, or raise his voice in the streets. [3] A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice; [4] he will not falter or be discouraged till he establishes justice on earth. In his teaching the islands will put their hope.”

Happy Birthday to Me

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Last year I had not yet written an obscure self-published memoir called Just: a story of the lost and found.

I was not on Facebook. I was a private citizen wading through the havoc and grief caused by our decision to adopt a boy who would rob us all of our innocence.

My birthday is a watermark. Three years ago I did not know my children were being abused. We found out the weekend of Columbus Day 2009.

Rough memory
It stalks through family
Pictures, movies
Dates and times
No one is safe from it
The dark ominous
Scowl of truth

I have given myself some birthday gifts:
The gift of freedom from what people think
The gift of mobility
The gift of prayer (to the God Who Indeed Lives)
The gift of preservation and strength for my children
I have walked away from people I wanted to trust because they did not fight for my children
I fought instead

So it will be strange for me today, my birthday because I do celebrate these years–this gift of a broken life redeemed.

And I bless my God, my Friend for this new community He has given me

In place of the years
The locusts have eaten

I served my time…

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To understand the old woman
Walking down the quiet street
Tonight with a baby
Sleeping in her arms
You would have to look
Back to a room
In a borrowed house
Wooden floors/old carpet
And chairs from a garage sale
Heavy with layers
Of paint the two children
Small, shocking
Red
Hair they match each other not taking
Time outs in those beat up chairs/rooms/carpet
Years I don’t just
Wanna forget
Wanna unravel
Why he could hurt me so much
For so many years
And hurt my babies too?

They wiggle off the chairs
Again and again
Hold them the caseworker says
Hold onto them
I think
Until I had to let them go

The Hell of Words

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Once
When you were still a boy
I walked with you
Into cool water in a dying light
No deeper than your waist
Although the gulf itself
Stretched for miles
Out forever

When I draw words for hell
I get them from Sartre
Not Jesus
Or Dante
Like lighting a match
To draw fire

This room is airless enough
The faces of it’s inhabitants
Never vary/a rictus of pain

I wonder…
Are you as afraid as I am
Of the little things
That last
Forever?
And the possibility
That there will be
No way out.

After the Dry Season

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Used to
Take it for granted–
Rain come down

But now I don’t.

When the sky darkens
I hold still
Lightning snakes
Across the sky
I rejoice

Thunder calls out
The name of God
Alive still in the world

Rain falls
And I take nothing for granted
Splendor falls in a million pieces
Of refracted light
Makes gray avenues live
Each drop happy patter
From impossible clouds
Trees solemn in waiting
Doze above this parched earth
Gathering in it’s hands
Luminous pools
Of water

Clay pots and true treasure

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The story involves a baby swatting a vase which then rolls off a table to the bench below. The vase is visibly chipped by not shattered.

We mourn for a few seconds
That we could not fix it
That we could not have snatched it from the edge

The kids watch for my reaction
I tell them, that is why we buy vases from Goodwill.

Peace.
I know that this simple event is crucial for us because my reaction provides traction for my kids. What I did not do or say reflects my priorities as much as what I did.

My child is the treasure. All the vases in the world are not as precious as one dear little child.

The rest is dust.

Covering

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Isaiah 28:20 (NIV)
The bed is too short to stretch out on, the blanket too narrow to wrap around you.

I maintain
That poetry
Is what prophets write
When ordinary warnings
Fail

Prophesy
How you will be
Good
Preach to me
About tomorrow
Whether it will rain
And we will all
Be swept away
By all the things we never said
Before the invention
Of the rain
-bow.