She is a tough mama
Says things like
listen carefully
And be still
Of course she is swamped with work
Mostly contract–
Cleaning up crime scenes
And the debris left by careless
Men
She does not make the stuff she cleans
Disappear
She simply packs it away
In suitcases which resemble– safes
Attaché cases
Body bags
Zip
Then she turns to the aggrieved
Yes, the aggrieved
with her steely-eyed gaze
Says c’mon
Let’s drag this
To yonder cross.
Anger is my intimate
Companion
Eyes me over soup
Shouts instructions
As I mow the lawn
He has the worn face
Of a college professor
The demeanor of a silent
Partner
In what?
You are right to ask
Why is he here?
Oh, I will blink,
As I think how to phrase this…
He helps me to articulate
Why I am so dependent on
His wife, Forgiveness,
For everything
I used to preach. Seems weird to me now because those sermons, talks and exhortations all exist beyond the scrim of discovering that my children (and their friends) had been, were being sexually abused by my adopted son, Charles.
By the time the abuse was revealed I had already quit because Em was having lots of problems. Charles just finished the deal.
All this to say that following Jesus is not about hearing or preaching sermons. It is about living the life of God in His wake and in His love.
Harder than a sermon, as elemental as a preschool lesson–
1. Ask Him to pour out
His love all over you
And
2. Pour it out on others
They say that God Himself designed the space between a mother and her child. It is the perfect distance for the eyes of a child, focused on a love that should anchor them to a fixed point in an unfixed universe.
The bond of a mother with a nursing child establishes the language of the unspoken, irrevocable promise–I am here and because I am here you are safe.
–Dame NP Doxia, A Dragon’s Guide to Raising the Human Child, pg. 7b
That comet dust would make me
Think of you
All dazzle-y and luminous
Because of wandering
Light
your eyes
hold all the
Cities of the world
And their lashes
Each borrowed
From distant ashes
Come from burning infinite
Suns
Of heaven will be fierce
With the smudgy lines of
Zinc oxide slashed across their faces
War paint angels
Colorful
is that food coloring?
No. But it is washable
After play time
After recess
After our snack of apples cut in even slices
Rich in a new color–
colors
Vivid
Will be my new name
When I get there
I will use the injunction you taught me (joy)
C’mon, let’s go play
Some days I almost forget it is there
Protruding as it does
Through my sternum
La-la-la I think
For about, um, 30 seconds…
Then it all comes back
When you say oh, I don’t do that anymore
Like it was a hobby you grew out of
Or…oh, the movie was fun
Like you are at summer camp with your pals
I must breathe
Which hurts the freaking sword
In-my-chest
When you..
When you..
Oh that is right
You don’t remember
I stay up too late. I am looking for meaning. I feel like an old woman rummaging through her things, longing for the people attached to them–
Tom’s chair
Ruby’s dress
The people I want back are mostly living. I want them to be braver or more honorable, kinder or stronger.
But they are not. So I rummage
For meaning
For hope
For the person I once was
This is my nightly vigil
My grief.
Last Sunday night I went to church. Nice church. Comfortable. Friendly. Relaxed atmosphere. Even stayed in the sanctuary for half the sermon. The rest of the time I hung out with the under 5 set in a very nice foyer. It was my best church experience in a long time.
A nice man said they had childcare. There was a moment when I thought about spilling my story.
I don’t leave my kids much because….
Because…
Well, once you realize you trusted a wolf in sheep’s clothing you realize you are a bad detector of sheep costumes
Everyone is except the other wolves.
There is a point in the cycle of loss when people come up for air. The tragedy at the heart of the universe is still there but there is the small hope that words may matter, when so much has been lost.
I tell one child to look up reactive attachment disorder and describe to the other the symptoms of borderline personality disorder.
I am leery of words. How do you describe the damage to a baby or a child of rootlessness and hunger and a world of cold loneliness punctuated by chaos and violence?
I hate what he did to the point of wishing with all my heart that I could unspool his childhood to the day he was born and undo the damage, hold and feed the wee baby to prevent the hours and days and years of pain he will inflict on others.
He has inflicted on us.
Only God can breathe life into the dead.
Carrying Light 