The Parable of a Floor

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The floor lay beneath Berber carpet for years–maybe fifteen, maybe twenty. I am sure it was pretty when it was new.

When the carpet came up the floor was exposed, rough with bits of carpet underlay and glue. I sanded off the glue and bits of carpet. We all pried up staples.

Other jobs intervened–xeriscape, painting, and my husband’s amazing carpentry.

I spent this weekend scraping the floor, staining it, and then applying the first layer of polyurethane.

It felt like archeology–the floor went from bare wood to rich beauty. It is now my favorite floor in the house–every detail, every sign of age has taken on a rich patina of grace.

Real. It is real and because it is real it is lovely. You can imitate real, you can buy it for a price, but when it is a transformation you are allowed to participate in, the picture stays with you–a beautiful history.

The Beautiful Song

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In the months before I lost Veronica I refrained from listening to ordinary love songs. I remember those months too well–waiting in hope and fear.

I had so much faith. I knew–knew He would bring her back. It has been 14 years. 3 to go…

I have felt that fear so many times since–the fear of loss and grief and love.

Perfect love casts out all fear.

Imperfect love clings to the scarred feet of Perfect Love, praying for flat out miracles.

Hypothetical Questions

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Imagine you thought you could change the world. No. Not the whole frickin’ thing, just bits and pieces…

Imagine you thought you could do it by taking care of troubled children–oh, sure, it wouldn’t be fun…

There would be the loss, for instance.
People would treat you like you had the plague.
Your family would say you must be doing something wrong.

But you would plough through. Deeply imperfect but there. And, yes, better than the alternative.

You would do it because you believed. You believed in nurture. You believed in God.

Imagine if you did all that and then, well, it seemed like the little tikes turned out to be losers. Yep. Remarkably similar to their genetic roots. Real bonafide knuckleheads.

Well…

If you got discouraged I would tell you what I tell myself.

We are all losers without Jesus.
And…it ain’t over till it’s over, girl.

Can’t drown love. They tried once. He just rose again. My kind of Loser.

Your own mother?!

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He tells me in shocked terms that he has lost all his money. More to the point–his family has taken it. Fast. Five or six thousand dollars in under two months.

His mother has lied to him and taken his money. Ugh.

I have ambivalent feelings about what he tells me–I don’t believe anyone should let him babysit. I want to believe he can change. I tell him I will always be your mother, you will always be my kid.. But I still want to tell the people around him–watch out, he can do devastating things.

A judge
A state
A juvenile system
A bunch of elected officials
And two complete communities, two complete families…well, dozens, really, have told me shut up.

But the children…who will protect these children?

Our conversation and my mother’s role in supporting him unequivocally raises issues of intense grief for me.

He is a convicted pedophile and she has given him support and encouragement.

I am her daughter and she has rejected me since I was a young child. It is hard to face the comparison and it is painful to acknowledge the way she sees me.

I run to God.

I run to this Parent who will not leave me. And because He refuses to abandon me, I know He sticks with all of us–our misshapen, sin-harmed souls so far from home, so close to the Cross that saves us.

You Draw Love

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You draw love
As you drink
Like a bored housewife beside her
Rotary phone

Judicious sips
When you should
Gulp…
Deep well, girl
This is a deep well
Look down into history

Up, into the face of God
But you are right
About cliches–
playing with fire…
Springs eternal

In the end only He will draw love
With his right hand
And we will hold ours out in supplication
For living water

And love follows…

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He was (judging from his parents’ devotion and the genes he has bequeathed to his grandchildren) a lovable child. His dog thought so. He followed my father everywhere–so much so that he had to be tied to a stake when dad went to dog unfriendly places.

Church for instance: old-style pre-air conditioned southern baptist. It was warm and the windows and doors were open to let in the breeze.

But they let in more than that–that old dog broke his chains and bounded across town to find his boy in the pews…day dreaming, I imagine. Until the commotion started.

My father (or maybe it was my grandfather–the real story teller) said the hound came running down the aisles, jumping over pews to get to his boy.

Psalm 23 says,

Surely goodness and mercy will follow me…

Like my father’s dog. Like God’s unending love.

Where are you going?

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My father was a straight talker.

He was raised in a baptist church by the parent who attended, but he was also raised in the south during a time when it was hard to miss the hypocrisy (is it ever far from us?)

He walked away. When I first knew him he did not believe in God. Even when other members of our family became flamingly involved with Jesus, my dad stayed back.

He did not take the leap until a conversation with a fire-and-brimstone type who pointed out that his hereditary baptist background suggested that the alternative to the yoke of Jesus was a bit warm.

Warm apparently worked. I say this because I never really felt it was even necessary to bring hell into the conversation. Who needs to know they are escaping a one-way trip to a dump if the alternative is an all-expenses-paid trip to paradise?

Where are you headed?

And who or what is leading you there?

Paper Love

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I see an image of the word love written beautifully by a young woman I know who actually wouldn’t know real love if it walked up to her and slapped her in the face with a fish.

Not that love would ever do that, of course…

My point is: love is a potent magic. Actually, love is more than that. Love is a Person.

I know this because for years and years and years I have lived on a diet of scraps when it comes to human love. Many of us do.

Humans see our faults, boss us around, prefer second-hand shoes to our hearts and minds.

Humans: a rum bunch.

So I type in “God’s love” and begin to read the verses–I am on a quest for love.

I immediately feel the iron. God speaks to us of love as though it is the chicken wire that keeps out the wolves, the walls holding back the storm, a strong fortress against assaulting armies.

This kind of love is tough die-for-your-sins stuff.

Look-into-the-face-of-hell-then-dive-in-to-save-me love.

Yup. No flowers and chocolates here. Something stronger instead. They say if you bury gold for a thousand years it will not rust. They say honey never decays. We’ve all had loves that walked out or faded.

But this guy Jesus. He is gold and honey love. Tough as nails. The nails that pinned him down to the Cross…for me.

Worth the world entire.
The world in His eyes.

Love the Island

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You can imagine me
Being dumped
On a nearly deserted island
just for talking too much

And you can also
See me chafe
Not so much for myself
(I am quite capable of talking to flora, fauna, and God, thank you, very much)

No.

For the children in my boat
They don’t deserve this–
The extreme isolation
So many freaking
Hot piña coladas!

No.

They deserve community
Friends who see them through
A voyage through calm seas

I tell myself this
Too much
Until I remember a wee bit of sage advice–

If you are going to burn your bridges
You better love the island

Love indeed
Beautiful survivors

I Have Lost You.

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I would have written this as a letter
I would have used the proper
Format:

Dear You,

Only…
That is the point
Dear you, not me
Not God Himself, quite real

Your appetite for bacon
Recalls to me the reason
Why?

We are not family anymore
Friends with the devil
Need to count the flies
Attending him

I speak the oblique
Because you have a right to be angry
We all do
But only on the pallet in hell
we lie down…

So close to Jesus.