Stalks us
Like a cat
Or a griffin, perhaps
A gargoyle poised
On each vaulted and crumbling
Precipice
A reminding presence
Of the hstory
Constructed in tiny pieces
Of loss
Our Quiet
Reply
Marble fragile?
I trace the veins
Once mined
Once quarried
Hewn from the ancient
Stone
Who would have known
Stone
Could be fragile
Indelibly etched
Like a lover’
s face
Lines traced
With the tips of my fingers
map a course across the rock/across the polished surface
That separates
You from me
Like myth from the living
Truth
searching hope
once wrote
about
a counterpane
of fish
living
fish–
a dream
breathed into life by a
quilter
and a Man
who says
I will make you
fishers
of men
all these years later
I walk all the edges
of another woman’s storm
the signal tracks
from the
coast of Texas
all the way to the Pacific
crossing fast
too fast
toward winter…
Australia?
can you be there?
already?
that is what I would think if I were your mother
I would search the shore,
each map
the satellite
dropped pins
and the faces of
friends and strangers
for signs of my missing
son.
so you don’t believe
in hell–
oh–
the connection is poor
(a pre-paid call, of course…)
and you have to ask all
the hard questions yourself
even though the answers are
worse than
why did you do it?
and why were you angry?
and what does it mean when I know
every word between us
is
ridiculous–
the things you have taught me
in hell
bitterness writes a book
full of silence
and broken pictures
a profusion of angry
words
until
the wind
rises
from the dead
It is strange
to sit in a room
meant for song
and watch the women in the room
grieve so
quietly
for lost
and missing
fathers
The canopy
Of leaves
Does not belong
To me
I gaze at it
For hours
Through the quiet
Window
Vigil
In their outspread
Splendor
Poised to clap
Or bend
A child’s delight
As God comes near
where the bleep is Ronan Farrow when you need him?
My little one wanted to go to the beach. His cuteness trumped democracy and we went to the beach instead of the park.
While there we witnessed a bullying incident I would classify as both assault and child abuse. A group of older children were repeatedly dragging a little boy through the water and pushing his head down under the waves. He was crying.
When I realized what was going on I yelled for them to stop and asked the people on the shore who was responsible for the teens? An older woman announced that she was and that the little boy was being justly punished for throwing sand into a teenage girl’s eyes.
I was appalled and shaken. In any other place I would have immediately called 911. Here, I am convinced they will not respond. I took my kids to our van and continued to eye the situation with the abusive family. I filmed the woman briefly and attracted her threats and fury. I did report the incident to the police but am unconvinced I did enough. I should have begun filming immediately and called 911 immediately. I think now that I should have waded into the water to physically intervene and asked the boy directly if he needed physical shelter. I should have stayed with him and insisted on intervention.
It was not enough. And now I will be forever haunted by a little boy, helpless among his own.
note-this had another name in the title, I changed it to a guy I do actually think is pretty heroic
First you have to acknowledge
you are a crime victim
your child is a crime victim
the family itself has been
smashed from the inside out
from the core of who you were
the sense of safety
is gone
and all that remains
is the awareness of sharp edges
hard objects
unfamiliar territory
fear
narrow ledges next to deep waters
where predators reside
everything has changed
simply because a truth has been revealed
no one is ever really safe.
no one
save Jesus
Link
I would like to lie and tell people I am and have always been an immaculate, no competent housekeeper. I can’t. I am a mess. We live in a big, sprawling old house with lots of old wood and lovely fixtures. It, like me, is a mess.
It, unlike me, is getting a makeover.
We have spent the last few weeks painting like mad. I do not need tattoos, I have a permanent patina of paint splatter. I miss writing and going to the pool, but the house has never looked this lovely. It’s walls have been transformed from early childhood scrawl to a warm cream color. Old carpet has been pulled up and is gradually being replaced with the miracle of click flooring. Our back room is a riot of sawdust. I cringe at the cleaning jobs ahead. But I like the transformation.
The day we cleared out the old master bedroom it was a war zone of random objects, now it is clean, painted and airy. We call it the beautiful room.
Last night I drove at dusk to the recycling bins. Not usually a romantic journey. But last night the sky was awash with splendor. I looked up at the picture that Titian would have envied and I wanted to exclaim aloud, how can you not see Him? His skies are so purposefully beautiful.
I would have been very happy to pay someone to paint my house. I am very grateful for those who have helped us with the work, especially the kids. But ultimately I have to acknowledge that God has called me to this–a lot of time to meditate on what it means for a baby to be born to a carpenter and even though he could have been an emperor, a scientist or a king, he spent his days building ordinary things with his hands, each strike of the iron nail into the wide beam a reminder of His real job, the cost of love.
The beautiful room.
Carrying Light 