The Space Between Us

I see the man making models of planets in his meticulous, scienc-y basement then lining them up like a photographer arranging and rearranging a family portrait,

Mercury, you stand here…Jupiter if you could squeeze in by the ping-pong table

Or the final run and podium judgment of the Westminster Dog Show

It is a neat trick

Of human folly to think we can order the objects floating in an infinite sky, make them feel smaller than they are, more manageable

When even the moon is beyond us

Its insistent pull and reflective splendor

Missed so often in the ordinary

Night sky

As we pack all the objects of this solar system

Between us

Furniture against the door of Love

When you get lonely

Go for a run in a safe, well-lit place

Sing your God songs, loud if possible

Kick around in the Gospels, the Jesus stories, the Bible project, CS of course

Ask Him direct questions

We love you sooo much

But He is love–

oceans-are-small-compared-love

No-story-too-small-love

Big-sky-love

Lonely awful die-for-us love

Lend us a child like you, Love

Arms wide open love

The stars are more than fire love

In the dark sky they admonish/love

He will never leave you, never walk away

Dear Heart,

I keep thinking about the video of you when you were wee, all dumpling, sass, and wild curls. You were getting ready for something, and judging by your cute little dress, something liturgical. Your dad told you to say goodbye to the camera, but you misunderstood him and thought it was me.

You protested, but she’s my mommy!

Seems like both yesterday and three lives ago.

There are no words for how much you mean to me.

No words for how hard it is to close the book on the always with you chapter of your life.

I love you

All you have been to me

All the joy you are to me.

Poured out perfume which fills the room

Forever.

Love,

But-she’s-my-mommy

Protect your ass, you mean

Recently I took an online “course” designed to protect Christian ministries from lawsuits arising from child sexual abuse.

I knew it was going to be annoying, but it was worse than I had anticipated.

Here are some (but definitely not all) of the curriculum deficiencies:

  • There was very little information about helping victims of child abuse
  • Many of the recommendations were protective of the church over the child
  • There were broad, unsubstantiated allegations about the victims of child abuse and their families which included saying that they were mentally disabled and prone to familial dysfunction
  • The course stated and repeated that the adult survivors of child sexual abuse were not emotionally stable, neither able nor willing to process and recover from childhood trauma
  • The methods of ferreting out both abuse and abusers were shot through with harmful stereotypes and inadequate information
  • The course taught the participant to favor in-organization reporting over direct and immediate reporting to law enforcement, legal guardians, and child protective services
  • The test reinforced curriculum biases

I contacted the company directly after I took the course and asked them for information on their source material and bibliography.

No answer.

I am not a rape victim, but I was targeted by at least one pedophile when I was young, and I have children who are childhood sexual assault survivors.

I am not “low IQ,” and my children are all smarter than I am. Had any of us been “low IQ” (term taken directly from course material), we would still deserve help from the law and relief from abuse.

Our individual and collective intelligence was not the reason my children were molested by my adopted son, but it also did not save us from protracted and compounded grief.

First from the felonies,

Later from the way “good people did nothing,” or worse still, did things to let us know they wanted to silence our story.

Jesus said, tell the little children they will always be safe with me.

Yet in order to protect their legal asses big, well-known communities and institutions all over this country are serving up biased, unsubstantiated defamation of childhood rape victims and their families in place of solid, simple procedures to ensure that children are safe in church and that the law is followed.

It should never be “protect my ministry,” over protect the children.

Matthew 18

The parable of the retold

I remember you

I remember when you ran into the waiting room with your sister

I remember all the warnings and admonitions I got from Martha-the-caseworker and your recently relieved first foster mom

And your blue-as-the-sea implacable gaze across a very misguided table

I remember your speech therapist and her fairy godmother-like delight in seeing you make eye contact and in watching your self-inflicted facial wounds

Heal and not return

Storms all over the place

Storms in you swirled all around us, even when I tried to contain them.

The Way Love Anchors

I wonder, did he stick to the margins of the day? Hold palms aloft for shade? Trudge through the seasons? Chafe at this appointed endeavor?

Think, “surely this will vouchsafe my peaceful demise?”

I do not know anything except

The hours he had

Squinting into morning sky, evening sky

Lovely clouds, all sea foam and flocks

Anchored by love

Isaiah 40

You are my treasure

Luke 12:32-34 KJV

[32] Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. [33] Sell that ye have, and give alms; provide yourselves bags which wax not old, a treasure in the heavens that faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth corrupteth. [34] For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

What would you tell a dying world? A lost child? Or the person who

Won-hands-down-the Complete Ass of the Decade Award?

You are my treasure

Because where my treasure is, my heart is also.

Deuteronomy One

The metal doors are the only punctuation Between Caution and Horses going south as the great, white wings are bourn up the coast

Why are the giants stilled? The wind is alive and there are no Quixotic figures on the horizon

We sing sad love songs

As the wind unfurls ribbons of smoke from engulfing flames

We go to the sea

This kind of grief

For weeks now I have watched the tree thirst to death, unable to tell it that there is very little hope. Its auburn hair has cascaded around us, weeping, and I have felt both inadequate and way too nonchalant.

So I crafted a fictional me who did all the desperate things the real one should–buy yards and yards of burlap, soak the naked roots with water scooped from the river, gather the seedlings, cut careful branches and apply growth hormone to them, explain all this to the dying tree

The real tree gestures up to the mother tree, deeper into the soil, the manicured lawn, sources of man-made hydration.

And then down to the clay and rocks, blanketed now in the reddish needles, strange nourishment

sufficient to grow

Saplings

once she has gone