How Big Is the Cage?

The moon is a smudge of light
On the forehead of darkness
Ash Wednesday penitent
In negative relief

I reach for you
Child, arms outstretched
Love scooped up

But cannot touch the mark my sin has left
On you, matchless Love
God with his arms thrown wide
For this insignificant girl
Smaller than the lesser
Light to govern the night

Who governs the night of this cage
I rattle
And percuss these wrought
Iron bars strung together
Cupped hands, carved-out bones
Ribs around a single
Beating heart

The Duggar Fiasco

A story of a 14 or 15 year old brother deliberately, repeatedly, invasively preying sexually on his very young and helpless little sisters is a nauseating, nightmarish scenario, not a frickin’ altar call.

Yet the Duggars claim it led them all closer to God.

Perhaps the god of celebrity, self-deception, and pride, but categorically not Jesus.

I know this because I too was once horrified to find that my teenage son (adopted from foster care) had preyed on his younger siblings and their friends.

Devastating.

I wept and I sought God.

My husband reported him to CPS.

I took my babies to forensic interviews, their doctor, and a licensed therapist.

And we fought to have him incarcerated for his monstrous crimes.

I sought out every parent whose minor children had been exposed to Charles. I treated his behavior as a public health hazard.

Because it is.

I asked Jesus–how do I get through this?

His answer was calm and incisive–the Truth will set you free.

It has. No one tells you how excruciating that kind of truth and freedom can be.

I look at the Duggars’ response to their son’s crimes and marvel at the damage they have caused to their children and their own souls.

Mrs. Duggar profoundly abused the content and intention of a portion of Matthew 18 in her interview on Fox. Tragic, offensive, and ironic….because Matthew 18:6 is the verse she should be quoting–

Matthew 18:6 NIV
[6] “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

Women on the dock

I am not a fan of the breastarant, underclad cheerleaders, or Victoria’s Secrets ads. Also, let’s face it–bikini contests. It seems to me that the exploitation of women’s bodies is a sign of our reduction to cardboard parodies of self. We become less-than-human and objects.

So it is odd that this entire discussion was precipitated by IKEA’s (brilliant) idea to provide inexpensive temporary shelter to people in displaced situations.

I commented that this makes up for when they erased women in their catalogs…almost makes up for….

Erasing women. Hm…

IKEA had decided to market in Saudi Arabia. They digitally removed the women in their catalogs. Presumably because male customers would be offended?

My son challenged my outrage over this by asking what I would do about Victoria’s Secret models in a similar situation. I admit that I thought he was being snarky and that the image of disembodied lingerie floating in space does seem preferable to the VS ads I find so offensive.

Normal women in lingerie–no airbrushing or anorexia? I think real would be a good start.

Years ago I worked in an art gallery. Each year they hosted a show devoted to the human form. Self-portraits, cubist depictions, stylized nudes–you saw it all. My co-workers quipped that men always blurred their own groin region in naked self-portraits. I remember my favorite ever entry in this show was a self-portrait of a woman in her fifties or early sixties. She wore only cotton briefs and an unflinching honesty.

I loved that painting. She gave me someone to strive to become.

Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony, Virginia Woolf, Frieda Kahlo, Abigail Adams, Eleanor Roosevelt, Madame Curie, heck, Elizabeth the First, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Joan of Arc…Boudicca all give me someones to strive to become. Many of these women paved the road for me. Gave me dignity, suffrage, a moral, legal, and intellectual foundation.

You can make a woman an object by erasing her entirely or you can make her an object by making her into a sexual cartoon. Either way it seems to me we are complicit in the process of devaluing and commodifying women if we do either. If we accept either. And this comes with a simple test–would a man do this? Would he get erased from the picture? Strut around in his speedo? Wear his high heels and short shorts in a breastarant?

And what would we call it if he did? Are there gonadaurants? Should there be?

Stain all your edges on me

Years ago I thought I could
Teach you
Despite my sloven self

But what could I?

Teaching is what poor men do
And I am no man

Like the one on the cross
The one in the doorway
The one who

The
One
Who…makes us clean

It is His voice I hear in the obscure words of bards and oracles
Who will
Remember either Nero or Vespasian

I lift my eyes to You, oh Rock my salvation

I fear all my edges are
Yet incompletely stained.

Squirrel Heaven

You know I believe
No squirrel should die
Where children play

Yet the little one lies with its arms folded as if
In prayer, so peaceful looking for a violent demise
Car…speed…human indifference…

Squirrel heaven.
Do you believe in it–Squirrel Heaven
Or have you jettisoned the eternal for once and all?

As though you could
As though you had the power to make yourself
Less than forever

I keep thinking of a comforter–masculine, nautical stripes
For sale, at a tenth of its original value
At the catholic resale shop
Catholic with a capital sea?

Unending waves of loss

Could I stop them with this Comforter?
How many capital sees does it take
To build a shelter for this child
I hold in my mind
Her grief and bewilderment

Not all blankets
Are comforters

Jesus in this broken house

We are watching Bebo Norman sing Broken in a torn up house. The boys ask me why? Why is the house broken?

I say, he wanted to fix the broken house…likes to fix’em. Knows how…

Why?

Because He can…and it is a metaphor for us. Jesus was a carpenter, after all.

Their voices are overlapping–

We are all Jesus when we do what He would do…
He is here with us and in the broken house…
….Who would not want Jesus in their house?

They are bells on a cathedral.
Small, sure voices of love.

Unadorned God

We crave celebrity.

We want to be heard
Remembered
Immortal
Eternal

But what if God is all those things?

What if He is irresistible?

So He comes in disguise…

Ordinary baby
Refugee
Blue collar guy

So we have a choice to love Him

Undazzled by all these marks of a king
We see only the naked broken
Man instead–
All indignity
our collective broken
Soul

I parse this down for the crazy woman
You will meet in the parking lot
Where the carts are mere flocking birds

To tell you
do not miss this
Irresistible Love-
God with all the cities of the world
In His Eyes

The Four Horsemen

Apocalypse has been rendered almost meaningless. Which is odd when its shadow grows long and dark with this final sunset of our story.

Our story–history, this powerful thing between us.

These horsemen comfort me, despite all tangible logic: because they are real. My fear is not irrational….

He takes the form of “a Lamb that was slain”…breaks the seal…unleashes these visions of woe.

Could I look them in the face? Brace myself for the blows? No.

Make them fierce to let us know that our nightmares and histories are the same.

Men once torched Prague and watched it burn with their shiny jackboots mirroring dark destruction. Who will save us from ourselves? A day’s wage for this handful of flowers. Flowers we leave on these graves. These graves etched in stone. Our own.

September Girl

Cassandra’s foster mother once told me that all children have a birthing story. With each parent–biological, foster, adoptive.

I held onto her words when things were hard with M and C. They often were. so much so that I doubted myself until the day I met you–September 22nd, 1997. You were only a couple weeks old–tiny and perfect–and I loved the feeling of complete safety in the NICU.

They trained me in infant CPR and how to use your apnea monitor. Then I took you home. From the moment I met you I loved you. Perfect and wonderful and entirely lovable.

So grateful for you, no matter how unbearable it would be later to lose you.