What if I lost you?
What if you were not there?
What if one moment I saw you
And then blink
You
Were
Gone?
I ask myself these questions
With every beat of my heart
Knowing I have walked down these lonely roads before
Looking for the babygirlchild
Woman
I lost that day
no replacements found.
Is a cage
Bars of iron and carbon
Our bones and the teeth of
The dragon who bore us
Sown into earth
Dust we are and dust we shall be
Through the steel barrier
Of memory
We eye freedom in chains
And paw at the irretrievable arrow
In our ribcage
justcould have been a much longer book full of the things you find in successful memoirs–descriptions of meals and vacations and conversations in transit. It stops abruptly (except for the necessary introduction) two years ago at the end of 2009.
I did not put the rest of the story in because it was worse, yes, worse.
Our families, church, and many colleagues did not handle our story well. Our children were isolated and lonely. Out of everyone we knew, one couple confronted Charles about what he had done. Most people sent him cards and money. Some said unspeakable things.
Many long acquaintances just withdrew. Some old friends disappeared.
There was something good and valuable that happened.
Dozens of abuse survivors and rape victims shared their stories. We may have winnowed out family and friends, but we are deeply grateful for those who have listened, shared, and grieved with us.
And we now know that the only uncommon thing about our story is our willingness to speak out. Most families hide the story and ignore the damage.
It is time for that to change.
It is long past time.
Every family, church or community that turns a blind eye to an identified predator is responsible for the victims
All the innocent victims.
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.
I used to write either to process grief, hold onto God, or take pictures with words.
I wrote poetry to hide and survive
Hide the full story
Survive the storm
Or whatever…
When you are 22 you want to be famous and loved
Now I understand better why I write one way or another
Prose is the plodding slow reward of a clean house
Poetry is a fencing match
A race against prose
Say something
Before it is too late
Try writing ordinary things
As poems
A fight with someone you love?
A grocery list
Acknowledges the power
Of the smallest things
We can
Take for granted
be the stranger
in the rumpled coat
sitting on the bench
in the train station, in the park
who abides all your sorrow
who listens to your torrent of sadness
who ponders your own
sea of grief
let me be the silent
placeholder
for the God of grief
who alone
can wake the dead
And by pain I mean grief, and by grief I mean the loss of someone who is so essential to your well-being that breathing hurts,that everything turns dark.
Sometimes that someone can be you.
The heartlessness of grief lies on the endless horizon. One day of loss is hard, a wasteland. But when we grieve we know (or part of us knows) that the endless sea of brutal days without the beloved is part of the weight of sorrow. We desperately want a reprieve, and when there is none there is a madness in sorrow.
This is Jesus on the Cross. He is the focal point of endless loss–Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? We know our grief feels endless and unbearable. We know His was.
I once looked up the valley of the shadow of death. I wondered if it was an actual geographical location. It is not. And this is why–the shadow of death is the place we walk through when the loss of our loves leaves us there–feeling alone and abandoned.
But it is only the shadow. The pain of grief ripping through the core of our souls is merely–merely, the shadow of death. Real death we see only from a distance as a Man agonizes on the cross of history. He walks through the valley of death…so we never have to…
is a beautiful
girl
swimming
smooth strokes through the water
how did she learn to do that?
was it me?
was it you?
was it the strength of all our recessive
genes?
we would say everything
she did was beautiful
and that would be true
but we were
her family
and now
that she has slipped
through the waters
with her confident stroke
not paddling
awkwardly like a child
when i was a child…i thought like a child
reasoned like a…
child
come back!
you can do flip turns
with your eyes closed
come back–
do not
put childish ways behind you–
I need you here
cannot
think
of the world
one day without you
even though I know–
believe–
that we do see
but a poor reflection
(as in a mirror)
then we
shall
see
face to face
Again.
(tiny voice)
still small voice…
come back–
What if they were like
Objects?
That you could touch with your hands?
Wipe a counter or a brow with Love?
Or spread an ermine Mercy
Over the body
Of a sleeping child?
What if anger had a bifurcated
Tongue
Lighting
Either chaff
Or
Home on fire
What word?
What ordinary word?
Would stop the fire
Speak peace to the wind
And rebuke
The dogs of loss
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
Carrying Light 