Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Father's Hands

This past week I took a Poetry workshop with Bill Brown. It was heart wrenching but inspirational, this is the product of one of his prompts. I thought it only appropriate to share it here for #oneshotwednesday

Rough and ragged,
drywall hanging, putty stained,
patching cracks and holes,
mending the places where people dwell.

The cross shaped scar,
the ring less finger,
both evidence that God saved him once.

On my back with soft skin
brown or olive, on my white skin,
fingers laced
we are shades of one another.

Skin of the migrant worker,
native teacher,
blue collar American hands,
with Spanish dna instilling courage 
grasping at equality
contending the social bullishness of
injustice, prejudice and ignorance.

Those hands built the house
where my soul dwells.
This hodge-podge,
grew as the children came,
then grew some more
house of spirit and bone.

Hands that wrote
empty-handed legacy of bull-shit
with the permission to refuse it,
and craft my own.

Dark hands of my nightmares
releasing me to
a drowning world
in the amniotic fluid
that gave birth to me.

Hands with a voice
when mouth was silent
Shh… don’t speak
just close the door.

Grandfather’s hands now,
aged yet strong,
worn but useful
wise, and disciplined
casts fishing lines and
dripping sticks of marshmallows
into the fire consuming childhood.

The bearer of
hands that uplift the children
that thrust through the
bone of his bone,
flesh of his flesh,
daughter of the wild one.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Waterfall for #oneshotwednesday

Cascades of liquid resonance,
Washing over solidarity.
Erosion of fury,
Stripping away
The prudential resolve
Of assurance

Again, and again,
Into the softness of wanting Earth
In surrender

Union of substance
Fluidity unsubstantial
The pouring of fleshly inclinations
From the soul to the ground
And they find course there

Fleeting moments of fluid touches
Seared into the mind
In absence they exist

Necessary touches
Powerfully brief
Takes away with it
Marrow of soul and sand

Forever altered
By the pounding
Composition decomposing
While men lie watching
The water falling

Friday, March 11, 2011

I feel the most loved when...

This is my first contribution to five minute Friday for The Gypsy Mama's Blog  

Here’s how the game works: you simply stop, drop and write for five minutes flat! Set your words free. Don’t edit them, don’t fret over them, don’t try to make them perfect.
Just let them be you.
1. Write for only five minutes.
2. Link back here and invite others to play along.
3. Go say hi to the five minute artist who linked up before you.

I feel the most loved when …

I feel most loved when my children, with once downy heads wrap me in their arms; it is in that place a Mother knows that love is unconditional. In those moments the memories etch themselves beneath the surface of skin.
When chores are finished and the details of daily life are neatly tucked into the cubbies that hold all our wanderings and we come together and I feel loved. This organic reflection of worship where Jesus reveals himself through the love we lavish on one another, imago dei. Reflecting Jesus in their smiles, their prayers as we deeply love Him and one another.
My breakfast smoothie made with care, morning meds and cup of tea, with no request await me I feel dearly loved. Tending my bedside after surgery, no thought of self, effortless loving, serving as gift, as though it was his honor and not a burden.  It was then I felt most loved, cared for amidst post-op pain peace settling gently upon this thankful wife. The care of a man like God the Father.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Creator's Image

Tonight there are no rules,
just write
clearing the debris of the day from my head
and only have to reach as far as fingertips
I close my eyes and no longer feel the keys,
grasping sky
wind slipping through them
there are no rules here
only a blank page
open your veins and let flow your DNA
on pages scrawled as with fountain pen
these are the things I cannot say
these are the words no one hears
that i am broken
imperfections crafting mosaic wholeness

slow down
slow down and listen
can you hear it?
silence breaking like glass
panes that separate
reality from the one I live in my head
clarity in the absence of it
like sun, warm on my face
touching skin, translucent
provoking mind, transcendent
Imago Dei

Friday, March 4, 2011

Rest in His Arms

Today I lay myself down committed to the rest and restoration of my body, a horrible earache caused by a virus. So I finally have the opportunity to write. The fragility of human strength is a very fine line we walk. The resilience of the spirit of man I believe is what Jesus meant when rebuking those he asked to pray for him, saying that the spirit is willing but the body is weak. Perhaps the human spirit is the very reflection of God. Today I’m reminded of that fact, the ringing in my ears and the strength rising in my Spirit that take the characteristic of Faith where I once saw despair. I see this revealed in the eyes of my children, my son with gentle kisses, rubs my back, prays for me whispering I love yous in my ear is the best treatment. This, I believe is evidence that we are creatures crafted by the hand of a loving God, able to show his love to a dead and dying world.

I think we forget what rest is, not simply the absence of activity, but the restoration of us entirely. Spiritual rest where the mending begins in the soul is a choice, and it begins in the surrender of oneself into the arms of the Creator. This day I leave nothing undefended in my life. Laying down my foolish pride, I surrender. Receiving care for the soul, the Lord Jesus washing away the muddy gatherings of this world, is a choice. Jesus came not just to save but also tend to, like a good shepherd, the fallible human condition. So I rest in His care, and am reminded that we all need to learn to allow him to care for each of us.