Bread and Blood

Just dip the wafer in the cup 

It’s the least messy option -- the clean and sanitary way

Look, your experience here is limited

to say the least. So take me up on the offer

to remain ever prim and proper

There, that’s much more agreeable, isn’t it

After all, who wants to kneel with parted lips 

like a hopeful nursing babe

Isn’t it enough to have to bend low

But as the cup comes closer 

more words in priestly voices make me 

want to lose this moon in my palm;

to reach past the railing 

for silver with both hands

I'll risk the germs and the crumbs, only 

let me drink til I'm no longer thirsty

while red wine dribbles slowly 

down my own dirty chin

Teetering

Mornings begin with bravado: blatant and defiant
(merely cynicism in disguise)

My voice chirrups with songs on the radio
while words prod a brand upon my heart

Soon daily rhythms numb the angst of midday,
and the bright noon sun makes me mellow as a daisy

and pliable
What is it about a quiet car ride that gives early evening the final verdict?

Night stay turned and earth be still.
What else do I need but you?

Carry On

So this is me…sitting here in my fuzzy pink robe with the day to myself. And it feels like you were talking to me yesterday in the car, on the way home. It felt like you said it was time for me to get back to work… back to remembering . That it was my job to tell my story and tell it well. To tell the truth, because it could help someone the way that other true stories have helped me. And of course there’s the other main reason: that you’ve given me the ability to write, so I need to do it. Plus, if I write about my experience(s) with you, then I’m acknowledging you. I’m giving witness to my faith (ugh, that sounds so pretentiously pious) but I’m saying this is what I believe happened and it wasn’t an accident, and there is someone in control of my life other than me, who works out the details and shows me his face from time to time. 

NO I can’t prove any of it. I just have my memories and feelings. And just because I write it all down doesn’t mean I ‘ve got my whole life figured out , or that I don’t mess up anymore, or that I have the faith I should have to trust that you’re in control of my future too. Growing old, dying, eternity – they all still terrify me. Next week, tomorrow, two o’clock this afternoon – they’re all beyond my grasp. All I’ve got is this moment.  Here goes nothing  something.

Have you heard Latifah sing?

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.

Let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side which flowed,

be of sin the double cure; save from wrath and make me pure.

Not the labors of my hands can fulfill thy law's demands.

Could my zeal no respite know? Could my tears forever flow?

All for sin could not atone; thou must save, and thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring; simply to the cross I cling.

Naked come to thee for dress. Helpless look to thee for grace.

Foul; I to the fountain fly. Wash me, Savior, or I die.

(this)

Come Back Soon

'Cause every death is a question mark
At the end of the book of a beating heart
And the answer is scrawled in the silent dark
On the dome of the sky in a billion stars
But we cannot read these angel tongues
And we cannot stare at the burning sun
And we cannot sing with these broken lungs
So we kick in the womb and we beg to be born
Deliverance!
Deliverance, O Lord!

-- Andrew Peterson

Working for a Change

A long time ago, way before I started this blog, I wrote my first book. It’s a picture book about a little girl and her grandpa. I think it actually started as a rhyming poem, but I’d be hard pressed to find the original idea in my piles of papers around here. Since then it’s been revised quite a few times. It started out it in third person; then I switched it to first. I wrote in past tense, then switched it to present. Then, four years ago, I sent it out to a publisher. Two months later I got my first rejection letter. Well, it was actually more of a note, but it was not handwritten. I was not what you’d call devastated, but I guess since I haven’t done anything with it since then, I didn’t handle it all that well.

I’ve read about authors who keep rejection slips in a box or maybe nail them to the wall and somehow motivate themselves to keep on trying. Well, I’m not an author yet, but I can tell you this much, my skin will never be that thick. I can’t imagine facing a “no” time and time again. I don’t handle criticism, of any kind, very well, and the thought of sharing one of my creations with someone usually terrifies me. Since I was a teenager, there's only been a handful of people I’ve trusted enough to let read the things I really care about.

How can I say that and still have this blog where I share lots of personal thoughts? Well, I don’t know exactly. I guess it’s because I’ve only ever gotten positive feedback here and mostly people don’t say much at all. And it’s just not the same as asking someone for critique, or to like your stuff enough to try and publish or even sell it for you. You see I have these trust issues and in the past I’ve struggle with whether or not anyone really likes me. So, I guess I’ve developed quite a fear of vulnerability over the years. I mean it’s one thing to say “I made this for me,” and quite another to say “I made this for you.”

But here’s the thing, the reason behind this post…Last night at my kids’ piano recital I wore skinny jeans. Tucked into funky boots. And a bright blue top with a belt. On the outside of my shirt! I got home and looked in the mirror and thought to myself, “I might be a little more confident than I used to be.” Which got me thinking even more, about what could make me change like that. And I’ve decided it’s my new job. There, I said it. I’ve even had a couple of people tell me to my face that I seem happier these last couple of months.

Honestly, that kinda freaks me out. Like I was some miserable person before. Like I somehow shortchanged my  kids and family these past 13 years by taking on a role I was so ill-equipped for – that of a stay-at-home-mom. But oh, well. What can I do about any of that now? I actually think that some blend of work and stay would be the perfect combo for me, but we’re not living in a perfect world, so I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.

All that to say that I’m thinking…I’m considering…putting myself out there again. And more often. I mean what have I got to lose anyway? It’s not like anyone can take being a “published author” away from me. I don’t have it to begin with. I’m just thinking maybe I’ll try it on, you know?  And maybe, just maybe, changing my outlook, (or even my look) will be a good thing.  

After

To look at her, you’d never think she was the sort

to hide a flask away in her sock drawer

To need a little snort before

bedtime twice a week

To wake up at 2a.m. in a cold sweat

because she dreamed of the house she lived in when she was only 12

How could such a regular girl cry in her sleep

when there’s nothing but sun light to wake her

and the quiet stillness of subconscious memories --

stained on inner eyelids, imprinted on unseen sight,

pooled between fleshy skin and airy spirit

How much can you possibly know of anyone?

as the sun rises, sleeps and rises east

then calls the good world awake 

for putting dreams to bed

Days end; worlds spin

Sadness comes and goes

And Sunday mornings, she pulls on her boots

and goes to church to sing