Two Sets of Blueberry Eyes

wide 

with wonder at the world. 

I wonder, 

when did my wisp of whimsy wane? 

When the nightingale whistles 

I whisper, 

“Wait with me, 

without worldly wounds. 

Wait 

while I watch. 

Wait 

while I keep you safe. 

Wait 

until you can weather the worst with wonder, too. Wait.”

Silly Horsey

Silly how the world turns.

Silly how the blame and fault burn 

with questions with no answers.

Silly how the dead are silent.

Silly how I write on a coloring page 

while my son beside me plays

“silly horsey.”

Silly “how could they?” 

Silly “why don’t I?”

Silly mind.

Silly heart.

Silly life.

Silly how old habits come back.

Silly how old wells stay dry.

Silly how long it takes me to pray, 

repent and return to my son’s game.

Silly horsey.

READY

THE DRIP OF TAP WATER

FROM THE TIP OF A COMB

DOWN THE NAPE OF MY NECK.

THE SQUIRMING STRUGGLE

AGAINST GENTLE

HANDS DETERMINED TO MAKE ME PRESENTABLE.

AND I WISH–

NO. I MISS THE CARE OF MY MOTHER 

GETTING  ME UP AND 

MAKING ME READY.

AND MAYBE IF ANOTHER 

PERSON COULD BE BOTHERED

TO BRAID MY HAIR WITH TAP WATER 

I COULD GET MYSELF UP AND BE READY.

Still,

I bring my son to play dates 

where he plays 

with kids his age…

and their siblings. 

And their mothers 

look at me and wonder 

if he 

will ever be 

a brother. 

None of them want to know I tried 

multiple times, 

but they look at me.

My womb is empty; 

still 

I fill 

my bucket with blueberries. 

I fill 

my kettle with water. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

The crib is empty 

already 

(still) 

but the toddler bed is filled 

like our days 

of nature walks 

and sidewalk chalk. 

Still, 

there are names that make me wonder 

what my boy would be like as a brother: 

Mack. Margo. Ransom. Stevie. 

Names I had chosen when I thought maybe 

another life could live inside me.

My womb is empty 

still. 

I fill 

my nights with bitter prayer. 

I fill 

my son’s days with love. 

I fill 

my cup with tea.

the vigil

No one prayed while I paced the path between the sink and the bath tub.

No one sang “It Is Well” when I birthed you into a watery grave.

No one held my hand as I flushed you away, 

twenty-seven weeks away from a timely birth.

No one brought a light luncheon to the 3 am vigil in a bathroom.

Your father and brother slept on, 

not knowing you had come and gone.

No one sent flowers.

No one offered condolences.

Because funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living and the living never met you.

the songs my grandmother sang

My grandmother used to sing Billy Joel songs to me, 

usually the love songs 

and she would sing 

about a room in a heart like a sanctuary 

not to worship love but to protect it jealously.

My grandmother used to sing Nat King Cole songs to me 

and the look she gave me from the L to the E 

was so pure 

I knew that I was lucky to know love like hers. 

My grandmother used to sing Harry Connick Jr. songs to me, 

and we would drive from New York to Vermont for a weekend 

and I felt so grown up because I was her friend. 

My grandmother used to sing Norah Jones songs to me, 

and I swear to God I could hear her heart break 

over every octave change. 

My grandmother used to sing Michael Bublé songs with me 

and we promised love to each other 

over and over and over 

and that felt like everything. 

One day, she didn’t sing anymore. 

In fact, the radio was off in her car 

and she says it’s because her voice is too old to sing along. 

And I didn’t believe her 

because she is my grandmother 

and my grandmother sings, 

especially jazz. 

At last, 

I sit beside her in church 

waiting for her voice to rise above the rest in clear soprano 

and only then do I know 

what she’s known 

for the past five years: 

Vocal cords age 

and minds wrinkle like skin 

turning to dust before we’re even in 

our graves.

So I sang Billy Joel to myself in my car,

but it’s really to my grandmother.

And soon enough 

she returns to dust, 

singing in glory 

and I keep her in that room in my heart like a sanctuary.

the shadow I carry

sunburned strawberries. 

midnight toast with jam.

kisses in the kitchen, 

in the bathroom, 

on the stairs. 

highlights in my hair. 

curly blonde halo

snacking on cheerios.

slow songs on stereo.

it’s dark outside 

but there are bright spots 

if we look for them.

I’m looking.

I’m trying.

I swear that I am.

Train Watching

We sit in the car 

and shift into park 

as the blinking red guard 

glides into place.

The old diesel engine heaves 

a holler as it steams 

ahead pulling a freight that seems 

weightless, dressed in graffiti 

on a one way track.

I ask: 

“Do you see the cars? 

Do you see the art? 

Do you see how far 

the train goes on?”

The boy in the back seat 

is too small to speak, 

too small to really see 

my tears in the rear view mirror.

His third sibling has died 

despite how hard I tried 

to sustain its short life 

inside my womb.

The old diesel, now out of sight, 

chugs on in my mind 

pulling its burdens and mine 

on a one way track 

unseen, it seems, 

by everyone but me.

my son might have my hands (12.13.22)

My son might have my hands: 

Hands that have held worms and grass and mud.

Hands with fingernails clipped down to blood.

Hands that break plates and drop cups.

Hands cold and fidgeting in too-small gloves.

My son might have my hands:

The ones that have wiped tears and broken noses.

That have pounded on windows before the door closes.

That have picked flowers and double crossed promises.

That clench and unclench, feeling stress and hopelessness.

My son might have my hands.

Desperate.

Searching.

Hungry.

Learning.

My son might have my hands.

Gentle.

Determined.

Stubborn.

Burdened.

My son might have my hands:

The hands that needed to learn their own lessons.

And became shields after being weapons.

He might hurt people. He might help them.

He might use my hands better than I have.

two thousand twenty-two

2022. Simultaneously one of the best and most difficult years of my life, and I haven’t written about most of it. 

I began last year by giving birth a boy who is now a year old. I still can’t master the compulsion to check while he’s sleeping to make sure he’s still breathing. I love being his mother. My year ended with two separate miscarriages and my body that had started feeling like a home again, feels foreign and lonely. I feel, somehow, like less of a mother than I am.

Tan and I have grown as a team. We’re learning how to support each other through the mundane. We function in crisis mode so well, but we’ve found that the little daily struggles are the battles where we fumble and often fail to have each other’s back. Love grows where and when we water it so we’re becoming better gardeners.

The future, our future, of ministry feels so far away. I struggle daily to press on toward the goal. A little voice that started as a whisper is getting louder in my head, “What if all your efforts are in vain? What if you never make it? What if you fail?” Some days I don’t have anything to say to the voice because everything feels in vain. Some days I can tell that voice that failure is not an option; when our lives are set in motion by the love of God wherever we end up can be called success.

 

In this year ahead, this impending future, I hope to live every day set in motion by the love of God. 

four months old

the first game we played 

you stood on my stomach. 

your toes curled beneath you 

to root yourself in place. 

drool dripped from your chin 

to my chest and you squealed 

in delight as I brought you 

to my face to kiss you, slobber and all. 

so you stood, rooted to my belly. 

you smiled and squealed 

again and again 

and I felt I could play that game forever. 

as long as you smiled. 

as long as squealed. 

as long as you wanted. 

as long as you would.

gracefully pt. 2

 i have been writing a new collection of poetry. the last time i committed to that, it was as a gift to my parents before i got married.  this time it is for my son.

becoming a mother is no joke. social media shouts at expectant mothers to prepare for mental and emotional struggles from day one, to expect anxiety, depression, exhaustion, discouragement, overwhelming doubt, and more. while these feelings and experience are medically proven to be common among post-partum women, i found myself so engorged with information that i was unable to process it or what was happening in my own brain and body. something was wrong in that picture.

i am learning. 

motherhood, no matter what social media says, is not about me.  it is not about my feelings, my need to be needed, or my insecurity. this journey is about the maturation of my son's soul, and i will miss it if i listen to the voices that tell me it's about my fulfillment. he needs support and tools for a life beyond me.

yet, no matter how deeply i grasp that truth, i will always have thoughts, feelings, and insecurities. i am human and i deeply feel my own emotions as well as those of the people around me. so what do i do with that? right now, i am writing a collection of poetry.

i think the sun is rising. i think i am learning to breathe a little more deeply. i think i am learning grace in every sense of the word. i think we are coming around the corner.

palm sunday

 Zechariah told Israel 

how their Messiah would come

riding in on

the foal of a donkey;

saving His people 

in conquering glory --

two mountain top moments,

millennia apart.

But Israel was so ready

for glory

they missed their Messiah

even as they sang hosanna

and cut branches for His way.

He taught them.

He cried over them.

He cleaned their temple.

He told them glory was coming.

He told them He would die first.

But Israel was so ready

for glory

they cut themselves off from

their hosannas and

their Messiah and 

they cried crucify --

two mountain top moments,

barely a week apart.

Imagine

the true vine

bringing out all the stops,

knowing they'd cut themselves off.

Imagine

his life hanging 

in the balance

when Israel tossed 

the balance out.

Imagine

knowing Israel's choice

before they made it.

Imagine

crying over them anyway.

Imagine.

Realize we're still

waiting for glory.

Imagine.

And remember 

our King.

upon commencement

we are moving in less than a month. it will be my seventh move in eight years, my second with Tanner and our first with Arlo. how do we clean, pack, drive, unpack, settle in, etc. with a baby? thousands, maybe millions, of people have done it. it's possible for sure, but we've never done it before. how do we know we're doing it right?

updating our friends and family has not gotten easier for me since Arlo's birth. the days seem to pass in a twilight zone and I am lost in a flurry of paperwork, study, and preparation for the future. this morning I was encouraged by an elderly Brazilian missionary. he said, "the only thing you cannot do is give up...for the work God has ahead of you. it is not the work you will do that will count, but the work God does through you that will last for eternity." I share that because this flurry is blurring my vision. I'm struggling to see what I have to do and what will just be, does that make sense?

like, God is working through me, yes, but if I never fill out the paperwork that needs to be filled out, will we ever get where we need to go? probably not. so what are my responsibilities and where does God say, "no matter what you do, Vivian, I have ordained this to take place"?

that's where we are right now. 

moving forward and waiting for answers.

things i am afraid of

 i am afraid that my son will stop breathing while i am asleep.

i am afraid that he sleeps too much.

i am afraid that he doesn't eat enough.

i am afraid that i don't engage his developing mind while he is awake.

i am afraid of the future:

will i know what he needs to grow well?

will i allow him to do dangerous things carefully?

i'm not just afraid of things with my son;

i am afraid of slacking.

i am afraid of myself.

and i know that all of my cares and fears and worries should be cast on Christ. i know these burdens aren’t necessary for me to carry alone, yet they’re all twisted and tangled up in my mind and they’re hard to sort from the thoughts that are helpful.

we’ve survived for six weeks, but survival isn’t the goal. we want to thrive. so i’m praying, Lord, let us thrive.

gracefully

 i've written before about how i don't think i'm doing this pregnancy thing very gracefully.  in the beginning i thought, "maybe i'm like Mary. maybe i just need to treasure all of this in my heart." but i haven't done a very good job of treasuring these months either.

there are just so many places i've been allowed to value way more than i should without anyone noticing until now.  without myself noticing. without recognizing.

like, i don't resent my son for making my thighs bigger than they've ever been, do i?  if there is resentment, it's aimed at myself for not exercising enough or eating healthily enough during pregnancy. but what would enough of those things have looked like? couldn't my body have changed anyway?  isn't that the natural order of life for some women? i shouldn't be crippled by the fear that i might never fit into my favorite pair of jeans again, but i am.

or how about the way i want Tanner to need me. i want him to value me for all the ways i make his life better. do i then resent myself anew because all i've been able to do for the past nine months is ask for his help?

 and so i avoid social media and connecting with people i love because i feel toxic. i wouldn't want to spend time with me or hear me talk about my struggles for months on end.  i barely know how to express them in this short post sent into the void.  how do i share this with the people who care, but probably can't help?

and where have i left room for God in this?  how much control over health, wellness, success, survival, etc. do i think i have? apparently way more than i actually do. as my friend Lindsay says, "Jesus, help."

help me be at peace with the way things are.

help me place value where You place it.

help me grow, hopefully, gracefully.

tired eyes

it's a tired time. it's been a tired time. and i know this tired time won't end any moment too soon.

i find my attention span has the circumference of a dime. i see messages from friends and think of a response, only to scroll away before i actually type anything. i get lost in thought and then can't find the forest for the trees in my own head, which makes it very hard to think of a way to share my thoughts and express how life has been going. here goes trying...

in the words of my sister, Gracie and I have gotten the band back together.  when her stint in Alaska ended, she decided she might try out the Midwest for a little while...so she's staying with Tan and I while she finds a job and an apartment. some people have asked, "is it difficult having her stay with you in the midst of classes and being pregnant?" short answer: no.

for the past couple months, i've been telling my mom, "i wish you were here to make food for me, because i know i need to eat something, i just can't think of anything." and, sure, Grace isn't my mom, but having her here has done a complete overhaul on my diet. noodles. roasted vegetables. different fruits. greens. and even though my eyes are tired and acid reflux is still my constant companion, i'm thankful and eating healthy once again.

meditation on psalm 97

imagine

fire from heaven

spreading before Jesus 

when he walked with men.

imagine

the clouds around him,

darkness shielding us from him.

imagine lightning.

imagine mountains melting.

imagine the ocean unmoving.

that is a Jesus 

who would have rejected humility,

who would have come in righteous glory,

and every nation

would have fallen

in despair—

and while he will come like that someday,

he came as person,

as approachable as he could in those days,

so someday,

when he comes in terrifying glory,

we can rejoice

in the the king who sacrificed 

himself for our pardon,

who delivered us from

circumstance

and consequence,

so give thanks to his holy name.

talking about truth

 we've been talking a lot about truth these days.  

how do we define truth? 

do we own the truth we know,

 or do we merely believe it without internalizing? 

do we hold truth closer than doubt? 

do we live in it even without the affirmation of others? 

do we replace truth with conviction?

are the answers to these questions applicable to our generation,

or just me in my situation?

this isn't a poem, it's a pondering. a friend here at the training center has been surveying our classmates in pursuit of the answers to these questions, and he is convinced millennials and gen-z are moving to a place where doubt is at the core of everything we believe or become convicted of. we are a generation bent toward tolerance and flexibility and the idea of absolute truth strikes us as improbable.  

i am convinced of the absolute truth of God and His Word. i know that. and yet, when someone asks me, "what would science have to do to prove God does not exist?" i consider the question.  it feels wrong not to consider the question. does that mean i have a core of doubt? what does typing this say about me and my beliefs?

i believe the truth that God is love, because i have experienced it. i believe the truth that God offers peace that passes understanding, because i am unsure of many things in many ways but i know He walks with me every step of the way, and that soothes my soul. but are there places where i hold my doubt closer than the truth i know?

i thought today was the third

do i treat people,

all people,

like the image of God?

no.

not even all God’s people —

His saints, His children.

why?

i'm not sure, but i

realized today that my

son will be raised believing

a woman is what i am,

whether i tell him that or not.

and i want to give him

the honor,

the responsibility,

the knowledge that

all people bear God’s image, that

worth is not assigned by 

size, color, sexuality, or shape,

and especially not by his human say.

worth is assigned 

because our Holy God designed 

that body for that soul 

and He set that heart in motion 

with air He breathed from heaven 

and if that isn’t worthy 

of decency 

and respect 

and patience 

and gentleness 

and love, nothing is.

my son will learn this or he won’t 

and it will be the result 

of how i treat people — 

not just when they’re with me, 

but when their backs are turned 

and i in turn 

talk about them and what will i say?

what will he hear?

will he learn that people are worthy of his decency? 

not because he felt so 

but because God said so. 

will he see God’s image as holy? 

not just in the Bible 

but in the faces of humanity.

do I treat people, 

all people, 

like the image of God?