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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Another week of online class, another week close to shorts season being over. The nights are cold enough for flannel and wool socks; the afternoons retain enough summer for shorts and sunbathing.
I started this post over a week ago.
Almost all the leaves have fallen. We have had class in person for almost a full week now. It's shocking how swift seasons shift.
Here's a poem that sums up some of my thoughts lately, in case you missed it on my Instagram story:
