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.