I’ve seen the broken down house on highway 287 cinderblock walls, only rafters left for a roof, a gaping hole where a once presentable exterior used to be. When I drive by my broken down heart— though jaded and cynical by all accounts— is filled with brutal longing. I fantasize about pulling the car over and rushing to what was once the doorway and running my hands over ruined cinderblocks and wood until the love of the place would change it like a Resurrection— a new house from these crumbled cinderblocks. maybe this is how I know I really do believe in all things made new— one day— my heart like the cinder block house, all coarse and rough will be smoothed out with sandpaper the walls rebuilt to safety, the shutters painted, the door flung recklessly wide— (because being whole and loved will do that to you.) and what meals we will share! in a kitchen once marked by ash and rubble, with fruits from the garden growing wild out back just because it can there is nothing to stop it. The ruined house on 287 reminds me of what sometimes seems so terribly easy to forget— that I really do believe in the Resurrection.
Category: Poetry
Anything & Everything
did it hurt? when Thomas put his child-like hand into your spear-torn side—the only cure for his grown-up unbelief? 2,000 years later my twins dig their toes into the wrinkled skin of my belly stretch marked by my love and their growth. (I don’t mind it so much—) but it hurts when the tips of tiny toes find the edges of the scar from whence Jordan came and sometimes I still feel the zip of the scalpel across my tender skin and I feel afraid. but they seem to seek it like a reassurance, like a firm place to stand amidst a sea of softness. (to be feminine is not all softness—there is no one more ferocious than a mother.) as if Nathan is trying to remember the way I roared him earth side with a power like the tide. as if Jordan is seeking the strength with which I held on to hope, to consciousness, to her— amidst incredible pain. as if my scar, like an anchor holds their four tiny feet fast to this one truth: I would do anything. And I think of Jesus 2000 years ago his heart broken for the world then and now— his heart aching for his friends, Judas’ betrayal still sharp as a spear jabbing his mind— his hand tracing the place where thorns tore the forehead his mother used to kiss goodnight as they mocked him— the memory of the pain on her beloved face as she stood there watching him die— the agony of that last shallow breath— this Jesus offers his torn open body to Thomas: like a drink of living water; like a mother with a milk-stained shirt, and an open wound, and a bleeding body coming for the crying child in the dark of night with this reassurance, this one truth: I would do anything. did it hurt? is the ache still there somedays? in your glorified body where you chose to keep your scars? 2,000 years ago Thomas ran his clumsy fingers across the edges of your wounds, and at last the proof sparked the flame in his eyes— the light of a child believing at last in his own belovedness. and here I am grasping for the strength of a child-like belief. digging my toes in to this weighty anchor of a love that did everything.
the difference
I think I know now how the disciples felt as they watched the backs of Judas and Jesus amidst the clutch of Roman spears. The betrayal so sharp & stabbing, like a spear between the ribs like a man hauling himself up on nails to get a breath— to ask for a drink. Were you giving us vinegar when we asked for wine? Could we really not tell the difference?
what about spring?
“what about spring?” they ask him “in our hands we have some seeds and the fallow fields have held their curling breath all winter long. but with a war waged against us and occupying evil trampling our dreams—do we dare to sow seeds?” “Yes,”he says. “Yes—we must plant. we must plant seeds as surely as we plant our feet to fervently fight on this our freedom ground. we must organize ourselves into sowers of seeds and of hope—campaign for a harvest as we campaign for a battle— turn the tractors we used to tow away tanks back to the field to plow again. don’t wait. Don’t hold your breath there is no time to lose no time like the present for planting hopes in the ground. even as we plant our soldiers and our citizens our mothers and fathers and God help us—our children— in these snow covered fields. even now, we hope for a resurrection of more glorious than these seeds, these little deaths we lay down in the earth and bury.” “Okay.’’ We say, turning towards each other our mouths turning up behind our tears. in this land occupied by evil— and visited by gratuitous death— we know what we have to do. so let our enemy see his defeat in these tears that water dormant hopes like wheat which in time we know will become a feast filling fragile bellies on frames of earth —a foretaste of what’s to come. {Photo by Rana Sawalha on Unsplash}
Note to my empath-self in times of tragedy
"If I didn't care then it wouldn't hurt so much." something I tell myself (almost daily sometimes) especially when the world spins on her broken axis and evil seems to flourish with every revolution— sometimes I wish I didn’t care so much "You're too sensitive." something I grew up hearing (what felt like daily) my tears were tiny but mighty traitors, my tender heart— a bitter enemy. but when I read of Jesus and how he heard the crowd around Lazarus’ tomb singing their songs of languishing lament and what he did as he looked Mary in her tear-stained face— “he wept.” john 11:35 says. “How he loved him!” they said on seeing his tears and reading this, I know that Jesus knows the daily crushing weight of grief. and God did not chide him for weeping even though he knew how it would all work out. even though he himself held the power to raise Lazarus from the dead— to turn all those tears of mourning into leaping, dancing shouts of joy. so I suppose that I am not too sensitive after all— I who do not know the ending of this story. I who have no idea how it will all work out. I who can only hope and watch and pray kneeling at the feet of Jesus, weeping like Mary confused and angry—almost accusing: “if you had only been here my brother would not have died.” this declaration a statement of faith— my anger a show of trust in a Jesus large enough to hold my rage, my tears, my confusion, my longing, my wondering and all this ache that I can scarcely name. and in the end, surrendering— trusting that he can resurrect with a word or a breath, that he will be there in my weeping over all that I must lay to rest. trusting that the pain I carry with all this caring will also in time be redeemed.
The Grief of Eve
I think often of the grief of Eve giving birth to two sons only for one to kill the other. I imagine she wished she herself had died before she had seen such evil. I imagine she thought often about the promised Son— the one who would come to crush the head of that lying serpent who ushered in death by her fruit stained hands long before Cain swung a rock at his little brother’s head. I hear her asking, staring her first born son dead in the eyes “What have you done?” and then more softly by the rivers edge where her naked shame is revealed in her reflection “What have I done?” I imagine some days the promise was her only comfort in the aching grief that clogged her throat the burning rage that seared her temples making her head pound turning her once lovely face into a grief covered frown. what other solace could she hold with Seth in her arms the son born to her grief in a land where brother turns upon brother for jealousy? or was it pride? Cain did not heed the warning of destruction crouching at his door. and what other solace could she hold— In a land where babies we nurse at the breast can be killed? In a land where babies we nurse at the breast can become killers? what other solace have I? and Abel’s blood is crying from the ground and the scriptures say that the earth will uncover her slain and that God himself will avenge the blood of the innocent—that He himself will repay for this evil and this is the promise that now comforts me, for what other comfort is there— In a land where babies are killed? In a land where babies can become killers? I ache and I pray for vengeance— for every tear and every last drop of innocent blood. **Wonderful image from Hans Hamann on Unsplash**
the Ache
the ache is like a tear a rip rent in the heart— like the tears shed by wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters leaving husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers behind at borders and airports today. the ache is like the cramp in the wrist of the nurse squeezing oxygen and life into the tiny body of a baby in the bomb shelter basement of a hospital in Dnipro today. it’s in the handcuffed wrists of the protestors in Moscow arrested by the thousands for their constant chant “No to War”— wondering if they will be heard before it’s much too late. it’s in the cracks of the voices of the Russian mothers on the phone pleading with their sons not to go there— “Not to Ukraine! No! Don’t go there, please— just get on a plane and come home.“ it’s Ash Wednesday, and the ache is everywhere. even in the ashes in the atmosphere— in the streets above the shelled schools and the residential buildings that are being blown to bits with a doubled-down desperation of an addict looking for his fix. an ache filled by love is an ache that can heal— but you fill your ache with lust for power and don’t you know it will never be enough? You shall go hungry— hungrier even than the little boy hiding with his mother in the basement in a small town outside Kyiv only stale air and air raid blasts to eat. and weren’t you a little boy once? sitting on his mother’s knee asking for simple things like sugar in your tea and receiving it sitting satisfied? now a whole country cannot quiet the snarling of your soul and all I can think as I rock my own infant son to sleep is how your mother’s heart would ache if she could see you now.
while it is still dark
before golden light crests the hill behind my house, I see a dozen small sparrows hopping through the shallow snow in the predawn dark of my backyard. they are bold—almost cheeky, as they peck their way through the dry grass & weeds & shriveled crabapples that have fallen from our tree. I have heard that He is aware of every feather & flap & not one has fallen apart from His notice. I realize He must know which weeds provide the best seeds & He plants these in summer’s abundant heat. these dozen small sparrows do not wonder who will feed them their daily bread. it is still dark while they sing their songs of joyful trust, knowing a feast has already been prepared. then there’s me—with my tear stained face pressed to the ice cold window pane hoping & praying, for a small sparrow’s faith. Header Photo c/o Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
let me hope like dandelions
let me hope like dandelions— obtrusive and resilient, resistant to a fault. let me resist all that tries to divest me of my joy, of my glory in future songs. let my hope spring careless of road sides, or dung heaps, or patches of dry grass. let it rush up from the tiniest seeds carried on winds or birds wings. let it overwhelm everything else. let it dominate all that now grows wild. let it creep in under cover of darkness and sow itself in places least expected. let me hope like dandelions and nothing (I mean nothing), could ever stop me. ©Grace Kelley 2022 Photo by Олександр К on Unsplash
(I must have missed) Dancing
I want to find my way back to the girl whose lust for life made her splash in rain puddles whose love made her free as all the birds she watched flying south. Lately, I’ve been dancing in my kitchen. And I say it makes me feel sexy, but what I really mean is that it makes me feel alive. Have I been gone so long? A dead heart in a chest still breathing? forgetting how to laugh— forgetting what it means to exist where both joy and sorrow do? I knew that girl once: the puddle dancer always laughed at lightning. & I loved her— for all her joy full innocence. Then I was made to watch as the rain drowned her out. All at once it became deep too deep to splash in. For one terrible moment she went under. But now, through clumsy steps on my kitchen floor I find I’m teaching her to live again. Now I find, I’m teaching her to dance upon the waves. (Image c/o Dyana Wing So on Unsplash)