To the God
of Hagar—
God of wandering
people
in wilderness
places—
We know
that you see—
but we are having a hard time
believing
what we are seeing
and seeing it—
still believing
that you see.
God who has seen
all violence done
upon the earth—
who sees the mothers
and fathers fleeing—
their babies in their arms
only to arrive at safer shores
that do not want them.
God who has seen
every innocence stolen
by the hands of wicked men
some who claim
your name
while inflicting
unspeakable pain.
God who has seen
every victim silenced
by lies and deceit
and the idolatry
of the comfort
of lies so much
easier to swallow
than the bitter
draught of truth.
God who has seen
every genocide,
every leader drunk
on power and prejudice,
who values not
what you called holy
—the imago dei—
of all of human kind.
God who has seen
the ruthless grip of
natural disasters
tearing houses
and lands
and peoples
apart.
God who has seen
the ravages of every kind
of sickness and disease;
we know this is not the first
pandemic you have seen.
God who himself
has felt the sting
of sickness that leads
to death—
the tears of grief
for your beloved,
Lazarus in the tomb
and for the moment
out of reach.
These times are not
“unprecedented”
to you. But
we are still
afraid.
We need
to know—
do you see us
here?
Do you see
every lonely heart
turned lonelier
by pandemic
isolation?
I had days
where I was scared
to make contact—
to smile, to wave
even to those
a street away.
The distance
has felt more
than social.
But God,
these are
small things
I know.
What about
the family members
saying goodbye
with nothing but
a lousy internet connection
connecting them
to a parent
a child
a loved one—
dying in the ICU?
Do you see
how the fingertips
ache to be squeezed?
to be held
one last
earthly time?
Do you see
the fear
in our eyes—
that we
(or one we love)
could be next
to die alone?
Or what about the cries
for justice God?
You’ve been hearing
some version of the these
for millenia—
the oppressor always
has his boot pressed
against the neck
of someone unable
to fight back.
Some of us
are just now beginning
to understand this is
not the promised land.
This is the valley of shadows.
I’ve known it
since I was seven.
And despite
all you’ve done
to heal and redeem—
some days
all I can say is:
“I hate it here.”
Like Hagar
running
through the night
her heart beat
slamming
her short breaths
burning
her shaking lungs.
forced into service
forced into her master’s bed
forced to carry the burden
of the patriarch’s lack of faith
and her mistresses’ abuse—
she fled.
But where
could she go?
Where can we find shelter
in a world that seems
to be tearing always
at some new seam
we didn’t know
was there?
Do
you
see
her
God?
See the tears
track down her
dirty cheeks?
See her face, pale
with fears her heart
cannot hold?
What more
can she take
God?
(What I mean to say is
what more
can we take?)
Is there a spring
after all?
A spring rising up
in this wilderness—
water bubbling
like the sound of joy
from the ground?
Would you speak
as you once did
to Hagar—
to ask us
where have you been
and where are you going?
Will you give
to the wounded,
outcast,
abandoned,
lonely,
bleeding heart—
promise of a blessing?
Can we name our sons
Ishmael—knowing
you have heard
our affliction?
Knowing you have
your eye upon us
even still?
The chickadees
in the barren lilac
out my window
always have enough
to eat—
will you feed us
even here Jesus?
Will it taste
like bread
and water
to know
you
see
us
still?
They were angry with you
when you turned over
those tables.
The coins clattered
in the courtyard
and you could hear
the cries—the bleating,
cooing cacophony
of the sacrifice-for-sale.
The offerings offered for a price
that seemed payable
that seemed enough perhaps—
but missed the heart.
Your heart beat hammered
human in your chest
as you, the righteous God-Man
ransacked the place.
Wrath is reserved especially
for we who have eyes
but refuse to see.
They were angry.
They called you a thief,
a menace—a disturber of the peace.
They said the prince of darkness
had paid to have your soul
But you were the One
who spent 40 days with nothing;
a wilderness wandering,
just so you could return
and wonder of wonders
give us a world in yourself—
the Word.
How many tables
have you toppled this year?
How many images did we imagine
were worthy of you,
but we see now are rotted,
rusted with all the rest
of our earthly treasures?
How many idols
of security,
of normalcy,
of the easy & good life,
you have shattered—
scattered at our feet like coins
from the money changers.
Like the dung scattered
from the sacrificial sheep?
Who our true gods are
has never been more
obvious.
Where we put our hope
in the midst of crisis—
the thread, the shred
that we hold that helps
us sleep at night.
LORD, if it be not
the edge of your robe
then turn it over
again—
Turn us into children
hungry for you,
O Bread of Life—
who thirst for water
that quenches
the soul.
1. Ash Wednesday
Leaves burned last fall
just when yellows and reds
should have swept us away
with the colors of flame—
Instead aspen leaves dropped charred
from the sky dark at noon.
They crumbled to dust in our hands
while smoke made it hard to breathe.
Thoughts of our own mortality
have never been nearer
than these masks that hide
our faces but not our fears.
Ashes to ashes
and dust to dust—
fears coming nearer like the lines
the fire fighters drew to protect the houses
the roads, the school campus
in the mountains burning down.
Like the lines marked
every six feet with signs
reminding us to keep
our distance.
But it’s the loneliness
that weighs me
down the most
Most days I stare out the window
and wonder—
who are the faithful friends?
the one’s who’ll weather
this storm too and stand
by my side again—
when spring finally comes
when fresh leaves
emerge from aspens
scarred by flames
of last year’s destruction?
It’s Ash Wednesday now
a time to think about
all that perishes—
and what remains.
what Beauty
is already standing sentry
when the pine seeds
are sprouting
in glorious resurrection?
I know the answer
like I know the sound
of his voice—
In this life so full of loss
and lack that burns
like smoke in my lungs
there is only One True
and Lasting Beauty:
One God who put on
fragile flesh to kneel
in the dirt,
to plant himself
like a seed sown in tears
in a borrowed tomb.
Like a pine seed,
awakened by
the flames
just waiting—
to burst forth.
This poem is the first in a series I will be doing, one poem for every Wednesday of Lent. I hope you follow along and that these poems of lack and longing meet you where you are this Lent. To receive updates in your email, click here to sign up for my email list and you’ll be sure not to miss a thing, even if you take a step back from social media for awhile. 🙂
Blessings on you Dear Reader, wherever this Lenten season finds you. And may the only True and Lasting Beauty—meet you there.
The Anvil
I.
Loss is like
an anvil
sitting silent on my chest.
The only noise comes
when I try
to breathe.
The creaking of my lungs
fighting to expand in this
weighted world
sounds like the rattling
of chains softened
by padded walls.
Words pad the cell:
“She lived a good life.”
“It was her time.”
“She was ready.”
AND IF I COULD ONLY STAND
I’D RIP THAT PADDING OFF THE WALLS
AND DASH MYSELF AGAINST THE COLD AND SOLID REALITY
THAT DEATH IS ALWAYS AN UNINVITED AND GREEDY HAND
AT THE TABLE AND THERE IS NO EXCUSING HIM.
I have tried to move
the anvil
by ignoring it.
Pretending that I believe
padded words
are enough to quench
embers burning
a hole in my chest
where my heart used to be.
But
surprise, surprise!
It didn’t work.
After sitting in the numbed silence
for 100 more years I took another
rattling breath—my lungs like a bellows
on the embers of a heart gone
almost cold as I whispered—
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
And the anger lifts the anvil—
throws it broken to the ground.
And I do as I said I would;
tearing padding, dashing
every part of me against the cold
hard stone until
either my bones
or the wall
must break.
II.
Blind and wounded
is this how we come?
Crashing through that solid
wall of reality
my bones turned to powder
my eyes gritty
my nostrils full of dust
& funeral ashes.
Lying under a bright
& open sky—
the beauty sharp
like grief—
at first felt worse
than the anvil
that sat on my chest
1000 years—a weight
where my heart
used to be.
And now this!?
As I crashed through the walls
to the truth that death
was always just a door—
out of the tower
out of the nightmare
out of the Shadowlands
to Here—
where air is breathed
just for
laughing.
(This poem is an excerpt from my poetry chapbook As the Sparrow Flies, a collection of poems about the various forms of grief that come with love.)
Header photo by Yang Shuo on Unsplash
I am shedding my skin—
the old broken down shell
is cracked and sloughing off
my shining shoulders.
I am letting go of the girl
I thought I was last year
two years ago, definitely ten.
Would she recognize me?
Would we be friends?
I’m letting go of those questions
too. They have no place in this pool
where I wash the soot from my body
and watch the way the moon gleams
on my brand new skin.
This coal mine cave turned tomb
For minerals, miners, and me.
Presented to the heat, the flame
as a sacrificial offering.
For what god—I wasn’t sure.
I felt the flames lick my heels
and I screamed until the air gave
out—I couldn’t breathe
and I collapsed as the cave
collapsed and crushed me.
But now I am stepping out
of my skin cracked and scared
like the granite of the mountain side,
and I see the new underneath—
shining hard facets sparkling
in the light of a young moon.
I realize it then: it takes defiance
to believe in joy—to hold both
happiness and sorrow
in your hands at once—
to believe in hope
when the dark is caving in.
I didn’t know it till
the sorrow buried me alive.
I didn’t know till I heard
the canary sing—
reminding me that somehow
there’s still air down here.
Still air in my broken down lungs
crushed beneath worlds of weight
beneath bodies of gods existent
in the image temples of my heart
where I worshipped perfection,
performance and outward shows
of grand love to be praised by man—
Where I bowed to the love of a god
who only loved what I had done
lately and not who I always was beneath
this skin I am shedding. Not who I
was when the cave roof collapsed.
And Oh what Wonder!
the dust clears and I can see
now these were no gods at all,
only toppling stones crashing
before the refiners fire licked
my heels and made me clean.
Now upon the banks of a pool
on the mountainside,
I shed my sodden, sooty skin—
I wipe the dirt from my neck,
and my chest thrums with a new
more solid beat.
Now, beneath the light
of the young moon, beneath
my shed skin, I can see clearly
what I was always meant
to become.
Photo C/O KT on Unsplash
Now you are the Seedfor my Grandaddy Roy
Now the soil is carved
to make way for hands
that handled seeds with care
all their earthly days.
Now you are the seed—
Once you made space
for what looked like death.
For dried soy beans &
shriveled corn—
dusty field peas & string beans
turnips, collards & more.
(even tobacco seeds—for better
or worse)
Now you are the seed—
Once, you sowed faith
small as grains of mustard
in three small children’s hearts‚
and by grace like rain
they grew.
Once, you held grands & great-grands
in your weathered hands—
and by grace like rain,
we will grow to sow faith
like you.
Now you are the seed—
Now, I need the faith
of a farmer like you
to nestle you gently
in borrowed earth
like Paw-Paw’s sweet potatoes
so carefully arranged—
to plant the seed of you
beside the one for whom you tended
gardens & roses & feeders full of hope
like birdseed.
Now, I need the faith
of a farmer like you
to disbelieve what my eyes
have seen & believe instead
in fields of glorious green & songs
of eternal spring—the land
from which no sparrow
falls.
Now you are the seed
in the hands of a Farmer
even older & wiser than you—
and he knows
the time to plant
and he knows
the harvest
is coming.
Now you are the seed
we sow in tears—
but we will reap
with shouts of joy.
