On mother’s day
I rise early
to ask the viola’s
how they slept.
To see the marigold
& verbena shining
velvety with morning dew.
To ask the snapdragon
& the daisy if they have
enough room.
I listen to the chatter
of the birds singing
glory to the maker
of the morning
(as they do every day)
without question
without fail.
I think of how the earth
knows better than I do
how to receive the love
of a God who is both
Father & Mother—
words I am only just
learning how to say.
In the morning light
this day does not feel
tangled up as I know some
(perhaps most) people
feel it to be.
Here there are no
mothers abandoning
their children.
Here there are no
empty wombs.
Here there are no
harsh words spoken
with anything less than
utterly devoted love.
Here there are no
tiny graves;
no buried children
of any age.
Here no arms ache
for the love they used
to hold.
Here there are no
women deceived
or forced into life’s
most terrible choice.
Here there is only
dew on fresh flower faces
& light
& grace
& the God who says
he loves us—
like a mother hen
longing to gather us
beneath protective wings—
like a nursing mother
who cannot forget
the son of her womb
because of the ache
in her breasts—
the nourishment
she must pour out
she cannot keep it
to herself.
And perhaps what I want
to celebrate today
is not me;
someone privileged to be
a mother
to earthly children;
who holds five hearts in her hands
like the abundance
she knows she doesn’t deserve.
A kindness to which
she is neither entitled
nor guaranteed.
Perhaps instead I want
to celebrate like the birds
the King of Creation—
the God of the morning—
who loves me like the child
that I still am.
Who loves me so much
it would hurt to turn away.
Who loved me
to the point of death
& life again.
The Mother God
who is even now
preparing for me
a feast of welcome
& celebration
when I have done
all my wanderings
in these shadowed
lands.
I catch glimpses
of this & more in the shining
dew dropped faces
of the violas in sunshine.
In the tears I know
our truest father
& mother sheds
for the ache
of us all.
let me be/ your breath
a poem by Grace Kelley
grow in me—
all that is
new & tender
the unseen seems
more real with each
fluttering sign
of presence.
(the flutters
gave them away
after all)
—how I knew
they were two
& not only one.
Now my desires
are more refined
than ever.
so grow in me—
until the pain
makes it hard
to rise from my sheets
until I’m
stretched & marred
far beyond
my capacity
until red stripes
mark my belly
full & heavy
with the weight
of the glory
of you.
grow in me—
until sleep
becomes
a stranger
until breaths
feel hard to take—
for the crowding
of my lungs
is no less Holy
than singing
praises to the God
who made you.
grow in me—
until you are ready
to breathe
with fresh lungs—
until the sweet echos
of your first cries
tear open places
always meant
for loving you.
Until then
Dear Ones,
grow in me—
& let me be
your breath.
I didn’t know
what you meant
by “kingdom”
the words
felt foreign &
meaningless
in my mouth.
Perhaps I pictured
the caste of some fairy tale
aspiration—foreign
to my modern mind.
Perhaps I pictured
something archaic
something that cost
more than it was worth.
Perhaps I pictured
a moat & drawbridge
full of beasts
snapping at the heels
of those who don’t
belong.
Perhaps I envisioned
those streets of gold
the palace with your robe,
the temple full of smoke—
But nothing else.
No true life,
no blade of grass,
no creatures
(except those terrifying
ones) setting themselves
to sing your praises
for all eternity.
But then I saw it.
A picture of a long table
on a mountain top.
Cushions littering the ground,
linens & lovely place settings,
a breeze blowing the soft grasses.
I could almost smell
the aroma of a feast
being prepared—
& I knew
I had gotten it wrong.
The Kingdom is
a table—
Where those who were
enemies become friends
with each other & the God
who made friends
with us all.
Where the hungry eat
without price—
wine & milk
honey & marrow
in abundance.
Where we dwell
in your presence &
soak it in—
like the lush grasses
beneath my feet
in summertime.
We are not forced
to praise,
with harps of gold
on nimbus clouds—
rather, praise flows
from our lips like wine
as we see you
as you are.
Today, I think
about the last supper
& how you washed
the filthy feet
of an enemy
who betrayed you &
dined with friends
who did the same.
Can I help but marvel
at the God who
still prepares
wretched sinners
a table
in his presence?
A table
that will satisfy
all the lack
& longing
we have felt
for all these
painful earthly
years—
Where all at once,
we will be full
of joy &
satisfied.
I know
your heart
is full of anguish
& longing —
mine is too.
How I have longed
to gather you
beneath my plumage;
as a mother hen
gathers her vulnerable
chicks—shielding them
from all that would seek
to do them harm.
I would treat
your wounds
with the balm
of my presence &
cure your sorrow
with the sound
of my laughter.
Oh if you only knew
how I delight
in you.
But you have been
wayward sons & daughters—
Jerusalem the Holy City
slaughters the prophets
& those who are sent
to seek and save it.
Yet
I would gather you
even still;
—children who cannot
believe a promise
only because it
isn't the way you
imagined it.
—children who cannot
believe my words
because your eyes
have yet to see
them come true.
But it was for this reason
Beloved
that I have come.
Those who said
they would help
have only hurt me
more.
The blood
won’t stop
coming & all
these wounds
refuse to be
bound.
But I heard a rumor
yesterday—
it caused my heart
to leap inside
my frail & aching
chest.
They say:
a man—
a prophet—
a healer—
has come to Israel
again.
In the crowd
I hide my face
behind my shawl.
I hope no one
recognizes me—
I don’t belong here.
All who touch me
are unclean &
in this crowd
I could pollute
dozens—yet do I really
seek to touch him? Not him
I say to myself
just his hem—
if I can just touch
the hem of his robe
I know I will be healed—
After all this time
walking alone
perhaps I could be
a mother—
a friend—
a daughter—
again.
When my fingers
graze fabric I feel
the Power working.
My body feels
more whole
than it has in
twelve long years,
but with the joy comes
like a lightning flash
both awe & terror.
What have I done?
But before I can slip
away anonymous &
unnamed his eyes
turn toward me.
His gaze is searching
& he’s asking;
“Who touched me?”
And I, shaking
in a body only
moments made whole,
confess it all
before him.
I thought
he would
chastise me
for making him
unclean—
instead I feel
his hand beneath
my chin, lifting
my eyes to his gaze.
He looks at me
like he knows me
from the top of my head,
to the soles of my feet.
He calls me daughter
& says my faith
has made
me well.
If only everyone
could be seen
like this—
his loving gaze
made well
parts of me
even miracles
couldn’t heal.
Sometimes the heaviness
here
makes it hard
to breathe.
When my lungs
are burning
for breath
I close my eyes
& think about
the wedding feast.
The long table,
laid with fine linens &
fruits of glorious labor—
beloved faces of those
I have wept with,
rejoiced with,
& grieved—
all shining
like the glassen
sea’s surface
in summer.
I hear the wind
blowing fragrance
through the trees
in the orchard.
Joy overwhelms
me & I know
he’s coming.
I lift my eyes
to meet his own &
when he smiles,
I feel it to the soles
of my bare feet
where they plant
themselves in
warm grass,
like a tree
who knows
where she’s
growing.
He laughs
easy as breathing &
like the sudden break
of dawn over mountaintops
I breathe in
the reality that
this sound could fill
every crack,
every lack
every longing
of my whole life.
I open my eyes,
shining with unshed tears
& my heart breaks
to find myself
here
again.
But the burdens
feel lighter
with his laughter
to buoy me.
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
