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?
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.
