Soul Conversations

faith and hope

2012-02-13T10:51:00.001-05:00

He did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was as good as dead...
Romans 4:19

Christian, have you looked at your body and considered it as good as dead? Have you looked at your situation and considered it hopeless? Have you looked at your circumstances and considered them bleak? So did Abraham. Nearly one hundred years of age and with a barren wife, he clung to the promise of a son. Abraham believed God and did not weaken in his faith despite being certain that the very real facts of age and infertility made the promise of a natural born son impossible.

Abraham hoped against hope and was given a son. Christian, we serve that same God. We serve the God of Abraham. The God who gives an old man and his barren wife a son. The God who sacrificed His own Son for our redemption. Why so downcast, oh my soul? Put your hope in God and in His steadfast love. Call to mind the steadfast love of the Lord and have hope.

Toy Stories

2012-02-07T22:00:00.001-05:00

I watched Toy Story 2 again tonight. It was the first time I had seen it for years. In fact, until tonight, Toy Story 3 is the most recent part in the franchise that I’ve seen by a long stretch.

It was weird.

The last lines in the movie are an exchange between Buzz and Woody. The two friends are standing on the windowsill, a party going on in the room behind them, and they watch Andy helping little Molly take her wobbling steps out to the van and towards Mom. Buzz turns and asks Woody “You still worried?” “About Andy? Naw. It’ll be fun while it lasts,” Woody responds. “I’m proud of you, Cowboy,” Buzz tells him. Woody smiles and puts his hand on the spaceman’s shoulder. “Besides,” he says, “when it all ends I'll have old Buzz Lightyear to keep me company. For infinity and beyond.” And then the music swells and the film ends with a Motown penguin and his three Barbie backup singers crooning “You’ve got a friend in me” complete with disco ball sparkles. It’s lighthearted and fun. And when I first saw it in the theaters as a twelve year old kid, I left with a smile and a spring in my step.

Fast forward eleven years to 2010. I’m now 23 years old, graduated from college, a working girl. Toy Story 3 comes out and I gleefully rush to the theater to see it. A Toy Story Trilogy. How cool is that?

And then we get the last scene. And I’m sitting there in the dark of the movie theater, blue glow of the screen on my face, and the tears unashamedly dripping down my face. Because grownup Andy is there. And Buzz. And Woody.

And they are saying goodbye.

And Woody’s got old Buzz Lightyear to keep him company for infinity and beyond. And I can’t stop crying as I watch Andy drive away, heading off to college, leaving behind his childhood, watching it disappear in his rearview mirror.

When I was twelve, the thought of saying goodbye to my childhood seemed ridiculously far away. There was a disco ball in the last scene of Toy Story 2. Honestly, how hard could it be when there is a disco ball?

It’s hard.

We were discussing this after the film tonight. And my little sister, eight years old going on twenty-five, remarked that in all the other films, Woody fought to get back to Andy. Her insight floored me. It’s true.

In the original Toy Story, Woody battles a delusional Buzz Lightyear and a vicious brace-faced Sid to get back to Andy.
In Toy Story 2, he fights the lure of popularity and a crazy loveless Prospector to get back to Andy.
In Toy Story 3, our brave cowboy struggles against a bitter traitorous stuffed bear to get back to Andy.

In every story, he gets back to Andy. And then, in the final episode, after all the battles and struggles and pain and hardfought victories, he lets go. He says to Andy “It’s been a good run, kid. I never gave up on you. I’ve always been there for you. And now it’s time for you to grow up and I’m gonna miss you.” And he says it all without moving a muscle.

I still cry when I see that scene. I suppose I’m still learning how to say goodbye. I suppose I’ll be learning that lesson forever.

So long, Woody. And thanks.

band names

2012-02-01T21:30:00.000-05:00

I am Jack’s Complete Lack of Surprise
Ever Full of Sap and Green
Feast of Seven Fishes
Three Blue M&M’s

but what kind of music would they play?
a band can’t be tone deaf, you know

Terminal

2012-01-28T23:04:00.003-05:00

The doctor comes into the room, a blank expression on his face. His stethoscope is black, snaking around his throat, dark against his white coat. I am sitting on the examination table. I place my hands behind me, feel the crinkle of the tissue paper beneath me.
My doctor shakes his head. “We got the results back, Natalie.”
I sit straight up, fold my hands in front of me.
“It doesn’t look good.”
“What is it?” I ask. “You don’t need to beat around the bush.”
“It’s cancer. It’s all in your stomach and your abdomen. I’m sorry.”
“How bad is it? Can we do chemo or radiation?”
He shakes his head again. “It’s Stage Four cancer, Natalie.”
I know what Stage Four means. My best friend’s father died from Stage Four.
“How much time do I have left?” I ask.
He looks straight into my eyes. Funny how this works. I’m a ticking time bomb and I’m asking how many red numbers I have left before they count down to zero. And he’s not able to diffuse the bomb. But he can tell me how long I’ve got.
“I don’t know. Maybe three to six months,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes are starting to fill up with tears.
“Three to six months? Are you sure?”
“As best as I can guess, yeah. You should probably start getting things in order.” Is it just me or is his voice quavering?
I stick my right hand out towards him, as if we are just meeting for the first time. He takes it with his right hand, a questioning look in his eye.
“Doctor Cavanaugh, this is the best thing anyone could tell me.”
He lets go of my hand, abruptly dropping his to his side.
“Have you gone crazy?” he asks.
I shake my head no, a smile spreading itself across my face. “No. Well, it’s possible that you’ll think I’m crazy but I’m dying so you have to listen to me, right?”
He stares at me, eyes wide and confused.
“I’m not scared of death,” I say. Then I shake my head quickly. “No, let me rephrase that. I’m not afraid to die. Because I know where I’m going. Remember when I had that lump removed three years ago and you asked why I wasn’t scared? And I told you about Jesus?”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Not that Jesus stuff again. We’ve been through this already.”
I hold up my hand, stop his flow of words, smile broadly. “I’m dying. You have to listen.”
He folds his arms across his chest, shakes his head incredulously. “Fine.”
“I know that I’ve done things that have offended God, that I deserve His wrath. But I also know that He sent His Son to die on a cross two thousand years ago to pay the penalty that I deserve. And when I die, I go to Him in Heaven. And He offers you the same opportunity.”
“You know I don’t believe in that stuff.” My oncologist is a skilled doctor and a confirmed atheist.
“I know. But it’s true.” I reply. “And I’m going to be praying for you anyway,” I tell him and I hop down off the table.
“Is there anything else I need to do now?”
He starts talking about hospice care and pulls out some forms talking about code status, health care proxies, advanced directives. I listen to him speak but I am praying harder than I’m paying attention.
I drive home, stop by the grocery store to pick up some milk for the apartment. At the checkout, the girl behind the cash register is covered in tattoos and has a metal bar through her nose.
“Do you have a discount card?” she asks, boredom oozing in her voice.
I hold out the small piece of plastic to her. She looks at my name on the card. “Natalie Howe?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I close my mouth but then I realize that I might never see her again. “Hey, by the way, is there any way I can be praying for you?”
She looks up from her keypad, sheer shock written all over her face. “Excuse me?” she asks.
“I’m a Christian. I just was wondering if I could be praying for you in any way?” I repeat. I realize I am not afraid of her opinion. Finding out you’re dying does that, I guess.
Tears fill her eyes and she begins to talk to me about her brother who is addicted to crack and overdosed last night. I promise I’ll pray for her and give her my telephone number. She smiles as I walk away. The guy behind me in line shoots me dirty looks for holding up the line and for causing a scene.
I don’t care. I guess dying does that to you, too.
As I walk outside, I look up at the sky. It’s a crisp October afternoon in New England. The sky is so blue and feels so close. A few clouds skitter across the sky. “I’m coming,” I whisper. “Soon, they’ll say I’m dead. But I’ll tell them before I go not to believe a word of it. I’m going to be more alive then than I’ve ever been.” A shiver thrills me all the way to my toes. “I’m coming home.”

Suddenly, I startle awake. I reach for my phone, touch the screen. It flickers to life. It’s 2:08am. I’ve been dreaming. But I am wide awake now. I lay back, staring in the darkness. I’m not dying. I don’t have cancer. I’ve never had cancer. But what if I did? Would I be able to talk about Jesus like that to strangers?
Would I respond like that to a terminal diagnosis? I shake my head. “I’m terminal now. I just don’t know when or what,” I think. “What’s holding me back? What’s my excuse for now?”
And I try to sleep but it’s a long time coming.

2012-01-10T00:09:00.001-05:00

It must have cost a fortune
To give away half of your goods to the poor
And to repay fourfold what you had taken

…
Wouldn’t it have been enough to just pay them back?
To return what you had stolen and call it even?
You know, I’m sure that would have been enough
…

Maybe meeting Jesus does that
Makes you good crazy
Crazy enough to forsake the better for the best
By way of earth poverty
Crazy enough to forget the treasure at hand
For the sake of heaven
Crazy enough to love with your whole heart
Holding nothing back

I think I need to meet Jesus again

a meal indicates friendship

2012-01-10T00:00:00.001-05:00

he knows what they will do to him
he knows the wrath that they deserve
he knows that someone must take the punishment
he knows someone will die

he sees their minds and thoughts
he sees anger and murder in their hearts
he sees the rage that they harbor toward him
he sees a hill called Calvary

he eats the bread
they eat the bread
he drinks the wine
they drink the wine

God is eating with His enemies

the middle miles

2012-01-03T22:22:00.001-05:00

The middle miles are always the hardest

They don’t have the excitement of the first few miles
The newness of the wind rushing by my ears
The fresh feeling of my feet pounding the pavement
They don’t have the satisfaction of the final few miles
The finish line in sight
The last few steps of the race

They are just there
The middle miles
So many of them
And I just have to grind through them
Sweaty and thirsty and tired
Step by step by slogging step

Sometimes life is like that

But then
But then
Oh yes
But then

I’m closer to the finish line than the starting line
And I know there is no turning back
Because the end is near

And the crowds are cheering
And then the finish line is there
And my arms are raised in victory

And I step over the line
And I’m done
Exhausted
Satisfied
Smiling

Sometimes life is like that too

war baby

2011-12-27T18:15:00.001-05:00

You were seventeen days old when the boots marched in
When we watched them on the television
Half a world away
Through the night vision goggles
In their greenish haze

You sat in your carseat while we stared at the pictures in front of us
You didn’t cry or scream or even make any noise
But then you were only seventeen days old
And you didn’t know that war had begun

And my belly was clenched with fear
And my hands were shaking
And my heart was quaking
And you slept on in peaceful slumber
Because you didn’t know a war had begun

So you grew up
Your blonde hair grew long
And was cut
Grew long and was cut again
And you learned how to speak
And then how to read

And still the boots kept marching
Then surging
Half a world away
But you didn’t know a war was being fought

Your daddy didn’t go and fight
Your brothers didn’t sign up
No one you knew lost their life in battle

Someone’s daddy did
Someone’s brothers did
Many people did
But you didn’t know a war was going on

And then, when you were eight years old,
Old enough to think and know and understand
The boots marched out
And you didn’t know a war had ended
Because you didn’t know a war had begun

veiled in flesh (Mary)

2011-12-21T17:27:00.000-05:00

When the angel came to you and said “Greetings”
How far did your heart sink?
Or did it stay put in your chest, pounding so fast and hard
You felt it would pound right out of you
Spilling your heart’s blood all over the floor?

When he told you that you would conceive and bear a son,
Did you think of your fiancée?
Did you think of all the times you wished you could kiss him?
All the times he looked at you and your cheeks grew red and warm?
Did you hope it would be his son?
And then when the angel said it would be the Son of God
When you bowed your will and offered your body
Were you still frightened?

What did it feel like?
When your belly grew?
When he moved inside you for the first time?
When your feet grew puffy and you waddled around?

Did you tell your mother? Or did you just wait for her to figure it out?
Did she scream at you, tears filling her eyes and coursing their angry way down her cheeks?

Did you tell your fiancée? Or did he notice the swelling in your middle?
What did his eyes tell you as he stormed away from you?
Were they sad or furious or an aching mixture of both?
Did your heart break when he said it was over between you?

And when he came back and told you that things were going to be fine
That he would still marry you
That he would raise your baby as his own
That he still loved you
Did you kiss him then?

And the Romans made their decree
And you and your fiancée traveled to his hometown
And the baby was big inside you
And your back was aching
And you couldn’t see your feet over the bulge in your belly

When the first contraction rolled over you, were you frightened?
Did you know what was happening?
Did you cry and scream?
Did your fiancée hold your hand?

And when your son entered the world
In your baptism of pain and hurt and anguish and tears
You held him in your arms, new, small, little,
Did you know that heaven rejoiced and angels sang?
That all of history coalesced around your son
Covered in blood?

Do you know who your son is?

veiled in flesh (Bathsheba)

2011-12-21T17:26:00.001-05:00

Did you know someone was watching you bathe,
That spring morning on the roof?
Your husband was at war and the king had stayed behind

What did you think when the messengers knocked on your door?
When they told you that the king demanded to see you
Did your heart quake within you?

Did he wine and dine you first?
Before his took you into his bedroom?
Did you remember your husband at all?

And then you were late
And you told the king
And he called your husband back from war

Did you want to see your husband?
Did you beg him to come home for the night?
Did you yell and scream and cry and plead?
Could you feel the baby inside you move while you begged?

And then your husband went back to war
And died fighting bravely at the front
Or at least that is what they told you
And you mourned, your belly growing, stretching, pulling

And you went home with the king
And the baby died
Even though the king wept and prayed
But his younger brother lived

Do you know who your descendant will be?

veiled in flesh (Ruth)

2011-12-21T17:24:00.001-05:00

Who wept more when your husband died?
You, his widow, or his mother?
Why did you cling so close to her?
The mother who saw all of life as nothing but a bitter trial

You followed her to a foreign land
To the land of her people
And you were poor and an alien and an outcast

Did you know who he was when you gleaned in his fields?
Did you think him a handsome fellow?
Did you like the way he said your name?

When the mother told you to go to him at night, were you afraid?
Did you stare at the stars, your heart quaking with fear?
You knew what they would say, the jabbering women at the well,
If they heard about this
“A foreigner! Throwing herself at a man! Going to him! At night, no less!”

And then he gave you grain in the morning,
When the sun peeked its happy face over the horizon
And then he married you
A foreigner

And the mother named your son and took him on her lap

Do you know who your descendant will be?

veiled in flesh (Rahab)

2011-12-21T17:22:00.000-05:00

They called you a prostitute
Because that was what you were
What you did
Your profession and your livelihood

Were you just looking for customers when you saw them?
The two foreign young men, walking through your city
What made them catch your eye?
Or maybe you caught theirs?

And you didn’t sleep with them
And you hid them on your roof
And you covered them with flax
And you told them not to move

Then you lied to the soldiers
Sent them off on a wild goose chase

Were you scared when the walls started shaking?
Did you cry when your two young men pulled you from the rubble?
When did you first see the man that you would marry?
Did you love him?

Do you know who your descendant will be?

veiled in flesh (Tamar)

2011-12-21T17:17:00.000-05:00

Was it hot that day?
Was the tent dark?
Was it nighttime when he saw you on the roadside?

Widows weeds are uncomfortable they say
Sleeping with your father-in-law is probably worse

And you had twins in your belly
Stretched and taut
Full of baby, two of them,
Bouncing and jostling inside you

And you sent him his signet, his cord, and his staff
The ones that he had given to you
As a token of his goodwill pledge to you

And he didn’t kill you
And he never slept with you again

Do you know who your descendant will be?

has anything ever taken you by surprise?

2011-12-14T13:47:00.003-05:00

The crunch of the insect when I killed it

It had no right to be there, on my windowsill, inside my house

buzzing and buzzing and buzzing some more

Infecting everything it touched and landed on with the germs

That will make me sick (or if not me, than definitely you)

But it crunched when it died and my stomach churned when I heard it

It had no right to be there

And it died and the buzzing stopped

And now there is a pit in my stomach that just won’t go away

And I know I’ll probably kill the next fly too when I see it

buzzing and buzzing and buzzing some more

Inside my house, on my windowsill

An intruder in my perfectly manicured world

And a black spot on my kitchen counter

wonderful lives

2011-12-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, I loved “It’s a Wonderful Life”. I loved Clarence and the idea that ringing bells meant angels were getting wings. I loved the fact that the fellow who rescues Clarence and George leaves them alone in his house because he thinks that Clarence is crazy. He never did manage to spit out whatever was in his mouth either. I loved the clever little record player that doubled as a chicken spit-rotator for the honeymoon night. I loved the “HOT DOG!” thing that George did at the drugstore after wishing for a million dollars.

I watched “It’s A Wonderful Life” last night for the first time in years. All my favorite parts were still there – the chicken spit-rotator, the river guy who never spits, the million dollar wishing. But there was more there. A heck of a lot more.

I realized that I am now about the same age as George was when he chose to stay home from college and run the old Building and Loan Association. And I felt a bittersweet sting watching him kiss his young dreams goodbye even as he welcomed the grown-up ones. Because I am there now. I’ve had to kiss dreams of my own goodbye, had to watch them steam away on the train, feeling the ache of that train whistling pierce right into my chest.

It’s hard growing up. It’s hard doing the right thing even when it hurts. It’s hard to watch your kid brother go off to college on your hard-earned dime while you stay behind in shabby old Bedford Falls. It’s hard to see Hee-Haw Sam get stinking rich while you can’t even afford to get the banister knob fixed on your staircase. It’s hard to see old man Potter claw his way into everything while you stand up, poor, principled, and alone, against him. It’s hard to lose $8,000 on account of dear sweet stupid Uncle Billy when the bank examiner is breathing down your neck. It’s hard to see Zuzu look into your eyes, devastated that her flower is losing its petals, begging you to fix it, and all you can do is hide the petals.

But there is joy there too. It’s joy to see your kid brother decorated by the President. It’s joy to pull out the banister knob, knowing that it is your very own banister knob in your very own home and not some broken-down old dump. It’s joy to see old man Potter friendless while your friends flock around you, loud and boisterous and smiling and laughing. It’s joy to see $8,000 dollars growing on your living room table by dollars and dimes from dear faithful friends. It’s joy to find Zuzu’s petals in your pocket.

Here’s hoping we all find petals in our pockets this year.

sunset in November

2011-12-02T23:40:00.002-05:00

the dying sun

the dead leaves on the ground

the bare branches spearing the sky

the streaks of cloud tinged with gold and purple

the colors of royalty

it’s magic

but not magic like in Spring

when the wee fairies and dancing elves come out to play

this is high and ancient magic

Death and Beauty side by side

maybe it’s the Death that makes the Beauty

maybe you can’t have one without the other

snow in October

2011-10-27T23:47:00.002-04:00

i don’t know what it is about the snow

but when it came tumbling down tonight

[it’s only October for crying out loud!]

the silence fell like it always does

maybe the snowflakes carry quiet with them?

because they blanket the earth with stillness

and the silence that is found in the deep of a poem

microcosm

2011-10-11T23:48:00.003-04:00

The air was crisp. The leaves were beginning to think about changing to their autumn glory. I was out for a run. One final run in preparation for the 10K coming up in three days. I plugged in my earbuds and began to jog. It was glorious.

Then at mile 2.75, disaster struck. One moment I was running along, delighting in the sheer joy of just existing in New England in the fall. The next moment, my right knee spasmed, a sharp sudden pain that took me completely by surprise, and almost made me fall. I limped along for a few strides and the pain dissipated slowly. I tried to run again and the pain stabbed at me, just as intense. Immediately, my mind was filled with thoughts of cosmic tragedy. God must be taking away my ability to run because I love it too much. He is applying His severe and divine mercy to my running. Come on, God! I’ve tried to run for years and every time my body has betrayed me and now I finally feel like I’m in a place of ability, that things are working for once, and I’m able to run for the first time in my life and you’re taking it away from me?!

The next morning, T-minus two days until the race, I went out for a walk to try to keep the knee limber. It didn’t feel awful but every so often a dull sudden ache would attack it. Every time that happened, my mind immediately was filled with doubts and fears again.

Sunday, the day before race day, I just rested the knee. Wore all the right shoes with good support. Iced my knee. Didn’t do anything strenuous to it. Worked on it. Massaged it. Prayed about it. Thought about using a brace for the race, tried one on, and felt nothing but constraint. Told myself that everyone says that you’re not supposed to try anything new on race day. Promised myself I’d finish the race, even if I had to walk limping across the finish line. Hoped against hope that the little twinges I’d felt all day weren’t signs of some bigger problem. I don’t have time for surgery or physical therapy! I just want to be able to run!

Monday morning. Race day. I sat down to read my Bible. I read a chapter of Jonah. Thought I should head over to Psalm 34. I needed to be reminded to taste and see that the Lord is good. As I sat reading it, I mused about my knee. I wonder if there are any promises in Scripture that would apply to my knee. And then I read verses 19 and 20. “The righteous person may have many troubles, but the LORD delivers him from them all; he protects all his bones, not one of them will be broken.” Yes, Nicole, there are promises in Scripture that apply to your knee. Immediately, I felt a flood of relief. A sense that God had heard my prayer. My fears, at least most of them, disappeared.

My coworker/co-runner and I made it to Boston in plenty of time. Got our numbers, hydrated, settled into the pack. The sun beat down and the excitement in the air was palpable. Finally, the air horn blasted and we were off.

About five strides into the race, my knee started hurting every time my foot hit the ground. My heart sank. Really, Lord? I’m not even a minute in and it’s already hurting? What about your promise from this morning?

Then, not audibly, but clearly I heard God ask me “Do you trust Me?” Yes, Lord. I trust You. It went like this for a few more strides. Every time the pain would shoot across my knee, He would ask “Do you trust Me?” Yes.

Stride.

Pain.

“Do you trust Me?” Yes.

Stride.

Pain.

“Do you trust Me?”

Yes.

Then, a familiar verse popped into my head. They shall run and not grow weary. They shall walk and not faint.

Stride.

Pain.

“Do you trust Me?”

Yes, Lord. I trust You.

And just like that, the pain in my knee disappeared. Gone, utterly and completely. My knee felt strong and solid, as if there had never been any pain at all.

I looked around at my fellow runners. I wonder if they know I just had a major spiritual moment. Eh. Probably not. But I knew. And I remembered and learned, yet again, that I serve a faithful faithful God who keeps His promises and who is worthy to be trusted and praised. Because after all, He’s after more than just my being able to run.

On Greatness

2011-10-06T20:39:00.002-04:00

Wars not make one great.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.

Ben is a great man.

What is greatness? The death of a world-changer brings with it the oft-uttered phrase “The world has lost a great man.” But what does that mean? This word, this little overused and underappreciated word. What does it mean?

Some would have us believe that greatness is that which causes us to rise above the madding crowd, to soar above the earthly tangle, to achieve. Greatness is one of the words that we see on motivational posters with a picture of a runner at sunset or a raging waterfall, along with a tired clichéd phrase about reaching the stars. Perhaps there is something to be said for that. A man who has achieved greatness, ah yes, perhaps he has reached the stars. If the world knows your name, if people oceans away know who you are, if halfway across the globe your death captures headlines, you may indeed be great.

And yet…

We think of greatness in men who lead armies or transform technology. I submit to you another definition of greatness. The man who is faithful to his wife. The man who toils to earn a paycheck to provide for his family. The man who loves his children without reservation. The man who protects his daughter. The man who guides his son. The man who does not betray a confidence. The man who stays true to his friends. The man who acts justly, who loves mercy, who walks humbly with his God.

My father is great man.

Look around you. There is greatness everywhere.

Shadows on the Diamond

2011-10-01T16:31:00.004-04:00

Cinema is known for its dramatic, noble deaths. Think of Boromir who died defending two small hobbits, fighting bravely until it was too late, and then, with three arrows sticking out of his chest, closed his eyes, his soul gently moving on.

Or Mufasa. A mad rush to save his young defenseless son. A heartless betrayal. And he is flung into the roiling mass of stampeding wildebeest. When young Simba comes to find his father and sees only his broken, lifeless body, the sting of death pierces deeply the viewer’s heart.

Maximus is another example of a such a death. A brave and heartbroken man, stabbed in the back by his enemy just as he defeats him. A stagger, a dimming of the eyes, a fall to dusty earth. Glimpses of Elysium, a final breath, his head drops gently back as his eyes close, and he is dead and gone.

The 2011 Red Sox did not die like this. They died a painful, agonizing, utterly ignoble death. They died with their eyes open and foam at the corners of their mouth. There was no swelling music, no glimpse of a beautiful afterlife, no sense of justice. They sputtered and choked and couldn’t breathe. Still, we, the fans, we held on and hoped. We trusted and believed. Come on! You can do this! We believe in you! But they failed. They sunk to their knees, beaten, not even fighting back, just accepting the blows as they came, lowering their defenses. A final death rattle and that was it. The 2011 season was over.

The Red Sox as an organization have a long and infamous history of devastating losses. 1946. 1978. 1986. 2003. What set apart the 2011 Red Sox was the fact that all the other previous team’s collapses happened in moments of high drama. Enos Slaughter’s score from first happened during the World Series. Bucky Bleeping Dent hit his home run during the one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox. Buckner missed the ball in Game 6 of the World Series. Aaron Bleeping Boone his home run in the 11^th inning of Game 7 of the ALDS. And that is a mere smattering of examples.

The 2011 loss, however, was not one moment in time. It was a slow and steady slide, a grueling and heartbreaking decline. The worst and longest collapse in the history of baseball and possibly all of sports.

Red Sox Nation watched and listened in stunned silence as the final tortured breath ended on September 28, 2011. We all know what happened. The Sox and Rays are tied for the wild card. The Yankees, playing Tampa Bay, manage to choke a seven run lead as Dan Johnson, batting a laughable .108 for the season, hits a home run to tie it in Florida and the Rays go on to win the game. In Baltimore, Papelbon blows the save and the Sox lose to the lowly Orioles, 4-3.

My heart broke, of course. There were no tears. My Red Sox didn’t even deserve that. Just a sick sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But as I began to think about it, my spirits began to lift. Yes, Tito is gone. Yes, the team will be completely different come springtime. But springtime is coming. Yes, autumn is barely begun and the leaves are just now beginning to change. October won’t be quite as enjoyable with no Sox in the playoffs. No corny TBS ads for us, reminding us that there’s only one October or that we live for this. But springtime’s coming. The nights will be long and cold as winter grips us tight. The snows will fly and the plows will ruin our streets again. But springtime’s coming. And one day, we’ll hear Joe Castiglione’s voice on the radio. Pitchers and catchers will report. The peepers will start chirping and Fenway’s green will brighten in the thin spring sunlight. Yes. Springtime’s coming.

In England, when the king died, his successor would be notified with a certain specific phrase. Someone would come, bowing to the new king, at the cusp of a new era, and say “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

The Red Sox are dead. Long live the Red Sox.

the first raindrop

2011-08-25T23:27:00.001-04:00

what is it that makes the first raindrop fall?

is it fear of the lightning? a scramble to get away from the thunder?

maybe it’s courage, the brave plunge from dizzying heights

i’d like to think it’s joy – a welcome challenge

to fling one’s whole self down from heaven

a chance to fall,

to die,

to break the heavy expectant silence

and the first one goes, a breathless tumble,

down, down, down,

and the second

and the third and fourth

and suddenly there are too many raindrops to count

wash the world away

watch them

wash the old world away

the blue glow game

2011-07-25T01:49:00.003-04:00

I watched you, dear sir, strut across the screen

Your hair could have looked better but your smile was utterly self-confident

We play a game, you and I

You live there on my screen, glowing,

(the blue glow reflecting on the wall behind me)

And you kiss the pretty girls

And you defy death

So I give you invincibility in my mind

And in my heart

It’s like a force field around you

It’s as if you can’t die unless I give you permission

Because we play this game, this dance, you and I

(uphold the fourth wall – don’t look right at me

it’s against the rules of the game)

Even though in the corner of my brain

I know that I also play the game with the man behind the camera

If he gives you permission to die, you can and you just might,

Despite my objections

And my tears, falling down my cheeks,

(can’t you see them reflected in the blue glow?)

Can do nothing to save your life

While the corner of my brain watches you get up

And wipe the fake blood off your cheek with the back of your hand

And you give your head a quick shake

Wait for the man behind the camera to speak the words

And then you strut off to your trailer or perhaps to the cafeteria

(just remember, you’re a captive in the blue glow

and we play a game, you and I)

i wish i could describe to you

2011-07-06T23:27:00.000-04:00

i wish i could describe to you

the amber melodies that i feel

when the cello plays and the violins sing

i wish i could describe to you

the shiver that runs through my chest

at the sight of the daily dying sun

i wish i could describe to you

the bittersweet ache in my belly

at the knowing of beauty

[the ocean’s crashing waves]

[the couple married for fifty-four years]

[the sight of hydrangeas in the summer afternoon]

[the laughter of a baby]

[the grandness of life]

[the power of death]

but all i have are words

and they are feeble stabs

weak-handed climbing that will never reach the summit

so the beauty gets into me

and sits there and stays there

and makes me cry

and makes me shiver

and rends my heart with joy

things i've learned

2011-06-29T00:06:00.002-04:00

The pounding, pounding, pounding on the pavement

Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe

The sweat dripping down my back and face and sometimes into my eyes

The insistent voice that says “I can’t!”

And the smaller, more insistent voice, that says “you can, you must, you will”

And I keep pounding

One-two, three-four, one-two, three-four

And suddenly I could run forever

snapshots - a drabble of 100 words

2011-06-18T23:03:00.000-04:00

I’ve tried and tried to capture that moment.

When the sun dips below the horizon and lights come on at the ballpark. When the thwack of the bat on ball resounds. When the ball soars up, up, up. When my hands fly into the air in celebration. When the tears roll down my cheeks in defeat. When I first glimpse the green of the field as I step up the ramp. When the strains of Sweet Caroline create a delighted off-key choir.

It’s in those moments that can’t be caught where my favorite memories are made.

Snapshots of Joy preserved.

dust heap

2011-06-11T23:27:00.002-04:00

So I weep, as though my tears could wash away the dust-heap ashes in my heart

There is beauty in the breaking

[so they tell me]

glory comes from ashes

strength comes from weakness

life comes from death

[so they tell me]

In the dying, I find hope

Around the bend, just out of sight,

Reach out my arms and my fingertips brush against it

And then the gossamer strands are gone

5.31.11 luminous - a drabble of 100 words

2011-06-02T00:24:00.001-04:00

Sixty-two years is a long time. Did you always hold her hand the way you are right now? I wish I could see her with your eyes. When I look at her I see a frail, fragile woman, with wrinkles and sagging skin. I see an old woman confused, who doesn’t even remember that she’s in the hospital and still thinks it’s 1972. What do you see, when you look at her? Do you see the girl you married? The mother of your children? Your lover? I guess you think she’s still beautiful.

Did you know you’re making me cry?

5.30.11 gossamer - a drabble of 100 words

2011-06-02T00:07:00.001-04:00

The little fairy fingers in the little fairy grove are full of winsome mischief so it’s best to be careful. Don’t speak too loudly for they don’t like clamor. Don’t speak too softly either, for they don’t like being surprised. It’s best to come confident and calm, assured and aware. Don’t frighten them for the fairies are marvelous jokesters but it’s very hard for them when the joke’s on them. However, if you speak kindly and carefully, they may just peek out and giggle with you. It might help, as well, if you bring gifts.

Remember, they delight in avocados.

5.29.11 aerial - a drabble of 100 words

2011-06-01T23:59:00.001-04:00

Twinkling lights, like a diamonds on the earth’s surface, sparkle up at me. The blues and the yellows shine forth against the darkness. They sparkle, wink. My heart sings with them, breaking in the midst of so much beauty.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that each house, just barely a pinprick from this height, represents a family. Each car, with their headlights illuminating just the tiniest bit in front of them, is at least one human life. Hello, all you people down there, with your diamond lights shining up at me. Do you know how beautiful you are?

5.28.11 Colours - a drabble of 100 words

2011-06-01T23:58:00.002-04:00

Show your colours. Show your bravery or cowardice. Show your mercy or judgment. Show grace or anger.

Raise up the flag on the mast. Define your allegiance. Tell me, stranger, who you are. Identify your side. It’s a war, soldier, and you can’t sit on the sidelines. Run up the white flag if those are your colours. Just remember, it’s hard to change sides in the middle of the battle, brother.

Hear the trumpet call and take up your arms. Because they’ll wrap you in those colours and ship you back to Eden when your number is called.

Get ready.

5.27.11 shatter - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-27T08:44:00.000-04:00

[nostalgia: from the Greek words nostos which means “homecoming” and algos which means “pain”]

When I remember the autumn sky filled with stars, the beach with the waves sparkling in the sun right before they crash on the shore, the silent snows, the soggy springtime earth; when I recall the faces that I love, those close enough to hug and those who reside now only in my heart, the dear faces so changed and yet still the same; I feel an painful twist in my belly. It makes sense now, that aching to go back.

[that’s why it’s called nostalgia]

5.26.11 wisp - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-26T22:27:00.001-04:00

The gentle beauty of a well-kept garden, rimmed round with rocks dug up from the yard. The stately kindness of old homes, built in the days of my great-great-grandparents. The gentle spring breeze, ripe with hints of summer, tickling my hair, heavy with lilac scent. The echo of birds chattering merrily as they bustle from treetop to treetop. The smile of a neighbor sitting on his porch as I walk past. The soothing sound of water trickling in a front yard fountain. You can keep your marble halls, your diamond palaces, your glittering gold. I have springtime in New England.

5.25.11 delight - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-25T11:06:00.000-04:00

The fireworks split the sky, painting the black with greens and yellows and blues and reds. The booms and crashes that went along with the colors scared the little kids in front, who sat crying in their mothers’ laps. The 1812 Overture rang out from tinny speakers along the Charles, unless you were close to the Hatch Shell and could actually hear the Pops. Flags were waving, hearts swelling with patriotic enthusiasm.

Chocolate ice cream was plastered all over my little girl’s face as she sang the National Anthem. “Land of the free! Home of the brave and ice cream!”

5.24.11 whisper - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-25T10:44:00.001-04:00

The wrinkle-lines of your face are as dear to me now as they ever were. The laugh-lines are so much deeper than the frown-lines. Remember, love, when we said “I do” and then we did? We changed our little world. Your strength made me strong and your love made me beautiful.

Let’s go on holding hands, for as long as we can, love. Your gentle snores the soundtrack of my nights. Your precious old blue eyes the first thing I see in the morning. Just remember, love, til death do us part. Then, and only then, shall I say goodbye.

5.23.11 gloss - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-23T22:55:00.000-04:00

Why do they do it?? I’m sure they do it to protect themselves. Honestly, I’m not blaming them. Well, I am a little bit. I’m sure they are just trying to keep the little kiddies out. You know, the ones who would look and instead of seeing “POISON!! DO NOT EAT THIS!!” like they should, they see “I’M YUMMY CANDY!! STUFF ME IN YOUR MOUTH!!” But, let’s face it, when you’re sick, you’re weaker than your average Gerber baby become toddler.

Which brings me to my original point. Why on earth do they make Nyquil caplets so hard to open?

5.22.11 gush - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-22T22:22:00.000-04:00

what happens when the words just aren’t there and the emotions are all bottled up and they want to come out but the words just aren’t there? and Anger and Sorrow and Happy and Joy are all fighting each other for control of your mind. then Reason steps in and tries to overrule them all. there’s the battle inside and the words just aren’t there. the clanging and clamor and the words still aren’t there. and then all of a sudden, you open your mouth and the words that weren’t there just start flooding out.

and then you can’t stop.

5.21.11 Cloudy Skies and Sunshine - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-22T21:43:00.001-04:00

I wonder if the elephants on the Serengeti feel the same way I do when the sun shines. Do they feel their hearts lift at the sight of the sunrise? Do they feel the pleasure of another day completed when the sun sets?

And what about when it rains? Do they like it when it pours? Does it make them go scurrying for cover? [I bet you didn’t think elephants could scurry.] Would they become sad if it rained for days? Did Noah’s elephants suffer from rain-based depression?

One thing is for sure. Snow is not an issue for them.

5.20.11 flit - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-22T21:35:00.001-04:00

The sun beat down in warm streams on the field. The cricket and summer bugs were chirping their songs to the skies. The grass was tall and green. The air smelled like simple happiness.

A mother sat on the picnic blanket, soaking in the sunshine, drinking leftover lemonade, watching her children play in the field around her. Suddenly, her five-year-old daughter came running toward her. “Mommy! Mommy! Look what I got! I catchded it!”

She opened her cupped hands. An orange butterfly rested there. But the little girl’s hands were covered with butterfly dust and the butterfly had stopped moving.

5.19.11 cull - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-19T22:23:00.000-04:00

I think they might have been laughing at him. They were a bunch of teenagers. He was a teenager too but there was something different about him. His face didn’t look like theirs. He talked different than they did. They didn’t do anything to him. They just pointed. Some of the girls giggled. Some of the boys crossed their eyes and walked funny. The boy didn’t seem to mind but he looked a little confused. Then he walked away. I saw him around the corner, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

I wish I had done something.

5.18.11 crestfallen - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-18T22:13:00.001-04:00

I’m slogging away on the treadmill, sweat dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. I’m begging for a song to blare through my ear buds that will make me forget that I still have two miles to go before I can stop running. Then the girl on the treadmill in front of me, who had been running like a gazelle moments before, steps off the belt and just stands there, both feet planted while the belt keeps moving.

You know you don’t get credit for those miles that you’re not running, right?

Good thing grace doesn’t work that way.

5.17.11 wane - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-17T23:23:00.000-04:00

I didn’t notice when it happened. I never notice.

When I get there, the sun is shining. Everyone is happy. It might be a little hot. I might be a little sweaty because we had to walk a mile from the parking garage. The vendors in their yellow shirts are hawking their wares but I’m riveted on the white uniforms in front of me.

Then suddenly, I realize the sun has set and the lights are illuminating the field. They shine bright against the night sky. The breeze is summer evening cool and it’s almost time to sing Sweet Caroline.

5.16.11 fen - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-17T23:19:00.000-04:00

The scent of hot dogs and sausages wafts through the air. There are people everywhere. You stand in line, order your food. It’s ridiculously expensive but you don’t care. The strains of the National Anthem breeze past your ear. You make your way around the crowded concourse, looking for a sign to point you toward your seat. There! You fumble your ticket out of your pocket, just barely avoiding spilling ice cream all over. Up a gently sloping ramp. Then, you see it.

The green grass. The baseball diamond. And, just like always, your heart does a little happy dance.

5.15.11 dusk - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-16T00:46:00.000-04:00

The road was muddy, his footsteps marked with blood. He had walked a great distance. He once was young and now he was old. Still, he kept walking. In front of him, the sun had nearly set. Streaks of orange shot through the sky as darkness chased behind.

His back was hunched, his shoulders stooped. But his head was erect and his eyes kept their clear gaze on the horizon. Finally, he saw it. The towers of the Great City, gleaming gold in the dying sunlight. A smile flitted across his face. The end was near. Home was in view.

5.14.11 Blank Pages - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-14T22:53:00.001-04:00

What if something had been different? What if his father had been more loving? What if his mother hadn’t spoiled him?

Look at him. A little baby, cooing at the sunshine and butterflies. A little boy, scraping his knee during a game of tag. Look at the clean upper lip. In forty years or so, it will be home to a small square black mustache. Look at the strong young arms. In forty years or so, the right one will stretch out straight in front of screaming multitudes.

But his mother doesn’t know that as she kisses her baby goodnight.

5.13.11 tremulous - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-13T22:19:00.000-04:00

Primitive Man invented the wheel, discovered fire, and got us started. The Egyptians, with their irrigation canals, and the Romans, with their running water and indoor plumbing, continued it. There was a slight hiccup in the aptly named Dark Ages. But then the printing press came about and the rest, as they say, is history. Brilliant people applied themselves to innovation and invention. Now, the limit of the imagination is the only thing restraining our discoveries.

So we sit in front of our screens for hours, losing touch with who we really are. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our future.

5.12.11 cascade - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-13T22:17:00.000-04:00

“Look out, Captain! It’s a huge waterfall!”

The boat careened wildly toward the precipice. The water leaped over the cliff, heedless of the sharp rocks at the bottom. The river dragged the boat along in its mad flight, despite the desperate workings of its captain and crew.

“Captain, we’re not going to make it!”

The young mother looked outside her kitchen window, absently stirring her chocolate chip cookies. At the edge of the yard, she could see her little son playing with the garden hose, piles of small stones, and a plastic ship. Behind her, the pasta pot boiled over.

5.11.11 giggle - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-13T22:16:00.001-04:00

She didn’t know what she did. She didn’t know what it was that made it happen. The little baby sitting in the high chair in front of her was covered in bananas and rice cereal. (That combination takes approximately three washings to take out all the sticky.) She could see his two little teeth, white nubs poking out of pink baby gums. His mouth was open wide. His chubby belly was shaking. His blue eyes twinkled and sparkled with the joke only an eighteen-month-old would understand.

She closed her eyes and let the sound of baby laughter wash over her.

5.10.11 scintillate - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-10T22:23:00.001-04:00

My muse is feeling rather ragged recently. She’s quite enjoying all the work she’s had lately. It’s been a little bit of a stretch for her. There are a few dirty coffee cups in the sink that have gathered over the past few days. But she’s been keeping up quite nicely.

Today was tough, though. She woke up tired and just couldn’t wipe the sleep from her eyes. The coffee, all seven cups of it, didn’t help. The nap was a little bit of relief. But let’s face it, she’s sleep-deprived. Maybe she should try getting to bed on time.

5.8.11 resplendent - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-09T21:34:00.000-04:00

She sat, chewing the end of her pen cap, racking her brain for the right words to say. She kept bringing the pen down to the paper, just barely touching it, about to start writing, when the cliché sensor in her head would start clanging. “You can’t write that in your Mother’s Day card! That is Hallmark schmaltz!”

She sighed. “I think all the clichés must be true,” she muttered to no one.

Down went the pen once more but this time it kept writing.

Dear Mom,

Thank you for everything. For the sacrifices and the prayers.

I love you.

5.9.11 fey - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-09T21:33:00.001-04:00

The clouds were dark over my head. Not literal clouds. Eeyore clouds that hovered in my brain and my heart. Clouds that made the day seem ugly and smelly and gross. I first noticed them in the morning but I decided to ignore them. They refused to be ignored. They just stayed and stayed and stayed. In fact, they got bigger and darker and scarier. My shoulders stooped and my insides started to shrivel.

Then you smiled at me and told me that it was ok. You gave me a hug and suddenly rays of sunshine broke through the clouds.

5.7.11 Thoughts in Black and White - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-08T00:05:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, I write words with an ink pen to see the contrast of the black against the white. To know that the page will never be white again, that the words there that were banging around in my brain have magically jumped from me to the outside world.

Sometimes the words rhyme and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, the words make you laugh and sometimes they make you cry. Sometimes, the words are in my diary so that when I’m old, I can see the yellowed once-white pages covered with faded black memories.

Sometimes, the words are just a grocery list.

5.6.11 twilight - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:23:00.002-04:00

It’s the moment when you realize that the sun has set and the lights have come on. It’s the crack of the bat, the arc of the ball, the way you rise to your feet without even realizing it, waiting to see where the ball lands. It’s the way you sink back into your seat when the opposing center fielder leaps and catches the ball, robbing your batter of his hit. It’s the way your arms automatically fly up in the air and the shout of jubilation rips from your throat when the ball lands in the stands.

It’s baseball.

5.5.11 glisten - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:23:00.001-04:00

The rain was on and off all day, like a bipolar light switch that just couldn’t make up its mind. One moment it was sunny. The next moment, you’d better have your polka-dotted umbrella handy because the skies opened up.

But in the magical in between moment, the rain and the sunshine met and shook hands like old English gentlemen about to smoke their pipes. When that happened, I started looking for the rainbow.

I craned my neck this way and that, peering through the sunny rain. Up, up, up I looked. And then there were not one but two.

5.4.11 effervescent - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:22:00.001-04:00

Don’t bother remembering her hair color because it changes every six weeks or so. But I can tell you you’ll certainly remember her eyes and her smile. Her eyes sparkle because she loves. Her smile shines because He loves her and she knows it. If you look at her wrists, you’ll see permanent ink telling about His love.

I can guarantee that when you go to her house, you’ll hear good music and learn about New England, especially New England sports. They say she really likes the Boston Red Sox.

I can’t believe you thought the Bee Lady was boring.

5.3.11 flutter - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:20:00.000-04:00

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, I’m Karen, the ultrasound tech who will be doing your ultrasound with you today."

"Alright, Mrs. Henderson. What’s that?"

"Oh. Ok, Lisa. Lisa, I’m gonna have you lay on your back here. I’m going to turn the lights down a little bit."

"Now I’m going to squirt this cold stuff on your belly. I know, it’s a little chilly. I apologize."

"I’m going to put the probe right on top of your belly and maneuver it around."

"There we go. Look at the screen. That little flicker in the chest, right here."

"That’s the heartbeat.”

5.2.11 twinkle - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:19:00.001-04:00

He was 88 years old. The wispy white hair on top of his head didn’t come close to covering his baldness. The age spots on his hands were markedly brown. He had to use a walker to get around.

There he was, laying in the hospital bed. There I stood next to him, counting out his pills. He took the little white pill cup and the small Styrofoam cup full of water and peered at me, blue eyes full of laughter.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No,” I responded, grinning.

“If I were 60 years younger, would you marry me?”

5.1.11 sparkle - a drabble of 100 words

2011-05-07T00:17:00.000-04:00

She looked at her ring finger on her left hand. There was nothing on it. But his hand was holding it. She looked back up into his eyes. Suddenly, she felt something cool slip onto her finger and he was speaking. It took a moment to register his words. Her heart started to beat faster, all the way to her throat, and her eyes started to tear up. “Marry me?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling so big her face felt in danger of breaking, and threw her arms around his neck.

There, on her left hand, was a distinct sparkle.

DrabDayMoMay

2011-05-07T00:15:00.002-04:00

So, I've challenged myself in the month of May to write a drabble (a short piece of exactly 100 words) every day. I'm currently blogging, along with some other friends, at drabdaymomay.blogspot.com. However, I've decided I'm also going to post them here. Continuity of writing and such.

Another Blog

2011-04-22T12:25:00.003-04:00

Ha! You thought I didn't have any more to say that couldn't be contained here. Well, I have news for you. Check out A Drabble A Day In The Month Of May and join in the writing fun there!!

Greater Love - a drabble of 100 words

2011-04-22T10:57:00.001-04:00

For years, the rebels had been looting, stealing, pillaging the King’s treasures with utter disregard for His power and might. The King was kind but just. Finally, He stood up from His throne, looked out over His kingdom.

“The judgment is passed,” He said. “All of you are guilty! Now stand forward to be punished!”

The Prince stood next to Him. “Father,” He said. “I shall take their punishment.” He looked over the kingdom. “I love you, Father.”

“I love you, Son.”

So the Prince left His home and ascended the gallows as the jeering rebels threw stones at Him.

I wonder who the first one was

2011-04-07T23:22:00.000-04:00

I wonder who the first one was
To tell a story just for the sheer pleasure of telling it
Was it when they were sitting around the fire
Some stormy, snowy night?
Was he old?
Did his grandchildren clamber up on his knee
Begging “Tell us that story again”?
And he spoke
Not to share information
Or to bring a message
But just because the story brought joy to those who heard

I wonder who the first one was
To sing a song for the sheer pleasure of singing it
Was it when she was out gathering berries
Some bright, cheerful morning?
Was she young?
Did the song burst from her heart and lips
Joining the chorus of birds around her?
And she sang
Not to share information
Or to bring a message
But just because the song brought joy to her own heart

I wonder who the first ones were
I wonder if they know what they started

endings

2011-04-06T11:13:00.000-04:00

I stand on the bridge, overlooking a great chasm
It is dark and deep but I stand firm
And there you are, Death
And here you come
A monster, brash and bold,
Grinning, leering, laughing in my face

You shall not pass
[death, be not proud]

I scream in your face
I shout and wave my arms at you
As the sweat drips down my face
And my arms grow fatigued

Some days, you turn, skulking
And go back to the shadow
[death be not proud]

Other days, you overpower me
Shoving me aside, you lunge to claim your prize
The person I sought to keep you from

But then again, you are not always a monster
There are those times
When I stand at the door
And the person in the bed behind me
Looks longingly for you
I hold his hand and welcome you in

Then the tears fill your eyes and mine
And I let go of his hand as you pick him up
And gently carry him out
[death be not proud]

Yet for all of this
For all this fighting and all this struggle
All these conversations that you and I have had
Death, one day you too shall die

death in life (part 2) - a drabble of 100 words

2011-03-26T09:25:00.002-04:00

My bones are ravaged. My body is aching. I can hardly see. The pain knocks around my skull like hammer that never stops pounding.

I lie on my bed, waiting. Waiting to say goodbye to this fragile, heartbreaking, beautiful world.

I close my eyes. Deep breath. My children are here, holding my hands. Their voices grow dim. Another breath.

Suddenly, I open my eyes. The pain is gone. He is standing there. Arms wide open. His old familiar smile. Shining brighter than the sun at noonday with scars on His hands and side.

“Welcome home.”

And Lazarus is there too.

death in life (part 1) - a drabble of 100 words

2011-03-26T09:20:00.002-04:00

He had fallen sick again. The disease sapped his strength like a dog cursed with madness. I watched him suffer, sought to ease his pain, tried to make him comfortable.

But I am old like he is. I am weak and falling ill myself. The toils of this world have fallen heavy upon me and my bones are tired.

The sickness did not last long. There was some mercy there. He suffered again for four days. And then that was the end. I have seen this scene before. I have felt this gnawing grief.

My brother, Lazarus, has died. Again.

writing

2011-03-23T00:02:00.002-04:00

I haven’t written anything in a while

[life has gotten in the way]

I’d forgotten the thrill of black words on a white page

Love Wins?

2011-03-16T20:50:00.000-04:00

Full disclosure: I have not yet read Rob Bell's new book Love Wins. Also, I am well aware that probably only about four people (if that) will even read this note but I feel like I have to get my thoughts out. If you're reading this, I hope it serves you.

Having read both Al Mohler's and Kevin DeYoung's's reviews of the book, as well as watching an interview with Rob Bell, it seems that the main crux of Bell's book is the thought that all people will be saved and go to Heaven, even if they die not having put their faith in Christ. For even after they are dead, they will have the opportunity to be saved. This is not a new thought. It has been around for a long time. (Anne Bronte, for example, believed this and her book, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall published in 1848, clearly bespoke this belief.)

I can understand those people who believe this. On the surface, it seems much more palatable and loving to believe that God could not send innocent people to Hell. After all, God is love . Yes. Yes, He is.

But.

Please, please, please understand this. God is love, no question. But God is also holy. He is so holy that the seraphim who circle the throne, crying "Holy, holy, holy", cannot even look at Him and must shield their eyes. This holiness is so fierce that it cannot abide sin. The wrath that God has against sin is completely just. For all sin is a rebellion against this holiness, a proclamation of the upstart creature telling the Creator that his way is better. Since God created us, He has every right to demand perfection of us. And we have failed miserably. I have failed miserably. My sins deserve the full outpouring of punishment that comes from offending a holy God.

And there is another but.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ— by grace you have been saved.

Ephesians 2:4-5.

When we deny Hell, we deny the glorious truth of the Gospel. That a holy God, so holy that no sin may ever enter His presence, saw fit to make a way for sinful human beings to come to Him. How? He crushed His own Son, killed Him, poured the full cup of His judgement on Him, and then raised His Son from the dead, defeating sin and death in one fell swoop. And now He offers Christ as the only way to be made right with God.

To say that God is love and thus must allow all sinners to be saved, regardless of whether or not they accepted His grace while alive, is folly. It relegates God's love to being the same as human love. When we say He must give all people a second chance because we as sinners give people a second chance demeans Him. In truth, God's love is greater than ours. He could give us seven thousand chances and we'd still never be perfect enough for His presence. So, instead, He killed His own Son, proving His ultimate justice and His ultimate love at the same time.

This is how love wins.

The King's Feast

2011-02-16T13:45:00.001-05:00

Once upon a time, there lived a young girl. She was a poor child and her home was small and dirty. Her job was to feed the pigs. Every day, she went out to feed them and as she tossed the smelly slop into the feeding trough, she would think “Someday, I’m going to eat a real feast.”

Years passed. The pig-girl still went out every morning to feed the ungrateful pigs. She still had never eaten a real feast and her desire for one had only grown more intense as she had gotten older. She had even begun dreaming about the King’s Feast. Rumor had reached her ears that the King, the mighty Ruler of the whole land, had a feast every night for anyone He invited. And once a person had been invited to one feast, they were allowed to live in the castle and eat the King’s food forever.

A sigh escaped her lips as she stood gazing off in the distance towards where the castle lay hidden by hills. The sun was setting and the sky was a blaze of color, red and orange, purple clouds shot through with streaks of gold. But the beauty escaped her for all she could think of was the King’s feast.

Suddenly, a wagon came around the bend. It was an old farmer’s wagon and the horses pulling it were tired and droopy. The driver stopped in front of the house and walked to where the girl was. She dropped a curtsy. The driver nodded, his blue eyes smiling kindly at her. “I have here an invitation,” he said.

The girl’s heart leapt. “But,” she thought “surely the King’s coach would be fine with gold trim and scarlet banners.” Her heart sank down again, weighted and sad. Nevertheless, she accepted the invitation graciously. The driver bowed to her, got back into his coach, and she watched it ramble off down the road.

She turned over the invitation in her hand. It was a plain white envelope, clearly addressed to her. She opened it slowly. As she began to read it, her jaw slowly dropped in amazement.

You are cordially invited to partake of the King’s Feast tonight. Please come just as you are.

Sincerely,

The King

This was it. The invitation she had been waiting her whole life for. She began to run down the road after the driver. “Wait! Wait!!” she called out. She quickly caught up to him. He smiled down at her. “I see you read the invitation,” he said. “Come on up.” He held out his hand to guide her into the wagon and together they set off to the castle.

As they pulled up to the castle door, a woman bustled out to meet them. “My goodness, dearie,” she said, catching sight of the girl’s stained clothing and wrinkling her nose at the smell. “We must get you cleaned up before the feast.”

“But the invitation!” the girl said. “It said to-”

“Come as you are,” said the bustling woman. “Yes, it most certainly did. For the King has arranged for you to be clothed in the finest gown and prepared as a princess.”

“Me?” the girl asked. “But I’m just the pig girl.”

“The King is kindness itself,” replied the woman. “Besides, He desires all who come to His table to be fitted in the richest of robes and who better to provide those than Himself?”

And with that, the girl was whisked away. She endured a scrubbing like she had never known before but even she had to admit that the clean scent was an improvement. And the gown that was chosen for her! An exquisite royal blue that complemented her dark brown hair and brown eyes. It was trimmed with the finest lace and beautiful designs made of silver beads. It rustled quietly as she walked, its smooth silkiness rubbing against her skin.

Finally, the feast was ready. A young page came to escort her to the feast. They walked through halls of the castle, passing majestic tapestries and beautiful sculptures on either side of them. When they reached the doors to the Great Hall, the girl found that her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe. The page pushed open the doors and a glorious sight displayed itself before her eyes. The candlelit hall sparkled and the people there were all dressed in clothes of the most beautiful array and color. There were rows of tables laden with more food than she imagined possible. She spied an empty seat at one of the first tables and went to sit in it.

“No, no,” whispered the page. “Your seat is this way.” She followed him as he began to walk towards the front of the hall. She looked around but she didn’t see any empty seats. Wait! She saw one empty seat but it was next to the King! “That can’t be my seat,” she gasped. But the page boy led her straight to it.

As she arrived at her seat, she curtsied very low. The King stood up and grasped her hand. “Welcome to the feast,” he said. Slowly, she looked up into his eyes. With a start, she realized she knew Him. “You were the driver!” she said.

The King chuckled. “Yes, I was. I like to hand out my invitations myself to those whom I wish to see at my table. Sit down, my dear. Your feast awaits.”

And what a feast it was! Turkeys and roasts and chicken. Fish cooked to flaky perfection. Potatoes, corn, beans. Breads of every variety. More cheeses than she knew could be made. Spiced rum and sparkling cider. Pies and cakes, puddings and crumbles. She ate until she could eat no more.

She leaned back with a sigh of utter content. The King smiled at her. “Did you enjoy it?” She nodded and grinned, too happy even for words.

For a long time, she continued in this fashion. Living at the castle, learning all kinds of things about music and mathematics and history, meeting new and interesting people. And every night, there was a feast.

Then one day, a peddler came to the castle. He was not allowed to come in but he set up his wares right next to the front door. The girl went to visit him and see what he had to offer. Out of his bag, he pulled a small grey lump. “Here,” he said. “Eat this.” She shrank back. “Why would I eat that?” she asked. “I have the King’s feast every night.”

The peddler smirked at her. “Tis true. But taste it anyway.” So she did. It was not unpleasant on the tongue, indeed it was sweet, but it didn’t taste quite right. She thought for a bit. “It tastes fake. As if it weren’t real.”

“Ah,” said the peddler. “That is because you have not had enough.” And with that, he gave her a large box. She opened it and saw many grey lumps. “Keep it,” he said. “And enjoy, with my compliments.”

She immediately took it to the King. “What is this?” she asked. The King’s face grew concerned. “Is it bad? Is it evil? For I shall throw it in the dust heap if it is,” she said.

The King shook His head. “It is not evil. And you are allowed to have it. Just beware that it does not spoil your taste for My food.”

The girl laughed. “As though I should ever lose my taste for Your food. I love Your food so much I dream about it still.”

The girl would taste the grey lump every so often. It seemed to grow sweeter every time. And soon she found she was tasting it every day then twice a day. “It’s no matter,” she told herself. “The King said it was not evil. And there is so much of it left, I needn’t worry about running out.”

Then, one night, she was sitting at the King’s table, next to the King, when she looked at her plate. It was full of meat and mashed potatoes covered in gravy with her favorite bread, smothered in butter, on the side. There was a blackberry pie in front of her and a glass of fresh cool milk. She stabbed her fork into the meat and began to cut a piece to eat. Suddenly, she began craving the grey lump. She put her fork down. The King looked at her, a question in His eyes.

“I’m, um, I’m not very hungry,” she said. His eyes filled with tears. “It’s the grey lump, isn’t it?” He asked.

She stood up suddenly. “You said it wasn’t evil. And so I’m going to eat that tonight instead.” And she pushed back her chair and started to walk away.

“You’ve lost your taste for true food,” the King said. He was not angry or vengeful, just sad.

“I haven’t lost my taste for true food!” she said. “I just want the grey lump now.”

And with that, she turned and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving behind the feast that she had dreamed about for so long. The King stood up too and watched her leave. She paused at the doors and turned to glance at the King. He was still standing and His arms were outstretched toward her, as if to bring her back Home.

A thirsty soul

2011-02-06T01:27:00.003-05:00

Tonight, I went to my first art gallery exhibit ever. It was a display of the senior design project from MassArt students and it affected me more than I was expecting. As I wandered about the room, simple concrete floors and white walls, looking at the different paintings and the process books describing how the painting and project came to be, my heart was filled. I hadn't even realized it was empty.

Within each of us is a longing. I don't know how to describe it. It's a hunger, a thirst, a need. For something that isn't touchable or tastable. Something that can't be smelled or counted. That's what art is. It's the intangible experience of beauty in simple lines or brilliant color or heartbreaking melody. It's what C.S. Lewis described as Joy. A breathtaking glorious stab of pain in your gut that grips your heart and makes your insides twist with happiness and sadness at the same time.

And we need this experience. Oh how we need it. We need to have our immortal souls engaged with it.

We need to practice for Heaven.

[Do you know where this beauty is seen?

In splashes of color on a canvas.

In music that lives and breathes.

In waterfalls and daisies and snowflakes and mountains and stars and roses and a grandmother's kiss and a baby's laugh and ocean tides.

On hill called Calvary.]

winter in New England

2011-02-01T17:31:00.001-05:00

I watched the snowbanks grow this morning

some of them are taller than I am

The roads were slick and slippery

we drove real slow and it was ok

It was cold, so cold I had a hard time breathing

but we made snow angels anyway

And the snowman is still smiling

just words (second incarnation)

2011-01-27T12:09:00.000-05:00

Yes, they’re just words

Just words can kill you if you let them

Just words are the bullets that spin and ricochet through your heart

Dragging shrapnel through your skin and making the blood travel

In rivulets and streams down your chest

Just words are the clubs that beat you senseless when you least expect it

That bruise your arms all black and blue and yellow and raise goose-eggs on your head

But they aren’t all pain and suffering

Just words are the springtime flowers that cheer you up

After a winterlong of doubts and fears and grey skies

Just words are the cool hand on the fevered brow

That rests gentle and strong and smooths away the sickness

Just words are the Olympic medal that you kiss in your triumph

And hold high above your head while the music rings out

Just words are the strength and the power of a tornado

The silence and the mercy of the snowflake

Be careful when you speak

For you speak just words

just words

2011-01-27T11:34:00.002-05:00

Yes, they’re just words

Just words can kill you if you let them

Just words become the icicles that stab your lungs

In the winter when all you wanted was your morning coffee

Just words are the bullets that spin and ricochet through your heart

Dragging shrapnel through your skin and making the blood travel

In rivulets and streams down your chest

Just words are the clubs that beat you senseless when you least expect it

That bruise your arms all black and blue and yellow and raise goose-eggs on your head

But they aren’t all pain and suffering

Just words are the springtime flowers that cheer you up

After a winterlong of doubts and fears and grey skies

Just words are the cool hand on the fevered brow

That rests gentle and strong and smooths away the sickness

Just words are the Olympic medal that you kiss in your triumph

And hold high above your head while the music rings out

Just words are the strength and the power of a tornado

The silence and the mercy of the snowflake

Be careful when you speak

For you speak just words

waking up

2011-01-26T17:15:00.000-05:00

It should be as easy as pouring a morning cup of coffee

That burst of energy that comes from something outside yourself

Or maybe it’s that slow turn as the sunlight comes through the window

Gently tugging at your eyelids, reminding you that the day is come

Perhaps it’s the leap out of bed, like Christmas morning as a kid,

Or when you realize your alarm didn’t go off and you’re late for work

Whatever it is, it isn’t happening for me

I’m vertical, I’m out of bed, I’m awake

But not really

[the fog in my brain has attacked my taste buds

and more importantly, my heart, and it’s not going away]

a very sick muse

2011-01-25T22:58:00.001-05:00

Shhh. Don’t talk. My muse is in that room. She’s hooked up to a ventilator which keeps the air moving in and out of her lungs. An IV was inserted into her right hand days ago. She’s getting fluids through that which are keeping her hydrated. They are thinking about inserting a central line to give her nutrition intravenously because she’s not eating. She has tubes going in and tubes coming out. But they said her vital signs are strong and her numbers are good.

I hope she gets better soon.

The next big thing

2011-01-22T19:55:00.004-05:00

My friend Chad posted recently about something that has taken up a large amount of my brain space in the past few years. He brings up the example of Mark Zuckerberg and how he changed the world with the invention of Facebook. That got my mind churning again.

I've wanted to change the world for a long time now. And, goodness gracious, does the world need changing. Though we might not all agree on what needs to change, indeed we are possibly diametrically opposed in our ideas of how change needs to happen, we can all agree something's gotta change or something's gotta give.

My question is, very simply, how? How can I change the world? I'm one person with a very small realm of influence. Within my immediate circle of acquaintance, I hold very little sway and outside that circle, I hold even less. But that doesn't change my desire to do something, to be someone.

I wrote a poem when I was much younger. It was rather awful in terms of poetry (and I haven't improved much when it comes to poetry) but the feeling behind the poem has only grown. In the poem, I talked about how I didn't want to fade into oblivion, being just another shade of grey in a sea of it. Or, even worse, a shade of grey next to a brilliant orange, overshadowed and overlooked.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've come to realize that I probably will never amount to anything much in the world's eyes. But, then again, I'm not looking at the world to approve of me. I'm looking to Christ. I'm looking to Christ to change me and then, through me, change the world around me. And even if I only ever change a small piece of the world, even if I only ever truly affect one person, even if I only give a glass of water to a small child, then it was still worth it.

I never said I had to change the whole world, although I'd like to. But, in studying world-changers, there seems to be a common theme. They weren't necessarily out to change the world. They just did what they were good at and happened to know the right people and be in the right place at the right time. It seems to be a matter of fate, or if you're Reformed like me, a matter of God's sovereignty.

So that's my master plan. Keep doing what I'm good at. Keep serving Jesus wherever I am. And if I make a difference for the better, if I change a small part of the world, then I'm a world-changer. Besides, I serve the true World-Changer and He does a far better job of it than I do.

valetudo

2011-01-22T15:10:00.000-05:00

Like strokes of blue across the morning sky

When the gulls went freewheeling in their flight

Trying to soar past the clouds

Heedless of the way back

Conscious only of the here, the now

Watch them soar

Watch them fall

I sank down into the pit

Too weak to move

And my body fought against me

The little soldiers inside laid down and died

Afraid to even make a stand

There is no light at the end of the tunnel

There is no morning at the end of night

There is no joy at the end of sorrow

Watch the gulls, listen to them call

Brave and fearless against the morning sky

Come back to the land of the living

Be well

And the strokes of sky blue

Meet up with the waves of ocean green

And somewhere in the grey is where I shall be found

Little Lantern Bearers - a drabble of 100 words

2011-01-16T00:27:00.003-05:00

My throat was dry with sawdust. My left thumbnail was bruised from all the times it had been accidentally hit. All around me was the pleasantly confused chaos of construction.

I closed my eyes. Imagined for a moment what the church would look like when it was completed. Solid, sturdy, comfortable, purposeful.

I could hear the laughter of the children through the windows.

“We build this for you,” I thought. “For you. For your children and their children. That the Light may still be shining through you when I am gone and dead.”

Outside, they began a game of tag.

childhood memories

2011-01-08T22:18:00.001-05:00

i left my childhood memories on the porch

i drove off into the future, bright and shining,

leaving a cloud of dust and pebbles behind me

but, to my surprise, i couldn’t outdistance the lump in my throat

and the tear in my eye stubbornly trickled down my cheek

despite my best efforts to sniff it away

we say it will never happen - a drabble of 100 words

2011-01-03T12:15:00.003-05:00

The ground was shaking.

We sat in the corner coffee shop, drinking tea.

There were fires and explosions everywhere.

Someone handed out elegant lemon bars and dainty petit fours on satin napkins.

The plaster on the walls around us began to crack.

Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 3 began to play over the speakers.

The people on the streets outside were screaming, crying, begging for mercy.

The walls started to crumble. Suddenly, they crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust and smoke and ash surrounded us.

We watched the world collapse around our ears.

“One lump of sugar or two?”

Hugs - a drabble of 100 words

2011-01-02T23:30:00.001-05:00

“Mummy, Trevor gave me a stinkbug hug today.”

The woman on the couch didn’t even turn her eyes away from the television.

“I told him I didn’t like spider hugs or mosquito hugs or stinkbug hugs. But he gave me a stinkbug hug anyway.”

The woman stuffed another handful of potato chips in her mouth.

“Do you know what kind of hugs I like, Mummy?”

The woman turned up the volume.

“I like ladybug hugs and dragonfly hugs and butterfly hugs and firefly hugs.”

The little girl sat on the floor and the mommy-doll gave firefly hugs to the baby-doll.

inspiration

2011-01-01T11:31:00.002-05:00

it grabs you in the belly

and forces you to write

like there was a gun to your head

and all your other thoughts flee before the avalanche

keep writingwritingwriting

until the thoughts are all out

and you can breathe again

auld lang syne

2011-01-01T11:25:00.003-05:00

[january 1, 2011

i am a great sinner

and Christ is a great Savior]

i don't know where i'll be a year from today

[1 year

12 months

52 weeks

365 days

8,760 hours

525,600 minutes

31,536,000 seconds]

so much time

so much opportunity

so many chances

for good

for evil

will there be more joys or sorrows?

more laughter or tears?

pain or health?

[january 1, 2012

i will still be a great sinner

and Christ will still be a great Savior]

twinkle

2010-12-13T01:12:00.003-05:00

Sometimes it’s not dramatic

There are no explosions or beautiful damsels in distress

Or caped superheroes who come winging through the

Pitch black sky

Sometimes, it’s as simple as snow falling in the thickened quiet

Sometimes, it’s as gentle as the smell of waking flowers

Sometimes, it’s as small as the newborn pup learning to walk

Sometimes, the Christmas tree just twinkles

and the little dots of light beckon us all home

necessary - a drabble poem of 100 words

2010-12-07T20:36:00.002-05:00

the bud on the tree

nearly ready to bloom

the butterfly in the cocoon

nearly ready to emerge

the chick in the egg

nearly ready to hatch

strain, wrestle, strive

fight, battle, struggle

Take a deep breath

there’s a great big beautiful world out here

with sun and clouds and rain and snow

waterfalls and forests and

crashing ocean surf

joy and sorrow

pain and healing

tears and laughter

keep straining

keep wrestling

keep striving

[the fight is necessary to strengthen you

the battle is necessary to fortify you

the struggle is necessary to make you live]

Don’t

Give

smaller sunsets

2010-12-06T15:59:00.004-05:00

the sun is setting
it dips to greet the horizon
the sky is bathed with orange glow
dark purple and lavender cloud
while the deep blue of the night steals behind
streaks of light, the last gasp of the dying day,
reach out to say goodbye

when i write
when you film
when he plays
when she paints
we all reflect the glory of the Sunset

[why the blood, the sweat, the tears?]

[why the forgotten sleep, the early mornings, the late nights?]

[why the passion that grips the soul and holds so tight that all else fades?]

[why the desire, the drive, the need to create?]

who is going to read these books?
who is going to see these films?
who is going to hear these songs?
who is going to glimpse these pictures?
who is going to appreciate this art?

it matters not
it is enough that the drive is there
we see the beauty and we must respond

we are all creating smaller sunsets

behold the Lamb of God

2010-12-05T23:38:00.001-05:00

The carpenter’s calloused hands are covered in blood. The girl’s laboring body is covered in sweat. Her face is covered in tears.

Suddenly, a gasp, a moan, a baby’s cry.

There, on the dirty straw, a newborn baby, wailing.

behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world

The teachers of the Law sit, astounded. The priests listen, astonished. In their midst, a twelve year old boy sits, speaking truths of God. His voice cracks sometimes, not fully deepened yet.

A woman comes bursting through the crowd, grabs him by the arm, begins berating him for wandering off. He simply tells her that he is about his Father’s business.

behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world

The crowd is anxious, hungry, tired. They have been listening to the Teacher all day and now they want food. But there is no food to be found. No food except a little boy’s five fish and two loaves.

The Teacher takes the fish and loaves, raises them to Heaven. His disciples distribute them among the people and the entire multitude is fed.

behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world

The sky is dark and the ground shakes. The soldiers are frightened. A man hangs on a cross, his blood dripping down to the ground, creating little rivulets beneath him. His body is torn and mutilated, hardly recognizable. He is barely able to lift himself up to breathe.

He shouts something to the heavens and then bows his head, lifeless.

behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world

The sun is rising over the garden. A light shines forth as a stone is rolled away from the mouth of a tomb. A man steps forward out of the grave, into the sunlight. His hands bear the scars of the cruel nails that held him to his cross. His side bears the wound of the spear that pierced him. His head bears the marks of the crown of thorns that had been forced upon his head.

He walks away from the grave, leaving it empty.

behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world

stolen childhood

2010-11-24T22:36:00.002-05:00

we were only children
when the stars came tumbling down
when the sky fell in
when the pillars of the earth crumbled around
our little children ears

we saw death, blood, and decay
in the places where we used to play

we saw the dead eyes open and staring
the dead mouths open and gaping
the dead hearts, wanting so desperately to beat

the dust and sweat, the dirt and tears
have joined together to make a foul mud
will you join us in making mud pies?
after all, we’re only children

(dedicated to all the children in Haiti and Darfur and Rwanda and Mexico and any other place where their childhood was snatched away from them and sacrificed to war, famine, disease, earthquake, or any other disaster.)

utterly changed into fire

2010-11-07T09:06:00.001-05:00

They
conquered kingdoms,
enforced justice,
obtained promises,
stopped the mouths of lions.

why not be utterly changed into fire?

They
quenched the power of fire,
escaped the edge of the sword,
were made strong out of weakness,
became mighty in war,
put foreign armies to flight.

why not be utterly changed into fire?

Some were
tortured,
refusing to accept release,
suffered mocking and flogging,
chains and imprisonment.

why not be utterly changed into fire?

they were
[stoned]
they were
[sawn in two]
they were
[killed with the sword]
they were
[destitute]
[afflicted]
[mistreated]

why not be utterly changed into fire?

"This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me."
be utterly changed into fire

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this in remembrance of me."
be utterly changed into fire

as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup,
you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.

utterly
changed
into
fire

echoes of truth

2010-11-04T20:41:00.001-04:00

"they are myths," he told me

"stories from someone's imagination,

worlds that cannot be,

people that never are,

things that have never happened"

i know they are

myths,

stories,

legends

i know they did not happen except

on paper

on screen

in thought

"but don't you see" i told him

"we need these stories,

these legends,

these myths"

in the stories, we see glimmers of hope

in the legends, we know inklings of faith

in the myths, we hear echoes of truth

that's why the story grips me

why the death of someone who never lived

makes me cry

why the first kiss of people who do not exist

makes me smile

why the life of someone who is not

matters

can you hear the echoes?

a quiet faith

2010-10-22T22:27:00.002-04:00

sometimes, i am exuberant, boisterous even

sometimes, i am depressed, despairing even

but usually i am somewhere in the middle

a quiet faith

[i know that Jesus lived a perfect life]

a simple assurance

[i know that Christ died for my sins]

a gentle remembrance

[i know that my Redeemer lives]

sometimes, that's all i have to go on

early morning conversations

2010-10-22T10:11:00.001-04:00

His mercies are new every morning

my heart, you see, is so very heavy

He has promised His love to me

my circumstances are perplexing

His lovingkindness is forever

and i don’t know what is going on

i am clinging to His promises

i have nothing else to cling to

sometimes there are too many words

2010-10-19T17:47:00.003-04:00

i tried to tell you

what i thought

what i hoped

what i knew

but the meaning was hidden

in the Words

and i don’t think you know what i was trying to say

tea time - a drabble of 100 words

2010-10-18T09:34:00.002-04:00

I used to drink my tea with cream and sugar. It tasted creamy and sweet but it didn’t taste like tea.

I’ve started drinking tea with nothing in it. And now I can taste the tea. There are no distractions or cover-ups.

People tell me I should use cream and sugar, that it will taste better. But I tell them that it’s ok. That when there is no cream and sugar, I can tell whether I’m drinking Perfect Peach or Earl Grey. That the flavors are clear when there is nothing else in it.

Sometimes, life is like that too.

blank page

2010-10-17T23:02:00.002-04:00

Sometimes

When I see the blank page staring

And the cursor blinking at me

I wish that I had something

To fill the space with

(the cursor is still blinking

and there is so much empty

space)

waning whispers

2010-10-05T01:38:00.001-04:00

wait! i cried but you didn't stop

the rain was falling gently, teardrops on my face

wait! i cried but you moved away

the darkness and i were friends, gentle in this good night

wait! don't go! i cried but you didn't listen

the leaves were changing colors in the darkness

wait! please wait! i cried but you kept going

but we didn't see the transformation

a smoky shadow fills my

eyes

a wispy wonder fills my

heart

a fleeting twinkle fills my

soul

a glimmer, a gleaming, a story

i watched my story's shadow disappear around the corner

and you didn't even wave goodbye

the River

2010-09-24T11:08:00.002-04:00

I sit on the bank of a great River. It is black, treacherous, frightening. The current rushes along, foaming as it meets the shoreline, carrying with it sticks and branches careening wildly in their flight. The far bank is covered in dank fog. I can’t make out anything on the other side for it is shrouded in darkness.

I turn and look behind me. The path I had trod shone gently, comforting, beckoning. It had been a long path, a good path. There had been valleys and mountain tops, joys and sorrows, tears and laughter. And the path had brought me here. I had always known that at the end of my journey there would be a River to cross. The thought of the River terrified me. It still terrifies me.

I have to cross the River.

I stand up, take a deep breath, remind myself of the Promise, and put one foot in the water.

It is cold, takes my breath away. I can already feel its wild strength pulsing at my body. I put my other foot in the water. Step, step, step. One foot in front of the other. The River pulls and pushes at me. I lose my balance and fall in, completely engulfed in the water.

“Help me!” I scream. It is a useless gesture and my mouth fills with water. I cannot breathe. I fight for the surface, gasping for air as I finally break free from the grasp of the River. The water is up to my shoulders now and my body is numb from cold and fear.

I have to cross the River.

I keep walking, inch by desperate inch. The far bank is ahead of me, still so far. I turn my head and look at my bank, where my path had brought me. It is fading in the distance. I try to walk back towards it but the River pulls me forward. The water is at my neck and I can barely feel the bottom.

“Help me. Please,” I whisper.

Suddenly, it’s over. A hand reaches down to pull me out of the water. It is a strong hand, with a deep scar in the middle of it. I grasp it, feel strength and love pulsing through it. As I am pulled up onto the far bank, the light spills over the bank of the River, like the sun when it peeks over the horizon as the dawn breaks.

I have crossed the River.

And then I see His face. The one who pulled me up out of the water. A Carpenter, with scars on his hands and a smile like I have never seen before, filled with love and excitement and joy and power. I fall to my knees and He embraces me, holding me so tight. Then He speaks.

“Welcome home.”

when my muse woke up today

2010-09-14T18:40:00.001-04:00

Something happened today that woke up my muse
And the thoughts started bouncing around in my brain
(like a load of jeans and T-shirts in a dryer)

But she couldn’t quite capture the feeling or the mood
So the words kept dancing around the edges of my mind
(like pincher crabs who nibble your toes then scuttle away)

She kept working and writing, scribbling and scheming
And finally she announced she was done
(like a college student editing term papers at 4am)

She presented the finished product with a hopeful flourish
But it was mushy and flat and boring
(like a soufflé that has been pulled out of the oven too soon)

I tried to write a masterpiece
But in the end, all I had was
A half-baked mess and static cling

a different hurt

2010-09-06T23:54:00.001-04:00

I went to the gym today. I worked out for hours. I ran on the treadmill. 6 miles in 45 minutes. A new personal record. I lifted weights until my muscles screamed in agony and then I kept lifting. I did crunches until I could barely feel my abs, pushups until my arms went numb.

When I got home, I collapsed on the couch, my body in spasms of pain. I took some Ibuprofen, put ice packs on my legs.

Then I thought of you. And the pain in my body was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

question

2010-09-03T09:51:00.001-04:00

Is it possible that the blank page before me
Holds all the possibilities I think it does?

a visit

2010-08-31T17:03:00.000-04:00

[inspired by a visit to the Bell's home]

when i went to your house, i could feel your warmth the minute i entered
almost the same way the smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies
overwhelms you
draws you in
makes you close your eyes and smile

there were pictures of your family all over the walls
and you all were were laughing

there were hand-drawn cartoons on the fridge,
dishes in the sink,
good food on the table,
conversation bubbling around the rooms,
hospitality everywhere

and somehow i got the feeling that if i sat down with my feet up on the sofa
your mother wouldn't care a bit

never forsaken

2010-08-25T22:33:00.002-04:00

The furnace burns hot, red-hot then white.

A small lump of gold sits, waiting, sparkling. It looks beautiful. Suddenly, with a lurch and a creak, the conveyor belt moves the lump along, into the white-hot opening.

There it is. It's so small.

Turn up the heat. Hotter, hotter.

Now the gold is melting.

------------
The wheat has been harvested, cut down and arranged into sheaves of golden straw, with the pregnant heads full ready to be threshed.

The men bring the sheaves into the barn, throw them onto the threshing floor. Then, out come the flails, whistling through the air.

Whack!

The chaff goes flying. Up in the air, like smoke or dust.

Whack! Whack!

The wheat is being beaten.

-----------
The battle is over. The groans of the wounded and dying hang in the humid air. The evening sun is setting.

The doctor leans over his patient. The young man has a bullet lodged in his arm. His arm can be saved if only the bullet is removed.

“Soldier, there is no more anesthetic. But I have to remove that bullet if you want to keep your arm.”

“Do it, Doc,” he groans haltingly.

The surgeon pulls out his scalpel, makes the first incision. His patient moans softly then clenches his teeth down.

The surgeon keeps on cutting.

------------

Melting, melting.

Liquid gold poured into the mold. Watch the impurities come to the top, waiting to be scraped away.

-----------------

Beating, beating.

The chaff is being swept away. The wheat is almost ready to be used.

-----------------

Cutting, cutting.

The flesh is being pried and pulled. The young man is nearly unconscious from the pain.

------------------

My God! My God!! Why have you forsaken me?

------------------

There, on the hill. A cross. A man. The sky is dark. The ground is shaking. What is happening?

-------------------

Scrape.

Gather.

Bind.

-------------------

The gold is perfect.
[and never forsaken]

The wheat is ready.
[and never forsaken]

The young man is healed.
[and never forsaken]
-------------------

From fire comes gold.
From flails come wheat.
From pain comes healing.

From death comes life.