we felt so grown up when we were kids and now wonder that we are so old when we're not yet grown we started losing our parents to time and frailty. in the cycle of life things go upside down sometimes you rush d o w n the rabbit hole into a world above the logic of sorrow and find you are so small, but remember: Mom's high ceiling, your sure ground. see the sky and trees in your pool of tears they're the other side of life. how beautiful things are when they drown how clear it is underwater. you long to run to the garden beyond that door but you don't fit life would feel deformed under the weight of loss if it weren't for the faith that was bigger than the life that shut down she archived her fears and hopes in her kids, did anyone hear the story in between, did anyone look? hold fast your heirloom assurance the midnight of your dreams is really a new day. for HJ & anyone else who would like it
I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.
I am ashamed to claim faith in Jesus Christ, unworthy as I am
to bear that name and call myself a Christian. For my sake he was
crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered death and was buried.
I love the order and witness of the Christian faith;
the unassuming birth, disarming life, unjustifiable death,
and the deserted tomb that answer prophecy of Scripture.
A burning stick snatched from the fire, I believe I am more sinful
than I could imagine and more loved than I dare hope.*
Yet I worship at the altar of Self, and often insist and want and
worry as though there were no God. As though I were not loved.
I believe in right and wrong, and that I need saving from myself.
I need a God who is wiser than my purposes, deeper than my
hopelessness, higher than my dreams – a God who owes me nothing.
I believe in the Holy Spirit, Resurrection power
in this flesh and in the heart that fails me.
But how easily would I make my professions on a bed of nails,
not the carpet of ease and cultural civility of my times? On my deathbed
I will call myself Christian because grace will have won out in the end.
This I believe.
*This line a summation of the gospel by author and pastor Dr. Timothy Keller
Unless you’re helplessly tone-deaf, you’ll hear the unvarnished attempt of a songwriter
whose gift wasn’t singing. I can’t help wince at my voice but if the Scriptures sung in crude,
bare worship should bless anyone, the embarrassment will have been worth it. I thought
the song of hope would take us nicely from the last post Beauty From Ashes to the
one that’s coming up. You can zoom for the lyrics. Thanks for listening. Love, Me.
We don’t see it’s really
sand beneath our feet.
We draw noise and light
and words over the untidy
fear of our last sun.
What will remain of the
demands I have made,
the accolade, the love
I have given, the grief
I have drunk, the hours
I have written
riven by loss, borne back
in battle, visited by
seasons of joy that robbed
me of language?
When the plans and pages
that had filled my life flutter
to the floor like careless leaves
On sure ground will I return
this borrowed breath
the sonatas I have performed,
the dreams I have played will be
— I will see – but a note
I surrender for a new song.
I’d have to face the ache of my longings. Go deep into the back room, unearth the box to surrender and and open it to see my heart bleeding. I know in my head my God is more than able to comfort and to provide as He pleases. But I’m like my boy has been – terrified over the sight and taste of his own blood, praying God remove the tooth without pain. Tennyson would rather eat and go about his day pretending he’s fine, that it doesn’t hurt. He is afraid of being afraid.
It still hurts to swallow and I can feel I’m not quite drug-free. I managed to contain my thoughts this morning, not ramble into the thicket of fear or worry about bleeding and complications. Though it was cold – of course it was cold – I focused on the moment. Milked how nice the nurses were and asked for three more blankets after discovering the throws were fresh out of a warmer.
I abhor hospitals and all their close cousins. The forms to sign, the smell, those ugly scrubs the color of flat twilight. Why couldn’t the staff sport something more cheerful? The process, the incompetence that lurks and has no place where people are fearful and suffering. Yet there I was, dependent on the system and its machines to tell me if I can go on in hope, can count on a semblance of normalcy to my days. Or if I’ve been harboring anything unwelcome along my G.I. Like cancer.
It was my first time on the oxygen tube. I’d seen it only in movies and on old people. Between the nasal cannula and the faithful monitor, I felt like a fully certified sick person. I hated it.
They didn’t tell me it was going to be so awful. At least the surgeon listened to me; saw that at 85 lbs I didn’t need as much sedative as the others and gave me half the normal dose. They lay me on my left side and I soon realized I would not have been able to hang in beyond those ten minutes. It was rough, even violent, though that was no one’s intention. The bite block kept my mouth open, and prevented me from biting and damaging the tube. I learned exactly why I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink all morning. I gagged and gagged, and the tears ran. When I continued to wipe my eyes outside the room, the nurse explained the Versed does that to a lot of people.
The good look down my esophagus and stomach showed all was clear. Still sore from one of the biopsies, I realize that one had been unnecessary. Why the hec didn’t the doctor see the stomach test I’d passed already? Important thing is my innards looked healthy and at least I left with cool photos for Tennyson. He just learned the parts of the digestive system last week.
I didn’t tell many friends, didn’t want to burden anyone. I don’t bother trying to explain to people the trouble I’ve had eating the last several years. One wonderful doctor of mine once said my life is difficult to describe. But pray, I did. Not so much for fear of dying but for the brute powerlessness of it all. You look in, you look out. And you see nothing but the unknown dark, hear nothing but the echo of your questions. For all your dreams and aspirations, you come up short face-to-face with your humanity.
You look up.
my boy i am the shade of his sun afraid he will burn, but i am more than the smell of the bosom he has learned, to grow up and leave and cleave to the woman of his heart i am the album of regrets and and deficiency and forgiving the roots that climb deep down parents' omissions i am the redemption of the years my mother pushed through the choices she didn't have, on grit and coffee did you know? korean grandmothers don't have a name but Grandma in korean and tradition erased their childhood -- no one heard -- their cheerful silence was their greatest gift to us i am the epode on the piano G major 7 in improv and syncopation while i keep time for my family, i am the sus pension that knows to resolve the heave of jazz i can S C A T i am the cherry blossoms that concede their soul in season, unabashed and the ones that could not hold on their delicate dance down in death dust to dust i don't need self-esteem i know Whose i am but God doesn't have twins and He doesn't make machines we are each His masterpiece no -- no, i don't want to roar that i am Woman i just wish silence -- license -- to put to paper my person who cares what i am but the earnest page and the memories and dreams that ask not to die i am the apology that i know what i want and have begun to sing before the cicada's time i am the choices i live with am almost the books i wait wait to write. The Commons Getty Collection Galleries World Map App A fascinating report on cicadas ran in a number of media outlets last year. A certain species remains underground for 17 years, surviving on roots, to buzz an intense noise for six weeks upon surfacing - only to perish. After months of trying to figure out what about these creatures enthralled me so, it hit me in the writing. Seventeen is about the age kids leave home for college.