Woodstoves and Venison Stew

 

Woodstoves and Venison Stew

(“In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus.” Romans 6:11)

You could hear the clouds as everyone went to bed,
while the wind waited to exhale the midwinter chill.
There were woodstoves with venison stew cooking all night.
It would be ready before the children woke for school.

And I know I am awakened,
I know I do not sleep enough,
And I know I am shaken by the sounds of
siblings who insist I do not believe rightly
or at all.

I saw the wounds, the abuse, the bruises, but also the
how they locked your voice away. And you, with
Christ in you,
believe you have suffered because you are not worth enough.

All I know is the sounds of some siblings
are daggers disguised as hatpins. They know how
to spell your sins and lay them out in complete sentences.
While you cannot find a single room in the house for safety,
a single piece of paper to write your story, you believe
the worst fables while you grace the tables of your neighbors with
cookies and visits and the quiet type of conversation that
makes children want you to visit again.

I see the wounds; I carry some myself. Self-inflicted, but
unhealed by my family of faith. I spread the blanket
far too wide, let the undecided feel they could never catch up
to the head start of the holy. They wept. They argued.
They rarely arrived early to hear another reason (song or
dance or sermon) that their life failed the acid test. They
were insufficient.

Yet today is a quiet day, the clouds cover the earth thinly,
the wind rests beside the river banks, giving a moment of respite
from frail winter’s story. The smoke from woodstoves spirals
straight toward the heavens. Children laugh, ask for one more story,
while the parents wish they would go to bed early
and leave them, just two, for only the next hour before sleep.

Because some know. They have counted well. Their doors are open,
their smiles are wide, they take in the vagrant, they embrace the child.
I have never noticed them in church. But I notice their gifts

Scattered like new snow upon their days; sleigh-bells and
venison stew shared with whoever knew
the aroma was meant for them.