A Family Recipe

A Family Recipe

(“Yes, you are our glory and joy!” 1 Thessalonians 2:20)

I am a recipe for family chili
on a yellowed index card in the back of
the roll-top desk drawer. It is almost memorized.

I am a telephone number I remember
from high school. No one lives there
anymore.

There are stars blinking in unknown constellations
tonight. But I cannot see them through the clouds
that overtake most nocturnes here on the river. They
try to send me a message in code, but I miss even
Venus that once brightly welcomed me home. The
stars bloom late here so near the ocean.

I want a body like when I was 20.
I want a mind that won’t scatter the wind
in disremembered rhymes. I want you to see me
nearer to life than this; age and pain
sap my hopes while lately I find
less hope than I should. I have more than
I deserve.

I am an old love letter written in shaky cursive
stuffed inside an envelope with a date far older
than seafarer’s charts. I knew how to write
without edits. I knew how to edit without restraint.

I am faint, I am brittle. I cannot wait for
the next time around a table
with eyes flashing next to and across the
conversation. I want to remember it like it
still touches my cheek with its palm.

My dreams broke up with me overnight.
I think it was my birthday.
But then they insisted we reunite
over coffee and crying. I recognized the
voices but the faces escape me.

I am a family recipe waiting for
the constellations to come out at night.

Family Tree

Family Tree

(“Make friends with your opponent quickly…” Matthew 5:25a)

I am your family tree.
I am roots with your branches,
I am wind to your clouds.
Every chance has passed us by,
and I’ll take this one again to
ask about your anger, to inquire about our pain.

You hold it in, but artlessly;
there is no question the burn you feel.
I may have started it, it may have preceded me,
but all the same,
we should walk ancient paths together,
carry our mutual sorrows without blame.

You begin. I will listen. You’ve carried it
a decade. I’ve heard your complaint. Talk now
where only the trees can overhear; the forest is
safe with trails trod by dozens who backtracked
to conversations
began in the heat but never
subjected to the cool of the day.

You begin. I will not answer. State your case,
but remember, we are the same vine. Sun in sun.
Rain by rain. Seasons when the dew is dormant.
Seasons when the fruit reclaims its sweet-tongued
joy of summer. We are joined, twig to twig,
and the days are getting shorter to speak the
same language again.

You are my family tree,
and so walk with me before the night
puts everything to rest, deletes the words but
leaves the pesty narrative inflicting our hearts.
You begin. And we will share the apples the
orchard provides, sweet as sweet on both of
our tongues.

Family Portrait/Advent

 

Family Portrait/Advent

(“The rich and the poor meet together. The Lord is the maker of them all.” Proverbs 22:2)

Do your ears hear the same carols
floating from the trees as winged birds sing
in air grown crisp toward the end of the year?
Do your eyes see the same sunlight
creeping over the hills, the same fog
opening to reveal the day?

Do your babies cry like rain,
your children play ball until sunset,
your thoughts fill your mind like winter champagne?
Do you visit your muse to find the silence you seek?

I remember the blue slate siding with a dozen layers
of paint beneath the cracks.
I remember the first time I walked to school in the snow,
plastic bags over my little tennis shoes,
and I was late. A couple of inches of snow in
west Texas
will always slow a six-year-old. My
hand-me-down pants were cold and wet.

The children raced to the feasting table first
but had learned through instruction and habit
to wait for the elders to be served. Bright eyes
looked up to meet some eyes sad, some flittering,
some distant, some weary, and others gladly receiving
a place in line saved by little mouths. One time
an elder placed two deviled eggs on each child’s
plate.

Do you sit across from a little not your own,
next to a neighbor who lost everything that made them
well-known in town?
Did you hear the stories of sweaty days repainting a house
where the sun snuck through the cracks?
Did you find the place that eases suffering by the
simple touch of hand and face? Did you walk
the dirt road until everyone’s feet ached the same?

My Body Hates Me

 

My Body Hates Me

(“Then Esau took his wives, his sons, his daughters…and he moved to a land some distance from his brother Jacob.” Genesis 36:6)

Tell me what it is you want me to choose; what is the payoff,
I am so confused.
It feels like a cartoon convention that might have
turned into a disaster if not for the intervention of bodies in the sun
making short work of a huge backyard chore left undone.
By the end of the day the brush pile had been chipped and sent
over the hill.

I should be grateful; more than I guessed helped with the
monumental task.
Instead I hated my life even more. My body
refuses to do what it should. The pain wraps my face
as I try to set a reasonable pace. The rented machinery
roars in my ears and I do not want to appear useless
as I take more breaks than anyone.

My body is no longer my friend. My body hates me.
Weekends once spent on the tennis court are
now spent in pain on the couch.

I feel guilty, I feel ashamed while this
ungodly pain
keeps me from seeing anything through.
I cannot work outdoors four hours with my friends,
and a single song takes me months to record.

Before the end of the day, I simply quit.
I went inside, drank cold water and tried to sleep.
I hate my body, useless on the couch. Who knows,
maybe I fake all this pain to get out of the hard stuff.
The depression creeps in like a fog thick as pudding.

And then the work is done. I face everyone. They know
I quit. Their eyes are on me, they care for me, but I feel
I must
plead guilty
for not holding up my end. I live as an invalid,
and I am not an invalid.

People are kind, some half my age,
spent half a day tackling a monstrous chore. My brain
knows more than my body will admit. I was blessed today,
but my tears rain on well into the evening; my ego took a hit. Yes,
I suppose that explains it.

So, help me make up my mind; is there a warm front to
dry my idiot tears? I am blessed, I am cursed; the worst
and the best
are ever at my doorstep. The pain has made my body
the enemy. But the friends, the family are
my remedy.

His Own Family

His Own Family

(“But if someone does not provide for his own, especially his own family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever.” 1 Timothy 5:6)

My own are now gone, victims of genetics and illness.
My own are the ones who called me “their own”,
the ones who tied the first laces of our shoes;
my brother and my sisters, younger than I;
the ones who taught us to water trees at the roots
not at the trunk,
and who lived through us a degree too much and
too often; but less than most.

I read an article that angered me, that makes me wince
at being a Christian,
a writer who insisted this verse, so brimming with family
love,
and family provision,
made every parent suspect whose
children gleefully waited for the public school bus
every day.

Oh the comments that overflowed, the agreement from
Bible readers who do not read their Bibles.

They:

            Push your kids through. Hold them back a year. Give them 

            more opportunities than the next child. Make sure they memorize

            the words, excel at sports, take first chair flute, never a bit part

            in the musicals. “ Spend your time, climb faster so their

            lives are not the disaster that the children up the road have become.

Paul, to Timothy, paraphrased:

            Don’t let widows spend a day without your care. Honor the parents

            before you; save the sweetest moments for the parents before them.

            While some widows, silly and superstitious; the real widow is

            a source, a comforter and affectionate blanket of hope. Don’t

            let darkness darken her windows any day at all without

            the laughter of children at her learning and stories filling

            her moments and increasing God’s glory. Never let her

            slumber be preceded by alone. Care for your own!

My own are gone now; Mom decades before Dad, and, if they had
lived longer, they might be in our home; alongside our youngest one
learning Christ-like affection, and family, before hopping on the
school bus for the day.

Home

“Whoever does the will of God is My true family.” Mark 3:35

Robert Frost wrote that, “Home is the place, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” For those with healthy family relationships, there is nothing truer. Yet, we know many homes that are so fragmented that “home” holds little warmth for some people. Though loved by his own family, even Jesus experienced complete misunderstanding by his mother and brothers. Thinking him “out of his mind”, they came to convince him to return home.

Boundless Mercy

“All honor to God, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ; for it is his boundless mercy that has given us the privilege of being born again so that we are now members of God’s own family. Now we live in the hope of eternal life because Christ rose again from the dead.” 1 Peter 1:3

I love a good magic show. Whether it is up-close street magic or a grand staged event, I always enjoy the illusions. As a child I picked up a couple of card tricks and couldn’t wait to spring them on my friends. I had a slight advantage, my dad being and amateur magician. Because of my father’s interest I also read graphic novels (they were called comic books back then) about both Harry Houdini and Harry Blackstone.

Late the Sounds

Late the Sounds

(“Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys his servant? Whoever walks in deep darkness, without light, should trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.” Isaiah 50:10)

Late the sounds we've held in memory careen
on waves like storm fronts in battle array. A song
we danced to and background conversation meet
in the middle above the microwave beeps and beneath
the four year old screams; no one seems to notice,
staring at the shared-screen movie with sub-titles on.

But one hears, each noise echo off wall and floor at
the same level, the volume building as each source is
added; punctuated by pain above the temples which has
eaten through the filter. All is loud, all is equal,
all is surround, each voice a crowd, every whisper
a personal intrusion into the life that once
played in sound like

a child in a bathtub with water running.

He goes downstairs before his crinkled brow betrays him,
staying as long as he can with each noise that families never
live without. It is the mix of yelps and lapping, the puppies
clicking their nails on the hardwood floor. It is the
“Dr. Who” gladly, the granddaughter proudly, the son returned
from Guatemala, peaking his Peace Corps stay upon the highest
volcano. It is the oldest son with wife, the youngest daughter
wrestling for the place on the sofa with both boys she tells
the entire universe about. Every vibration is celebration;
a family as comfortable as Christmas.

But for the one whose head has become anvil for the hammer,
he hopes no one thinks he loves the noise any less
than former days when he shouted the loudest at guessing
the winning answer late into the night.

Trophies

Trophy

”For who is our hope or joy or crown of exultation? Is it not even you, in the presence of our Lord Jesus at His coming?” 1 Thessalonians 2:19

Andy Murray ended the Wimbledon drought for the Men’s Championship. From Dunblane, Scotland, Murray is the first Brit to win the coveted title in 77 years. It was a long three set battle with all the ups and downs one would want to see in an Open Championship. Lasting over three hours, extremely long for a three-set match, Murray seemed to have it won when, in the final game of the third set, he was ahead 40-0 on his own serve. One more smashing point and he would hold the coveted trophy high.

Church as Family

(“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” Colossians 3:13)

If you are I are to know joy and freedom there are six words that must be part of our regular vocabulary: “I am sorry” and “I forgive you”. Simple ideas and nothing new, but revolutionary when we determine to practice them.

Noise and Hammers

Noise and Hammers

(“Who among you fears the Lord? Who obeys his servant? Whoever walks in deep darkness, without light, should trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God.” Isaiah 50:10)

Late the sounds we've held in memory careen
on waves like storm fronts in battle array. A song
we danced to and background conversation meet
in the middle above the microwave beeps and beneath
the four year old screams; no one seems to notice,
staring at the shared-screen movie with sub-titles on.

But one hears, each noise echo off wall and floor at
the same level, the volume building as each source is
added; punctuated by pain above the temples which has
eaten through the filter. All is loud, all is equal,
all is surround, each voice a crowd, every whisper
a personal intrusion into the life that once
played in sound like

a child in a bathtub with water running.

He goes downstairs before his crinkled brow betrays him,
staying as long as he can with each noise that families never
live without. It is the mix of yelps and lapping, the puppies
clicking their nails on the hardwood floor. It is the
“Dr. Who” gladly, the granddaughter proudly, the son returned
from Guatemala, peaking his Peace Corps stay upon the highest
volcano. It is the oldest son with wife, the youngest daughter
wrestling for the place on the sofa with both boys she tells
the entire universe about. Every vibration is celebration;
a family as comfortable as Christmas.

But for the one whose head has become anvil for the hammer,
he hopes no one thinks he loves the noise any less
than former days when he shouted the loudest at guessing
the winning answer late into the night.

More Names

More Names

(“For the sake of my family and friends, I will say, ‘May you have peace.’” Psalm 122:8)

Our love hovers above blue childplay,
for Spring is the echo heart to heart. Each
baby without words, but cries;
each creeper without walk, but moves;
each toddler without way, yet surveys our old
world
like her own possession. The cat fur belongs
to her,
the cake plate belongs on toes and feet,
legs and arms, hair and ears. Smears of chocolate
are her palette and her skin, plus walls and pets
the canvas for investigative creation.

There are more names in our heart than children to share them,
more syllables to attach the next personal pronoun, he or she;
pets do not count…we name them for convenience. But children,
they are named for character and destiny.

Michael, a mirror of God; pure pleasure’s firstborn. The next
might have been Gabriel, if only father’s weighed the names.

Jonathan, the Father’s beloved; joy and compassion’s play. The last,
we thought. Two young men who laughed, debated, and explored
more caves and corners of creation. One with more words for
single thoughts; the other with thoughts unuttered. Bookends
reflecting parents’ love; two sculptures sharpened one by the other.

Sarah, the Princess surprised; (or Amy, or Daisy, or Jasmine;
there were too many authors of her name). “Phillips, party
of five” we heard them say. And soon our heaven had
a center,
the gold ring of our carousel. (She knows it well).

Oh life that has splayed our delight across the continent,
be kind to our beloved. The nest, being empty, disallows the pretense
of any additional names.

Tiny

Tiny

(“But you are a God ready to forgive, gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” Nehemiah 9:17b)

Tiny things, visible but overlooked; soft coos,
babies sleeping in the quilted corners of our playroom.
Tiny things, heard but so submerged; round eyes,
mothers gazing at the miracle dozing underneath the adult hum.

A mom who found the man who would love her,
A dad who found the woman who never gave up;
Nine mingled children, a pair of twins included,
sing like they own the earth, play like they have all day,
love like rejection has never pinched their delight for attention,
and run to hug,
and run to hide,
and run to lay aside today’s trouble for another
chance to laugh like every day is Christmas day.

I know those families; rare. I love those couples; repaired
by hope and elongated breaths between the questions that measured
the path like mile markers up the steeps and down.

Tiny things, thoughts soak the eyes and the cheeks; soft asides,
trouble is not the enemy, conquered by hands’ light touch.
Tiny things, words painted, each name a circle; round crosses,
enclosed and warm, the fireplace glows, the moment creates

A Christmas day fond of the first; children and unlikely
parents in love and loved beyond measure.

Tiny things, like babes in the straw, changed our images,
our dances, our carols and our wintry reasons for the day.

Of Discipline and Family

“If you are not disciplined—and everyone undergoes discipline—then you are not legitimate, not true sons and daughters at all.” Hebrews 12:8

My daughter-in-law posted a photo on Facebook this week. The “pose” takes place in living rooms all over the country sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Our son Michael is lifting their four-year-old daughter, Anika, up in the air as she strains forward to put the star atop their Christmas tree. It immediately evoked memories of lifting Michael when he was young; same situation, same position.

Family DNA

“’But he said to them, ‘These people who hear the word of God and do it, they are my mother and my brothers.'” Luke 8:21

These words of Jesus are shocking. But I think the shock comes from how they sound, and not so much from what Jesus means. At first glance it seems Jesus is rejecting His family by blood and adopting family from an entirely different set of people.

Stew Are You?

Isaac asked him, “Who are you?” He said, “I am Esau, your son, your first-born.” Then Isaac was so shocked, he trembled. Genesis 27:32,33

Take this family, Isaac and Rebekah, with their twin sons Jacob and Esau, out of the Bible and put them on television and they would be a top-notch daytime soap opera. Or, if they were a family in contemporary society, they might even have had the Department of Children’s Services pay them a visit.

Coffee at Holly's Corner

Coffee at Holly’s Corner
(“Jesus replied, ‘What is impossible with man is possible with God.’” Luke 18:27)

“A trip would certainly do me good,
along the rails watching winter coast to coast.
Life isn’t too quiet, and the noise needs not abate,
it’s children and friends too far away that have caused
my heart to feel cornered in such a beautiful place.”

She nearly finished her conversation with the customer before me,
nodding “cappuccino 2%” my way. I nodded too, and she took a cup
empty from its stack
and landed it with a question on the counter.

“I shouldn’t feel this way,” she whispered and asked,
tick-tocking between the first customer and me,
“Life is balanced now and the river runs silent,
so why am I
unnerved like lonely, unsure like the last child upon the playground.”

I couldn’t help her, no magic wands can chase the blues,
(it was my snap-diagnosis; it may have been the weather or
a song on the radio, or a latent early morning dream).
I couldn’t help her, no magic words can change the moves
(there are no transplant drugs for geographic upheavals,
loving one place so long and landing new a little).

It might pay to wait, defer the hope,
wait out the winter, visit the kids,
or offer conversation to the barista
who never meant to bend an ear so personal.

For all the children, happy and 80, who played together
on summer swings; it is hard to explain, this tedium that
looks so sad when the birds are a-wing on a late October sky.
But I’ve looked for friends I loved (did you get my call)
before I knew to be blue over no one left to talk to.

Last week two 85 year old school girls giggled about
looking for boys in sixth grade at the Grange.

I couldn’t help her, our brand-new barista,
but the sky turned bright by noon today and rain
was suspended while the editor, artist and daughter
sipped like a family at the front table where the morning shafts
always fell.