Leaking Grief

Leaking Grief

“Help me, O Lord my God! Save me because of your unfailing love.” Psalm 109:26

I have been leaking grief, not all over the place,
not puddles at the bottom of my feet;
but focus on the drips from the driveway to the
front door,
the seals have grown brittle and I can’t find
my bearings.

If I keep my thoughts at bay, I think of nothing.
If I allow my thoughts to stray, all the disrepair
straddles each side of my brain.
If I keep them away, they invade my dreams in
failure (no one shows up for my choir practice);
anger (no one defends the obvious loser);
losing (climbing cliffs with my fingernails);
bankrupt (running out of time and too many die.)

I have been leaking grief for years. You can mark the trail.
Gaze, for more than a moment, my eyes are redline,
oily, the tread is worn to the nub. I will no longer listen
to a single word that suggests

Anyone can overreact to unexpected death.

Take your high words and tell them to the hills;
I need the silence that heals, the fawns and does
that do not roar in the woods. I need the waves
that steal the sand and carry it to islands where survivors
know grief is sometimes a way of life.

Oh, Man of Sorrows! Become acquainted with my grief.

Take your complaints to the county courthouse,
I’m tired of being an eternal caregiver.
Come wrap me in a shawl, light candles for me,
sing the songs from Ireland or Lakota, beat the drums
that let the tears and tongues trickle, the faucet is
broken.

Someone wrote that you cannot support abortion and
be a Christian.
I wonder how you can lock the eyes of mourners,
(“don’t cry” is a lie) when your Leader wept between
the mystery of death and rising.

I am not lying; I have been leaking grief and sighing
for decades. Tomorrow I shall seek the comfort

Of unbelievers who know how to hold my tears in their tissues.

Oh Man of Sorrows, acquainted with my grief.
Oh! grief.

The Grief is Louder

The Grief is Louder

(“And when they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and continued to speak the word of God with boldness.” Acts 4:31)

Though the sun squints the eyes and blazes across wind-streaked skies,
there is sometimes not enough warmth to burn away the clouds of sadness
wrap around my heart like unshorn wool.

There is no mistaking its purpose;
we have turned toward the flaming chariot watching
like parade-goers lining each side of the avenue.
Though music turns with each passing,
though grass is softer, roses laugh fuller,
the grief I wear is louder than the amplified
big band tunes.

There are valleys where light seldom visits,
caverns filled with sludge for vision,
and souls once lit
now smoke
in pit and ash.

Let the time pass. Let the days go by,
two and three,
an hour on the phone,
a dollar for coffee,
and the warmth of a kiss upon the cheek.

Loneliness and grief,
heavier than accumulated joy,
are denser than the silly quotes and maxims
mouthed by friends and phantoms.

Yet the quantum particles pass through,
the Spirit She sings the elegy for me
and does not rebuke my tears, pain or
doubts. She sits and shakes with me
until the craggy mourning cracks and her
lightness touches
my latent heart in subconscious movement
toward the sun.

And, surrounded by love, God, friends and
everyone,
the smile is not wider now,
the smile is worn and weathered now,
but the smile rests in a long distance
and microscopic array of nurture
while the sun rounds the bend again.

Grief is Slow

Grief is Slow

(“Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’” John 11:23)

Grief is slow like the summer sludge in desert spring-beds,
grief is fast like yesterday’s clouds,
grief is heavy like muggy midnights,
grief is light like Christmas memories.

But death feels permanent, stiff and dry.
Death smells of the end of a long season
rather than a grand finale.

Death sneaks up on us though we’ve known its name
from the first last breath that did not return.
Death is sudden, a phone call after lunch or
crumbling on a tennis court.

And we look at the dirt, we stare at the sky,
we turn to every compass point, we cross our fingers
and hope that dying is not a forgone conclusion.

Though the seasons spiral around us, they are not the same.
The leaves that fall do not rise but turn to dust while
the branches sleep until spring awakens the sap again.

Traveling sailors return to port, children come home from school,
dogs sniff their way to owners who moved a hundred miles away.
Memories stay like tent pegs, the canvas ballooned by wind.

And yet, though this world is built upon clay--
monuments, palaces, armaments and warriors all decay--

There is more to say than someday. There is more to hear than
questions unanswered. There is more to see than lets the light in,
there is more to hold than our heart’s capacity.

So rise, love and grief, meet together at the moment of hope,
when, in the midnight of despair, behind the backs of everyone there,
life spoke to life like
deep speaks to deep
and gave death its expiration date.
More is here than skin can touch,
but in its touch knows the air is full of
living even after the breath has gone.

Of Freckles and Favor

Of Freckles and Favor

"There is no one holy like the Lord. There is no one but you, O Lord. There is no Rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

Can you imagine being harassed over something you had no control over? And, worse than that, can you imagine living in a world that viewed you as cursed by God for the same reasons? What if the world saw freckles as a sign of God’s disfavor? You were born with DNA that handed out those speckles that dot your face, and you had no say in the matter. (Just for the record, I sort of like freckles.)

And it wasn’t just a fringe religious group that thought freckles were a curse, it was your entire culture. You never knew a moment in your life where a freckled friend was held up as an example for others. Even worse, your spotted friends were the subject of torment and harass ment without consequence.

That is the place Hannah found herself in the story of the Bible. She was one Elkanah’s two wives. Hannah had borne no children while Penninah, the other wife, had children. To Elkanah’s credit, he treated Hannah well because he loved her. When he offered sacrifices, he gave portions of meat to Penninah and to each of her sons and daughters. This left Hannah only receiving a single portion. Most likely her husband doubled that, and yet, she would still receive less. Her place in the home and society was threatened because she had no children.

To add to the social ostracism she experienced, Penninah constantly taunted her because “the Lord had kept Hannah from conceiving.” (1 Samuel 1:6). Penninah taunted her this way every year at during the annual sacrifice causing Hannah so much anxiety she would weep and be unable to eat.

Deeply hurt, Hannah goes to the tabernacle and prays to the Lord, weeping as the tears fall in a continual stream from her eyes. She begs God to see her affliction and give her a son. As she continues to cry out to God her speech become unintelligible. Her grief is so great that “though her lips were moving, her voice could not be heard.” (1:13). Eli, the priest, thought she was drunk!

Eli encourages her to go in peace and says, “May the God of Israel grant your petition.” Before she even knows how God will respond to her grief, she went home, “ate and no longer looked despondent.” Eventually she does bear a child, Samuel, who she offers to the Lord’s service.

Hopefully we no longer tell people they are cursed or blessed based upon their pregnancy rate! But I know there are many other issues that can make us think we are either God’s chosen or His rejected. Financial status, race, gender, intelligence, immigrant or citizen; these have all been used to rank people’s worth. And, just like Hannah, the targets of this sort of judgment can also feel tormented and harassed.

Those who follow Christ must learn that in Him there is “there is no Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28). As His people, we have come out of the “worldly” classifications and become simply the beloved of God! It is this beloved state we learn to heal and be healers of those who have been judged by society.

In fact, I would rather hang out with followers of Jesus who admit to sometimes feeling lost, than ones who never acknowledge any doubts. He is perfect...we are not. I personally gain more reassurance hearing the stories of fellow travelers who, though smitten to the heart by Christ, know the ebb and flow between certainty and question-marks. With Hannah, we take our questions to the One like no other.

Our fragile hearts are no indication of the strength of our love for Him, nor the perfection of His for us. That is why "fellowship" is so deeply important. But "fellowship" means real sharing, transparent honesty--not propping ourselves up as mighty warriors of faith. I am more at ease with a Christian who says, "I doubt sometimes" than one that says, "Never had a doubt."

There is a place where you can take the deepest doubts or wounds and pour them without fear of reproach. Father God allowed His own Son to become a curse for us that we should never, ever be called cursed again! Find fellowship with those whose deepest desire is reveal their true self before the Healer of hearts, and where each person is the Beloved of the Lord. There is no Rock like Him!

Happy and Stong

“Nehemiah told the people, ‘Enjoy your good food and wine and share some with those who didn’t have anything to bring. Don’t be sad! This is a special day for the Lord, and he will make you happy and strong.’” Nehemiah 8:10

Sadness is not the end product in repentance. There is no purpose in prolonged anguish or grief in response to our failings before God. There is a sorrow that is altogether appropriate when we are returning, coming back to renewed fellowship; but it is not meant to be the primary result of our return.

Drop It!

Drop It!

(“God told the serpent: ‘Because you’ve done this, you’re cursed, cursed beyond all cattle and wild animals, cursed to slink on your belly and eat dirt all your life.’” Genesis 3:13 [The Message])

What is that burden you carry?
What is the callous shoulder to shoulder?
What is the “I” that takes every word the world makes
as an arrow sent to tackle your balance?
What is the line drawn across your forehead more
permanent than a tattoo?

What is your lineage; the snake, the sin?
Your heritage; weight and chagrin?
What is your birthplace, the cabinetry predating
the old stands back of your home?

Why do you pace like curse when curse is dead as
dirt; a hill-full of criminals built for One raised above
raucous, surrounding the sound of menace that
lost its legs over wages of stealth and trickery.

You do not live in the old home,
the lines were erased, your burden is misplaced upon your shoulders.
You were born instead, you were chosen ahead

Of the frowns you drop upon the floor
and pick up to wear again
proof in the packaging you are oh so devoted
(more than all the smile light and heart phrases bumped from
wall to wall)

What is the secret you forgot?
What is the memory, warms and grin?
What is the final blow, the ebb (silent grief)
the flow (holy breath)
that remembers the death blow to every serpent
that tried to raise its head above the Human Prince’s heel?

Why pay taxes on the old snake’s wages,
You’ve got miles ahead (age to ages)
and do not need to show so pious
that you carry a knapsack of stone.

Drop it where you stand,
cry and let the sand swallow the grief
until the life you’ve tried to tame comes screaming out
in full relief…the joy that knows a snake is just a snake
and no one asked you to wrestle the legless creep.

Where the Joy has Gone

Where the Joy has Gone

You’ve asked where the joy has gone while
life lingers, a sliver, a thread, and leaves so slowly
you barely see it depart. You want her home, your love,
your friend, your life, your heart.

You pray with tears, and say with words; anxiety’s
hope has exposed each nerve while you wait,
wait only, while other lonelies walk down the linoleum halls.

She is fragile, a stick-figure filled with decades together;
her bony hand still reaches for your face, your knee,
your hands to keep company her shallow breathing.
There are still stars in her eyes.

You eat less, (the nurses microwave your
frozen foods supper), and drive half a hundred to her
and back home each day.
Her remedy and your love hold sway over
your own health or hunger. How can you
contemplate
better care when she whose life you share
is shrinking beyond human aid.

You’ve asked where the joy has gone
while your friends wait with you,
and nothing we say can pull you away
from grief none of us-smile or frown-
imagine and only close our eyes and look away
at the question about joy today.

Prayer is sloppy, holy comfort puddled crusty,
answers senseless and God is untamable even

By the countless buckets our tears may fill.
Exotic, not domestic, we sit together while
God-in-heaven roars; God-with-us so close
we do not comprehend Him at all.

You’ve asked where the joy has gone
on a day of cloud curtained pain, while
sorrow remains sharp; joy hides and also waits
a more appropriate day.