My Head Couched on a Hymnal

My Head Couched on a Hymnal

(“Little children, let us love not in word or speech but in deed and truth.” 1 John 3:18)

 

The fires I once warmed my hands beside
have gone out; the embers have died. The
magic words
that supplied my point of reference have all
be redefined.
These recipes, these ingredients,
these passages of time no longer taste the same.

I sat on the beach often enough to feel when
the wind shifts and the spray spatters across
my forehead. I sat well into the evening as the
sand crabs scampered out of sight.
There has always been a longing for
nights like that: a bonfire on the beach,
the sound of foghorns rolling,
stories told and often repeated,
guitars strummed while we meet for
the first time like it was the last time
we would see each other.

I sat on the back pew and wondered,
(I used to call it praying)
if the words were still any good this far down the road.
The divine spark feels like wintergreen,
the inspiration another long winter’s day.
I crave, I cry, wait like I’ve never
waited before,
for someone to tell me all my past
has been forgotten.
Or for them to say they have never
gotten over the way certain words made
them feel. I laid on the back pew,
my head couched upon a hymnal,
while the ache ate its way to my consciousness.

The fires can be relit, I know. But I long
for more than memorized words. The food
tastes better when shared with you.

A Loop Through the Cemetery

A Loop Through the Cemetery

(“Whoever would follow me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.” Mark 8:34b)

I nearly stayed in bed all day with
pain and darkness
binding me and
reminding me
there was no one to talk to until
late afternoon.

I am sorry for my moods. I am sorry I am lost.

So, I walked past an empty lot
with lots of empty spots for forthcoming homes.
Stay tuned for developments.

I am tracing circles and arriving nowhere.

So, I looped through the cemetery,
read the names of a dozen friends and
one name glued to a niche where
my best friend’s ashes are shared with
another. I think he would rather have been
alone.

I am tracking far too slowly. My hips ache.
Dollops of snow anchor the hills to the
river below and crystals above.

Four white-tail deer found their lunch
just outside the cemetery fence. I knew they
would leave once they saw me,
but I approached anyway. They turned their
backs on me
and disappeared into the woods.

So, I followed the road to the top
of the hill
where the douglas firs shade the slush
on the shoulders. I hoped to see a face,
but turned around to start back home.

I nearly stayed in bed all day;
did I mention that? The pain never left,
the darkness turned to sludgy silence,

I sat down and wrote these words and
could not bring myself to understand
what good my dying would do.

I do not mind the solitude, but I was not made for
loneliness.

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.