Teacher’s Lament in May

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Grandmother, Interrupted at 98

Grandmother, Interrupted at 98

A Child’s Heart

A CHILD’S HEART

Last week we were privileged to glimpse a bit of a child’s heart.

“The wind was against us and we did not sail very fast.” Act. 27.

Right now,
life seems like that.

Dying to Self

Here we are,
back to dying.

I must die in order to live.

I cannot live on my own–
holiness is beyond the grasp of MY hands.

So just let Christ live IN me.

Yeah.

That sounds so easy and simple.

Not.

All I have to do is die.

But I don’t think I can even die
by myself.

Yes, it’s a given
that I can’t live by my own strength

but Lord,
will you help me die?

I can’t put myself to death.

It goes against every fiber of my being

if You need a corpse,
You’ll have to kill me.

I don’t even have enough good in me
to be a Kamikaze Christian.

but hurry, Lord
and make it quick.

Why does it hurt so much?

I’m just not a lovely person.

Weariness 2

How come?

How come I’m barely hanging on?
How come I’m desperate?
How come I only want to cry?
How come I can’t seem to get this mess
down to manageable pieces.

Nothing is bite-sized.

I spin my wheels
flail my arms
wring my hands
in frantic frenetic frenzy.

Looking ahead
I see no rest, no respite, no relief.
Every moment I’m conscious of
that heavy, prickly
pressure behind my eyes
and inside my head.
The inside of my stomach
feels rough and black and scratchy.

I need to slow down,
and take it step by step, bite by bite.

I need,
somehow,
to look up so I can see
my redemption drawing nigh.

But my shoulders bunch and tense
in an effort to slow the spin on
my head.

Somehow,

I need to find a

different country

to live in.

I wasn’t meant to live

this way.

Weariness

I don’t want to be just medium.

I don’t want to just get by.

I don’t want to just survive.

I can’t remember
what holiness means
or Who holiness is.

I can’t remember my own Name–
my True-Name.

My weariness tugs me down–
over the edge into drudgery.

The slimy arms of despair
slide about my neck
and tighten.

But I don’t notice
I can’t breathe.

Why do I find

my way to this place

so often?

Day’s End 3

The meadows are full of magic
in this dusky almost-evening.

The shadows are sharp and brittle
as the dying light settles
in the dips and hollows

The air is clean and clear
and chickadee’s piping,
“chicka-dee-dee-dee”
carries over the heads of daisies.

And there’s a far-off call
to come and play
with unicorns
and fairies
and angels–
a pied piper’s tune
beckoning the children
with magic in their blood
and hunger in their souls.

Regeneration

I’m finally starting to see…
to glimpse…
the abysmal lack of love
I suffer from sometimes.

I clatter and cling and clang
in my brassy gonging.

I am so intent on getting it right
and the core of me,
the part that matters most
is wrong.

I’m not always sure I can do better,
but maybe I don’t have to.

I can relax and laugh
and watch and learn
and fall in love.

and I can heal from my own
self-inflicted wounds.

I hope I’m coming full circle.

Back to knowing nothing,
sure of nothing, laughing again
with all of my laughter
and crying with all of my tears
and becoming whole again.

The old is always always always
becoming new.

Street Dancers in the City

Shadows.