Drink Offering

Poured out
of a body,
a life
weak
weary
lungs surge and struggle
for breath
heart pounds febriley.

But the wounded
drink offering
pours out health
speaking truth
life
into lives broken with
unhealth
that goes beyond bodies.

Poured out
into thirsty sand
onto parched
cracked clay
into withered, dusty lives.

Living Sacrifice.

Spiritual act of Worship.

“Eloi
Eloi
lama sabacthani!”
the Lamb cries
in cold darkness

And I,
trembling with
terror and despair,
cry out,
“My God, my God,
Why have You forsaken me?
Where are You?
Why are You so far?
Have You forgotten me?
abandoned me?
lost me?
Eloi
Eloi
lama sabacthani?”

And in my own deepest darkness
I turn my head
just a little
and there He hangs
•
Jesus
•
crying out in my darkness
crying out my words
with me.

And in my terrible night blackness
I’ve never crouched
crowded
cowered
closer to Him,
found
hiding in His shadow
as He hangs
stretched out
before an empty sky.

Furthest from Heaven
I am closest to Jesus
and His cross.

And He is there.

••••
Teacher’s lament in May

I am so tired.

These kids can’t think.

and in four weeks
I can’t teach them to think.

Education is not 12 minimal math skills
and the Cloze technique in
the Ginn reader.

It’s the active, mental participation
in the wonder called LIFE.

It’s a continuing love affair with
the beautiful, bizarre, wonderful
things filling our world.

It’s learning to love learning.

It’s a hunger for more.

But in this tired, sluggish,
TV-fed world,
the children yawn and shrug
and gaze at the wall.

Even that would be well
if they gazed and dreamed,
But they gaze
and think of nothing
and dream of nothing.

And eventually,
life is nothing.

c. 1985

Teacher’s prayer in May

Lord,
help me not to “check out” early.

So many of my kids have
done just that.

Summer’s promise beckons tantalizingly,
just beyond my classroom reach.

The fields behind the school
are already thick with summer.
and a groan of restlessness escapes me
as I gaze at the kite-flying sky.
How can I make a literature text
seem alive next to
this incredibly rambunctious life?

Printed words are boxy, stuffy things
next to wildly-winged,
crazily careening birds.

Even my own words, as they come out of my mouth,
look dry and printed to me.

I can’t steal their attention
away from the sky
and the fields
so in defeat
(and secret relief)
my eyes join theirs.

Only twenty days of school left.

I’m not sure if I have twenty days of teacher
left in me.

c. 1985

Grandmother, Interrupted at 98

Grandma
did you feel eternity
plucking at your sleeve?

It started with forgetting
–not where you were
but when you were.

And you laughed sheepishly
and said
“You’ll have to forgive,
I forget things sometimes.”

And every
not-frequent-enough visit
pointed us to the end.

At first you fretted
about dressing for dinner
that you no longer ate
with friends no longer
there.

Later your room became a train,
bound for Chicago,
the grandson you no longer recognized
was a fascinating
fellow traveler.

In our next visit
you proudly related
the exploits of those college-aged sons,
young bucks who made you so proud…
men nearing retirement age
and fighting their own
battles with eternity.

Later still you spoke of
the love of your life
cherishing you,
his fresh-faced bride.
You spoke hopefully
of the
child
carried joyfully.

(And my throat nearly closed
in pain
knowing the end of
your story-already-lived,
knowing that first baby died
before drawing breath.)

And then
you were a tiny girl
hiding beneath the covers
with your brothers,
giggling at the magic
of your
make-believe world.

And as you traveled back
in time
we all

got lost

with forgetting,
generation by generation,
those who loved you.

On our last visit,
we stood around your bed.
I, grafted into the family tree
years past your remembering,
I was a stranger.
Your grandson,
a fine young man
whose voice sounded
oddly, warmly familiar,
(re)introduced you to
your four great-grandsons.

Confused,
you still graciously
complimented the family:
“What a great big wonderful…
great-big-wonderful….
great-big-wonderfulgreatbigwonderful…”
and your voice lost its definition
as eternity
showed in the spaces
between your words.
With a startle,
you firmly finished,
“–What a great big wonderful…
DOG!”

You coughed
and choked and coughed
and coughed,
pleading,
“Oh, my God,
My gracious, merciful God,
HELP ME.
Help me BREATHE!”

And I looked over my shoulder
because you saw
Someone
I could not.

And these four fine boys,
each of them held lovingly
on your lap
when they were newly born,
each almost-grown boy
patted your fragile hands
and kissed
your soft cheek
and said
good-bye.

At the last,
your grandson
simply sat
and watched you sleep
and loved you
and remembered
lunch-hour visits
stolen out of the school-day
to share a bowl
of ice cream
with his grandma,
remembered what you
could not.
You didn’t wake;
he simply watched you sleep.

And finally
you just
never woke up
and
on the day after Christmas
(always mindful of the importance of holidays)
walked into eternity.

Even at 98
it was an interruption.

Did you feel eternity tugging
at your sleep?
tapping you on the shoulder?
beckoning?

Although stayed for nearly a century
eternity always lurked,
plucking at your sleeve,
tangling its fingers in your hair,
the aroma of forever,
tickling your senses

and ours too.

Some days we catch
a glimpse
of that infinity
and I think I see you
waiting

for Easter morning.

Maranatha,
come Lord Jesus.

“You know–”
the pursestring tightened his mouth
into thin grimness,
“If we give away
too many
Thanksgiving baskets,
That Sort will start to think
that church is just
one big handout.”

His silent “harrumph”
zzzzzipped the purse shut.

Oh. My. God.
(oh my merciful, gracious God)

That’s it!

If the church isn’t
one big handout
what is it?

One big Glorious handout
week after week
year after year…
the Great Giveaway!

One big handout
to us
wretched
pitiful
poor
blind
naked
souls
who NEVER
exceed the need
for the Glorious handout.

Frankly,
if the church ISN’T the
Biggest Handout of All Time
I don’t belong there.

He gently shifts the settled sands,
exposing things
that,
if left to rot,
would leach poison
into the well
of who I am
for years to come.

The pain and despair
blazes out in me
when I touch
those spots.

But already
the air
the Spirit
the gentle words of
others who have walked
in woundedness,
walked in wholeness.
All are
drying out
those weeping wounds

and
healing

little

by

little.

Advent

Advent

The manger wasn’t clean
the hay wasn’t soft and fluffy
the light probably didn’t glow,
golden and steady.

The shepherds were terrified
The wind probably bit,
cold and raw
The swaddling cloths probably
weren’t snowy white
and hemmed.

The animals didn’t talk.
Mary probably walked.
There was probably no privacy,
possibly drunken revelry one stall over.

A stable,
a cave,
or maybe just shelter
under the overhanging roof
next to
a crowded hostelry

No boiling water
no quiet carols
no softly glowing candles
maybe a crackling fire
that cast frightening shadows
and not enough heat

or maybe not.

There was blood
and pain
and torn flesh
and chill
and dirt
and fear.

(much like how most of the world
still waits
for Immanuel,
God with us)

Nothing picturesque
or appealing
beckoned Jesus
into our cold, dark, lonely world.

Thank God He came anyway.

Maranatha, Come, Lord Jesus.

A CHILD’S HEART

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

Each year our church takes a special offering on Palm Sunday that supports the various social ministries of the church. The Sunday prior to that, little cardboard banks are distributed to the children in their Sunday School classes and a little devotional guide is provided in the bulletin for the parents.

This year, the emphasis in the little guide was on children. Each day parents and their children were asked to consider different needs of children around the world. The idea was that the various horrifying statistics of starvation, disease, and death would motivate little ones to plunk their pennies in. The parents guide to this project seemed a little beyond our toddler, so we got creative.

Josh just recently started attending Sunday School and to his immense delight received his very own cardboard bank. At home he proudly showed it to me and explained that we needed to put money in it. I thought to myself, “This offering for hungry children….Ah, what an incredible way for me to teach Joshua about giving!”

On Sunday afternoon we embarked on an adventure. As we explained to Josh that some children in the world are hungry, cold, homeless, or parentless, his little face reflected his emotions. He was horrified. We didn’t need to belabor the point.

On Monday, we carefully counted our pennies into the bank. “And this one is for bread, and this one is for milk, and this one is for blankies, and this one is for….hmmmm….peanut butter!” he designated each coin. He shook the bank and heard the money rattle around inside. He was impressed.

On Tuesday, I got some change out of my wallet and handed it to Josh. He craned his neck to see into my wallet. “There’s more money in there!” he said accusingly. “I need it all!“

“But Josh!” I protested, “I gave you some already.”

“Mom, these kids are hungry!!” he explained sternly. I dug deeper and he added to the weight of the bank.

On Wednesday we skipped McDonald’s and put the amount we would have spent in the cardboard bank.

The bank was definitely getting heavier. Josh hefted it with satisfaction. Lots of money for hungry children. Those hungry children were heavy on his mind.

On Thursday Josh informed a family friend that we were saving money for skinny boys.

The fact of children living on the street troubled him deeply. That night he designated three quarters to get a house for the children.

On Friday Dave’s dad came to visit. He wasn’t in the house long before Josh wrapped himself around his legs and ordered, “Get out your money, Grandpa! I need money.” More coins for hungry children. The bank was getting heavier.

Saturday Josh got creative. He came into the kitchen lugging his own weighty piggy bank.

I started to protest, but I think that an angel thumped me on the shoulder. Mercifully I was able to keep my mouth shut. Who am I to tell Joshua that he shouldn’t give his own money out of his own piggy bank?

After he pried open the bottom, he grabbed fistfuls of coins and began depositing them into the cardboard bank. Each coin went for something different. Some were for staples like bread and milk and blankets, and some others were for the staples of a toddler’s world–peanut butter, apples, toys, and teddy bears.

I wanted to protest as he shook more nickels and dimes into his hand. Again, that angel tapped my shoulder. There would be plenty of time for miserly computation of the required 10% tithe. Right now, his child’s heart only knows that children shouldn’t be hungry.

Sunday was THE day. For the occasion, Josh joined us in church. Throughout the opening hymns, he squirmed with impatience. He fidgeted through the announcements, frequently hugging David around the neck or kissing me. His bank was in my purse and it was burning a hole in Joshua’s heart.

At last, the ushers took the offering. At last the offering plate reached us. Proudly, Joshua heaved his penny-bulging bank onto the plate and announced grandly, generously, in a stage whisper that carried several aisles, “And they can keep it, too!”

After I swallowed the lump in my throat, I said to myself, “This offering for hungry children…ah, what an incredible way for Josh to teach me about giving.”
c. 1992

(I Samuel 1 & 2)

Hannah’s arms
they ache and tremble,
not with weariness
but with an
abundance of emptiness.

Desperation claws itself
out through parched lips
in silent prayers
of agonized longing.

Hannah’s lips move
tears ooze
heart cries out
for just one son.

Old Eli misunderstands
(and why not?
neglectful of his own sons for so long)
wonders if she’s drunk
as Hannah weeps
in bitterness of soul
“O Lord,
if you will just remember me….”

And indeed,

God remembered Hannah
with a boy….

who she gave back (!)
to the Giver
as promised
already (so soon)
when he was still so small.
(Surely a bittersweet gift
from God.)

How she trusted.
How she praised,
raised her Magnificat
with no promise
of more children
to fill her
empty (again) arms.

And amazingly,
her merciful God did fill her
womb
heart
arms
again
with 3 more sons and two daughters.

And Samuel
continued to grow
in stature
and in favor
with God
and men.

Who has known the mind of God?