Lucky

An angry artist painted 

jaded predictions into a young 

pastor’s portrait. Each sitting brushed
 telling layers onto the covered canvas 

 keeping its secret week to week. 

Unveiled, the easel revealed 

in detail how twenty years 

would finish the man.

Fifty years in his chosen 

vocation  hasn’t erased the warning 

framed and stretched. Waiting, closeted, 

it's an amulet, an antidote, a ready 

remedy if Botox unexpectedly 

tries to inject his soul
with apathy.  

His smile spilled a papa’s

patriarchal blessing over our 

waiting heads. Laugh lines cracked

 open around his eyes bestowing love and 

 benediction. We face our future now
with goodness and mercy following
 us, leavings left by a warrior
 poet whose life proves
the portrait wrong.

Lucky him, lucky you, lucky me.  

Coming down from the mountain has been difficult. The Image Seminar at Whitefish with Eugene and Jan Peterson was truly epic. He didn't merely write The Message, they live The Message. Greg read a piece called Born, Again and Again. It describes the entire experience perfectly. If I told the backstory for this poem, you would need to take your shoes off. Be content to ponder it with me, for I mustn't speak of the sacred just yet. 

Early Phone Call

When the phone rings at six in the morning, it usually isn't someone wanting to have a friendly chat. A week ago Wednesday, the phone woke me. I picked it up and saw Loverby's number. Instead of saying, "Hello" I said, "Did your motorcycle run out of gas again?" "No, it's worse than that. Someone turned in front of me - I'm in the hospital. Will you come and pick me up?"

His shaking voice told me to hurry. My one comfort was that he was able to call and the news wasn't from a nurse or an officer.

On the way home, I stopped at the scene of the accident trying to find his new prescription glasses. Shattered glass was mingled with broken reflectors and a headlamp. I didn't find his glasses, but in the rubble, sparkling to be noticed, was a heart shaped piece of windshield.

I'm a grateful wife, thankful for the miracle, grateful that the sacred was not torn from my hand. 

Look to the Edge

I was watching a fascinating link that came across my Twitter feed today. It was a behind the scenes look at the making of the Documentary Rising from the Ashes. Anything about Rwanda catches my interest. Each layer of this unfolding story echoes with redemption.

The Director, T.C. Johnstone finished with, "...there was a moment that kind of told the story for me - in the dailies - here’s this peloton, this group of 19 riders, they’re screamin’ down the road, they pass this guy and he’s on an old bike, and I don’t think he even had shoes on, and the team comes by and this guy just starts barreling down and he comes in and they open up the peloton and in the edge of the frame - after I watched it two or three times - they let him in, and he gets there for just like, maybe like 20 seconds he can hang with these guys, then he pulls out and the peloton continues. But we didn’t shoot that! That’s the story.”

Help me see that story, please help me not miss it - the one on the edge of the frame.

A Strong Song

I used to hold

shells to my ear,

hoping to hear

ocean music.

Now, I go 

into the open 

pink spirals

twisting a trail

for the mystic

in me.

I follow

this invitation

to its middle

where new tears drip

ointment, tending

old wounds.

This place

welcomes me,

the-being-still-me,

making it easy

to choose

the good part.

Wooed and won,

I’m content to stay

cradled this way,

living inside a song.


Click here to watch Kathy Hastings conch spiral series. I saw them as I wrote. 

~To my beloved rabbi, who pointed the way~

Easter Morning Breakfast

A bunch of us foodies gathered to make breakfast early Sunday morning. We didn't cater to vegans, vegetarians, or anyone on a no carb diet. For the gluten or lactose intolerant, I hope they took their pills.

It was straighforward-farmboy-comfort-food. Heavy. Buttery. Food that stays and sticks in ways unapproved of by the health/weight conscious  ~  biscuits, sausage gravy, potato casserole, bacon, scrambled eggs, strawberries, blood oranges, orange juice, and milk. We felt no guilt. There was no force feeding this sort of warm fun down anyone's throat.

Loverby had the dutch ovens stacked high between layers of briquets. A circle of us hovered around them to keep warm. The biscuit steam curled up to catch and mingle with the bacon's perfume.

If we all had gone out to plow eighty acres, milk the cows, hoe the garden, feed the stock, or hand scrub nine loads of laundry, it would have been good fuel for the work ahead.

Instead, singing and hugging each other was the most strenuous thing we did afterwards. We wanted to take 'carb' induced naps, but the good news we were hearing kept us awake.

He's alive! For me, it's true. I happen to believe the grave is empty. 
I often wish I could have been that Mary, the one who first saw him. I imagine grabbing his ankles in the dust, not wanting to ever let go. I imagine his look of fondness, unembarrassed by my too intimate, too passionate, public display of affection. 

The building where we gather doesn't have a kitchen. Boldness and desperation made me ask a favor on behalf of the camp kitchen set up outside. Weather favors are risky. Asking for good weather when it is supposed to rain is crazy. I'm crazy. I asked, plead, begged, and persuaded.

As the line formed to eat, we were scrambling to make do with plastic forks for the bacon and strawberries. Christine hurried to the front of the line and put down two pairs of tongs. "I washed these last night and planned to bring them today, but don't know why." She had planned to bring them, even before I planned to forget to bring them!

Because she listened to the prompt, I felt overwhelmed with love from the one who held back the rain, and the one who stretched food for seventy to one hundred and thirty or so.

As the last canopy was taken down and stowed, it started to sprinkle.

Love like this gets my attention. And eternal gratitude.  

There's no lover like the one who strategically and deftly makes plans to pleasure his beloved. 


(Thanks to Loverby, Paul/Kimmie, Tracy, Frank/Trisha, Brita, Renee, and Dave.)

Momentos

The rabbi tears flatbread apart,
generously offering me half-
over and above his full,
full plate.

Crumbs fall wasted
between
our silverware.

I fight the urge 
to sweep them 
into my pocket.
Hoarding can't preserve 
this moment's scarcity.


Instead,
I take and eat - in 
remembrance for 
later - when deep
yearns for deeper.

Communion. 

Going Ahead Anyways

A long time aquaintance of mine is in the middle of a project worthy of a mention. It isn't merely the dreams that she is seeing come to completion, but the timing of it all. Her blog is an intriguing follow.

Jeri and her husband Kurt are expats living in Abu Dhabi. He is retiring from BP. They bought a piece of property on the shores of the Mediterranean in Kas, Turkey a while back. They dreamed of refurbishing and repurposing this derelict estate into a home to invite hungry, weary pilgrims to "come and rest a while and learn the unforced rhythm of grace".

Many of us have been following the progress of the structure as laborers - craftsmen all - breath three dimensional life into the one dimensional blueprints Jeri drew up. They saw what she dreamed...

The astonishing thing is the time in which it has been happening. Earthquakes in Haiti, Chile, and Japan. Political turmoil in surrounding countries. Dictators falling. Oil spills. Floods. Famine. Sex trafficking ramped up. The economic meltdown keeping pace with the possible fallout of another Chernobyl.

It is hard to fight the instinct to dig into a dark bunker, hunker down and live off the stash we've cached. Some desperately pray for escape by rapture - taking us to the heaven we hope is true.

I got a lump in my throat when I saw the latest pictures this week. It took me awhile to process why it filled me with jubilation. I wanted to stand and applaud this family who isn't caving into despair, but fighting valiantly with all their energy to create beauty on a tiny bit of dangerous earth. A place that is hospitable - inviting the creative encouragers from all over the world to receive  refreshing. Laura said the other day that she wanted to be a beauty activist. I loved those words. It fits in with this story of this home.

A home with no agenda. No programs. No stipulations. No drawn lines of separation across creeds or gender. No price tag. No strings attached. No gimmick. Ugly isn't invited.

It will be a home with lights on. A home with food shared around a common table with stimulating conversation. A home with chairs catching the breeze on a veranda looking towards the sea. A home lined with good books, lovely music. A home with a welcome mat always out.

Jeri and Kurt redefine and reframe the word retire into inspire. [Deep curtsy]

"Can You Hear the Flowers Sing?

I'm linking this today as I don't have any words of my own to offer. Hopefully, someone needs it. It isn't as hard to read as it seems. :) Cheers.


http://www.sengifted.org/articles_adults/Lovecky_CanYouHearTheFlowersSing.shtml

Manliness

When you observe a man who has a wife that glows - you see a lover who has studied his wife well.

When you observe a man who has grateful children - you see a father who has truly loved.

This man is kind in public or in private. In his home and outside his home.

This man uses his strength to protect instead of hurt.

This man cares accurately for his wife and children's heart, their wounds, their joy. He breathes air into their dreams.

This man is generous secretly.

This man has a wife who responds to physical intimacy and affection with matching hunger.

This man's words are congruent with the way he lives.

This man believes the best about people.

This man is comfortable with who he is, giving him the wherewithal to be a good friend.

This man is mine.

Once more, I'm grateful beyond words for the gift of living with a man who shows me the face of God, over and over again.

(Yes, whenever I come home from a trip I appreciate my life with greater clarity.)

There's a Hole

We own a coffee maker that I am willing to exchange for a $17.00 Mr. Coffee soon, and very soon. It has a thermos carafe which needs pre-heated with hot water if the coffee is to be hot. For the three years we have owned it, I did not know the plate it rests on is heated. I assumed it was the thermos holding the heat in, but not doing a very good job. (I like coffee and I like it hot.)

Yesterday, Loverby told me the plate was heated. I was incredulous. I didn't believe him. When I put my hand on it - sure enough - it was. I apologized for contradicting him. He smiled so big that I 'fell into his dimples'.

I had to adjust my beliefs ~ to truth. Every time this happens, I could jump with excitement.


The reason is this: what else might I have been wrong about for years and years? It opens doors, windows, and holes in the galaxy when I can change my mind and adjust to the truth. I'm clicking the iLike button on it. :)