And I Doubt What So Many Cling To...

Plans, all ripped to shreds and senselessly strewn across this half of a heart, bitterly remind me of the What-Could-Have-Beens and What-Would-Have-Beens that I built with hands bloody and bruised.
To what end have I imagined, entertained, pursued these illusions of hope, vain promises of a future in which I might
Prosper?
And I wonder why I ever thought You were on my side, because now all seems certain that you certainly are
Not, for if You were, if you truly worked
To bring about good, then why are we all suffering, struggling, sinning, striving, sighing about the way You simply bring
Harm, simply taunt and torture and tear apart?
Plans for college, plans for Idaho and beauty and knowledge and a future, plans
To do great things and meet great people and escape from the past, plans to
Give myself over to the idea that education makes me worth something, that education brings
Hope…but that is not what you have for me, is it? So I am to trust and rest
And believe that somehow, after 3,000 miles and 10,000 tears, screams of why and how and when and where-do-I-go-from-here, you have a plan:
A perfect, wonderful, difficult plan, to grant greater hope, greater peace, greater holiness, greater love, greater grace, and a greater
Future.

August 9, 2012

This Healing Heart

I am the Queen of Artful Ambiguity,
of Vain Vagueness,
of “Oh! I’m fine! How are you?”,
of saying only enough to “speak truth”,
but never quite enough to do justice to the crazed chaos that consumes the confines of my corrupted and comfortless soul.
Because if you knew my heart, really rubbed your scabby elbows with mine, there would be only one thought in your mind,
and please hear me when I say that jumpsuits and white fluorescent light are not flattering for my pasty fair complexion.
But the more I keep this senselessness all safely stored inside, the more I carefully contain,
the more Satan has to misuse and abuse and lead me subtly away from the Savior,
the One thing that makes any sense in this stupidly secular world.
So here is my heavy and hurting heart, all bloody and red and raw, and I pray that somehow you might find true and tangible encouragement from the torment therein.
That boy brutally broke my heart, and though somedays I feel like I am finally fine and finished,
most days I pathetically and wearily weep, seeing cruel and crippling reminders of him strewn across this desolate land and in my broken life,
and these wounds still bleed profusely and unabashedly and I long to leave.
I desperately and literally tried to run today, to escape this ever-present death that looms over me, but I only got one bumbling block before I realized that I am obviously out of shape
and that the very thing I am running from is me,
and I could never run far enough or fast enough to rid myself of me.
It’s like You’ve been dangling that proverbial carrot of “stability” right in front of me,
and each time I feel it within my groping grasp, something horrible happens, something to tortuously tear me away from you and the life of faith and freedom that I know is found in You.
And I am so tired of fighting this battle,
of being belligerently beaten by billions of bullets,
and I wonder if it is worth it.
But then I remember that if this is isn’t worth it, nothing is.
And I think maybe this is how David felt when he called his tears his food and doubtfully questioned Your faithfulness.
So I will try to love You and be loved by You,
even though it hurts and I am hurt and it seems like he was my only connection to You, and when he left, You did too.
But I know you are here, even though I cannot feel You or see You,
and even though it feels like You are uncaringly sitting up in Your golden throne laughing insensitively at me and carelessly throwing trials at me that I have no hope of overcoming.
But then maybe that is the beauty of this, that in suffering, I am learning that I am nothing, that without You, I have no hope, no purpose, no thing to cling to in this coldly cruel world.
Your love is real and irrational and powerful and it is all I need.
Remind me of your grace everyday, in glorious lightning storms, annoyingly crazy moths, and babies with gurgling drool.
Sweet Savior, my Healer and Husband,
Captivate me, capture me, and consume me.

May 2012

On Suffering and Song

Such a puzzling paradox,
this year that began with endings,
with lasts and never-agains.
Like a woman swollen with child,
these nine months have been pregnant with passion and pain, with grace and grief,
all leading up to this confusing birth of inevitable endings and brilliant beginnings.
Such a bittersweet blend of inexpressible joy and unspeakable heartache.
Extraordinary experiences and awesome opportunities,
Like skipping down the Yellow Brick Road and waltzing along the Riverwalk, staring in awe at the Lady of Liberty and joyously singing for the last time on that familiar stage.
These things have taken hold of my heart and impressed themselves on my mind.
Almost simultaneously, though,
Hurt so big and so real has raged,
Burning belligerently with a far-away father, a hurting mother, a broken heart and shattered dreams, struggles against self and sorrow, and a quest to understand that ever-elusive word “leave”,
As if I could simply unearth myself from the people and the places that have planted me, and watered me, and loved me.
And I sometimes wish only to surrender,
to hopelessly and helplessly resign to that whispering lie that this pain will always be.
Yet, words of old ring fresh and true in these wilting, dying ears:
“Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear its music ringing.  It sounds an echo in my soul.  How can I keep from singing?”
I feel the truth of this, my heart pulsing in inaudible rhythm with the hearts and mouths of those who artfully penned those words so long ago.
How,
how could I ever keep from singing,
how could I stop the music that flows in these veins,
the music that pounds wondrous chords in my ears and in my heart?
Though my song may at times be chaotically colored by notes of hurt, or anger, or bitterness, or despondence, I could never cease singing, for it is part of me,
Or, rather, I am part of it.
Though at times,
it seems I may explode or wilt or perish from the seemingly endless battle inside and out,
my ever faithful companion
through the fickle seasons of this sinner’s soul,
is music.
Even when I doubt His grace,
when like Saul I am overtaken by spirits of evil and rage,
even when a God who lives and loves seems more distant and unforgiving than a past I cannot change,
When nearly nothing else can quiet the tumultuous seas within,
music covers, comforts, captivates, and changes me.
My dear friends,
In the midst of these finales,
find the melodies, the notes singing sorrow and hope;
for you, I, WE have been given songs to sing,
songs to feel and paint and write and dance and live.
When nothing else makes sense,
The Great Composer of Life uses music to speak truth and life in notes too divine and glorious to comprehend.
We must never stop the music, lest we disregard and disconnect ourselves from the symphony He is conducting.

In this moment, let us speak thankfulness, for we have been graciously fostered and cared for by men and women of talent and passion, who allow their songs to be boldly heard and wonderfully enjoyed.  To them we owe thanks, our most passionate, ardent love and gratefulness, for they have given to us precious pieces of their lives and have taught us not only to sing the songs on dead pieces of tree,
but to sing in every word and every action.
In words, I could never thank you enough.
Yet,
I pray that as I go forth from this program and this town, the song of my life would reflect the beauty and passion that you have poured into me.
May we honor and remember the ones who have shaped us, but, most magnificently and importantly, may we remember the One who authored all life and all song.

May we never keep from singing.


~written for the 2012 Canyon High School Choir Banquet~

Invisible Eyelashes

I am the girl with invisible eyelashes
Who cries at night,
In closets and in bathrooms,
Anywhere people won't see her.

I am the girl who obsesses,
Starves,
Longs to be beautiful,
But feels utterly worthless and spent.

I am the girl with invisible eyelashes,
Invisible struggles,
Invisibly crippled by an invincible front crafted carefully from stone and deceit.
And yes, I believe,
Deep within my confused heart,
But my head often wanders and my heart runs astray.
.
I am the girl with a pockmarked face,
Who hides skillfully behind tan-colored minerals and thick bangs,
Big glasses and quiet words,
Who fiercely fears being vulnerable and known.

I am the girl with a dark and deranged mind,
Who sometimes wonders what it would feel like to ram her car into a wall,
End it all,
Because perhaps then she would find peace and rest from all this despair.

I am the girl who eats peanut butter from a spoon and runs everywhere she goes,
Running late and running wild,
Going fast and going crazy.

I am the girl who memorizes license plate numbers,
Whose mind obsesses over those six or seven numbers-
542 PSF
BZ9 L753
221 DJM-
Reciting them over and over in her crazed head for who knows why.

I am the girl with invisible eyelashes,
Invisible feelings,
Who desperately tries not to offend or upset,
But ends up distanced and lonely.

I am the girl whose heart beats hard and fast for love,
Yet who fears the potential of her flesh's wayward ways
Because she has already kissed too long and too hard too soon.

I am the girl who weeps for love,
Weeps for the ones she loves,
The ones who suffer,
Who cry desperately to a God who sometimes seems more distant than the stars.

I am the girl who is more confused than confused can be,
Who questions, "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" and "Who will I become?"
In this world of fast lanes and distortions.

I am the girl who rests in the Truth,
But sometimes plays Peter and denies,
Usually more than three times,
But then that rooster crows and she awakens,
With tears of repentance in her eyes and the Father's arms wrapped tightly around her.

I am the girl who was wallowing in her own blood,
But heard the voice that cried "Live",
Who has been chosen, redeemed, and accepted,
Whose quirks, sins, and talents have been offered up to the Great Refiner
Who will buff and burn and burn and buff so her heart looks more and more like Jesus.

I am the girl with invisible eyelashes.

Sister

When I was born, I must have had torches for hands
Because anytime I walk too close to someone
It seems like I do a lot of burning
And very little embracing.

But with you, it has always been different;
You were never scared of my fires.
You must have been born with flame-resistant skin.

I remember when we first met:
I was boring;
You were crazy.
I wore white capris with dress shirts and rarely spoke.
You wore thrift-store-T-shirts and said the word "Fag".

I thought you needed my help, that you needed saving.

Who knew you would be the one to help save me?

A casual acquaintanceship:
Your friends were my friends
So we went bowling and played pretend at recess.

I was afraid of interaction with people;
You thrived on it.

Fast friends,
With our three brothers and crazy imaginations.
P.E. (The horror!  The horror!) became our domain.
The kids who cursed, the kids who cast spells, the kids whose parents left them home alone
Became our companions, as we feebly tried to minister.

Then you called me from vacation.

"I'm moving."

Wait...
What???
Moving???

Those words stung like a knife from behind:
Cold,
Unexpected,
Life-shattering.

Yet,
With our impending separation, we grew only closer.
Up and down Mulberry Street we walked,
Living almost inseparable lives.

Like sisters.

The day you left
I cried,
For you,
For me,
To the God who seemed so far away,
So distant from all that was happening.

Years I spent in anger, in anguish,
Wondering when the good was to come
As I held to that Romans 8:28 promise.

Then came last summer.

My torches were ablaze,
And your flame-resistant skin let down its protection.

I know I hurt you.

I know I should have listened to you,
Should have loved you better,
Should have been less sensitive,
Less selfish,
Less stupid.

I'm sorry.

But even though you carry those burns,
I cling to the hope that the Great Healer will have His way in both our lives,
That He will extinguish my flames of fear and crush my walls of insecurity
And will heal your hurt from all I knowingly did wrong.

I love you like crazy,
My sister that I never had.
You have a piece of my heart,
All rough and red and broken.
And though we came from different wombs,
It is like we are somehow connected
By some familial force beyond comprehension.

Thank you for all you have been.

I am so thrilled to see where the Lord leads you,
As you wildly follow His wonderful plan.
Whether it leads to Africa or babies or simplicity,
I know you will serve the Kingdom with all your heart.


For my dear friend and sister, Alison Carpenter.

Mama

Oh, Mama;
I wonder, sometimes,
Do you love me?
I know you do,
But still my heart questions.
When I came out,
All red and wet with life,
Did you see my hands and feel grace,
Or were they a trap,
Yet another force to grasp hold of Your freedom
And never let go?
Did you hold me,
Sweetly,
Tenderly,
And pray I would become a woman desperately in love with Him,
Or did you close your eyes
And wish to be far, far away
From the diapers and the dishes,
The brutal cries in the night
For food,
For an embrace,
For love?
Surely this was not the life you
Carefully,
Dreamily
Planned for yourself
In the days of film cameras and Janis Ian and the Cold War.
You wanted fame,
To be a star,
To be free and wealthy,
Adored,
But not by children.
Yet we invaded,
Toys in hand,
Pacifiers in mouth,
Burdens in tote;
We camped out on your dreams,
Ran them off
With screaming voices and plastic swords.

How could you have known?
You didn't.
This life you never signed up for,
Is it good?
Have you loved?
Or have we drained you dry,
Like thirsty pups suckling on a weary mother?

I look into your eyes,
Try to read the pages;
In your hands,
Try to feel the Braille
And decipher
Who you are,
What you feel and think.

When I speak,
Do you hear me,
Or are my words drowning in a sea of distractions,
Of iPhones and pianos and Facebook and busy?
Am I your daughter,
Your Janae,
Evidence that "Yahweh is gracious"?
Or am I a burden,
An obligation,
A duty?

You pray with me,
For me,
And I can feel your heart beating in sync with His and with mine,
And I know you love,
Deeply and truly.
But sometimes I forget and you forget, and everyone forgets
Except the only Faithful One,
Who binds us together in our forgetfulness
With scarlet cords of love and hope,
Hope that rises from the grave
And does not die with my falling spirits.
You love and I love,
Like mother and daughter,
But more often like sisters,
Because you have always called Him our Father.

Xie Xiaoyuan

Her voice came to me,
Through noisy static waves,
Across a medium of selfishness,
Pride,
Forgetfulness,
And straight into the receptors
Of this radio heart.

Down dark, mountain passages
Cold in the morning,
Xie treads the path to school,
Longing for education,
An escape,
From life without breakfasts,
Life of a fifteen cent lunch:
Two measly slices of bread and a drink
Intended to satisfy her body until dinner.
This malnutrition,
These physical needs mercilessly control her.

Five in the morning,
Frostbitten ears,
A ten mile bus ride
Through mountainous country,
Home again to $120 a month.

She is not alone;
Millions of children suffer,
Hungry,
Hopeless,
Everyday in China.
Studies say they are shorter,
Two to six inches,
Than the city kids,
With their fancy foods
And digital lives.

Who am I
To complain,
To cry out,
To feel slighted,
Underprivileged
With warm cheeks and Wal-Mart?
I have everything,
EVERYTHING
I could ever need.
Never have I wondered,
Cold hands,
Growling stomach,
Where food would come from.
My only concern,
Belly full and prideful,
"Will I eat too much?"

Thankfulness,
This eucharisteo,
Is given wings
When I see my life
Through the lens of little Chinese girls.
Blessed beyond expression,
I am sickened:
This way I have robbed Him
Of thanks all these years,
Believing my life,
With my Saturn and iPod,
To be difficult.
How foolish I am!

It seems unfair,
Unjust,
But I rest assured
Knowing His ways are far better
Than Janae's ways.
His Gospel
Boldly tells me that even without
All these fleeting physical things,
He is more than enough.
I want to pray for Xie,
For the millions of children
In China and across the world,
Who live in destitution,
Physical and spiritual, 
Who desperately need manna,
Christ's broken body and blood out poured,
And bread for weak bodies,
The same way I do.

His grace is sufficient.