a simple guide to love

You can love anyone
if you really look at them.
Notice the delicacy
of their eyelids
the unique color
and texture
of their skin.
Listen
to the rhythm
of their breath,
hear the longings
of their heart.
Study them
like a poem
or painting.
Look long
enough to see
the layers and lines,
crevices and curves.
Human-beings are
breath-taking works of art.
Fleshy machines, both
beautiful and complicated.
When you really look
how could you not
fall in love?

the revealing.

"And the man and his wife were both naked, and were not ashamed." -Genesis 2:25

I love the idea that in the beginning we were naked and unencumbered before God. For me part of the Christian life, particularly in the wilderness season of Lent, is about dismantling the careful walls and masks we've created to protect ourselves. Allowing ourselves to be seen by the Holy and by one another can be terrifying and painful. Discipleship and authentic relationships demand that we let our scars, our limitations and our flaws show. The divine challenges us to stop playing the game of proving ourselves and pretending. We are invited to vulnerability, intimacy, wildness and freedom. 


The Revealing
It hurts--
this uncovering
this laying bare.
It would be easier
to stay contained,
comfortably covered.
But piece
by jagged piece,
you reveal me.
You ask me
to be seen.
You uncover all
I prefer to keep veiled.
I can almost hear
you greet my
vulnerable form:
There you are, darling.
Aren't you beautiful?

the furious beating of wings.

"They wheeled in a wide arc
with beating wings and then
they put their wings to sleep
And glided downward in a drift
of pure abandonment
Until they touched the surface of the lake
composed their wings, and settled
on the rippling water
as though it were a nest. " -Anne Porter, "Wild Geese Alighting on a Lake"

We are furiously beating
our wings, always gasping
for breath as we seek
some imaginary destination
always further and further,
higher and higher.
So desperate are we
to make it upwards,
we do not see
the sky we fly in,
or feel the wind
the brushes our
radiant faces.
We never stop
to rest our weary wings
until they break and crack
and we plummet like Icarus
toward the hard earth,
despairing and weeping
that it was all for nothing.
What would it be to
unfurl our heavy limbs,
and let the invisible
carry us; to glide
and drift with abandon;
to open our mouths to
drink in the sweet air
and our eyes to see
the wide expanse of
sky and possibility?

The Dark Blossoming

This January, I experienced a miscarriage. It has been a season of grief, sorrow and pain like none I have known before. An unpredictable storm of emotions has accompanied this loss. There are moments of empty numbness and others of anguished weeping. There are flurries of shame and guilt and anger. This is a loss so deep and intimate that it can at moments feel debilitating and isolating. But what has surprised me even more than the depth of pain, has been the abundance of blessings of this time. Love, comfort, hope and healing glimmer like stars in the wide darkness of my grief.

People I hadn’t seen in years sent kind messages sharing their love and their own journeys of pregnancy loss. Countless friends offered their love, prayers and support through texts, messages, e-mails, phone calls and cards. Some brought meals or sent flowers. My tribe (some of whom I know well, and others who until now have been mere acquaintances) have held me with such tenderness. Even if they could not fully understand my grief, they were attentive to it. In the midst of the darkness of my pain and sorrow, I have felt seen, treasured and loved.  I have been reminded again and again that I do not walk alone. With each kind word and thoughtful gesture these dear ones have been acting as midwives, guiding me through this dark season of pain, to find rebirth. When I thought I would be washed away entirely by the ocean of tears, you held me and kept me from being swept away.

One of the ways that I seek solace and healing is through creative practice, and these last few weeks have been an outpouring of writing and making in my life. In the coming weeks and months I hope to share some of it with you here. But the first thing I want to share is this collage piece, made primarily of the many beautiful sympathy cards we received and a black and white photo from photographer Dave Heath (his amazing work is currently on display at the Nelson-Atkins Museum in KC). 

This is my valentine to all of you, representing the ways that through your love, hope blossomed in the midst of my darkest days.

This is for all of you who poured out your love. Every word typed or written was like bread sustaining me when I was starving. Every prayer, every kindness, every touch, was a seed planted in a barren place. Your tender care helped me not only survive the wilderness of grief, but to find deep rivers of resurrection and renewal within its landscape. Thank you, thank you, thank you: for walking beside me during this shadowy season; for loving even when you didn’t understand; for holding onto hope when I couldn’t carry it myself. You will never know the difference it has made. You will never know the way your love grew blossoms in the darkness. You will never know the beauty you helped me find even in the breaking.

Blessing for Anyone

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me.' -Matthew 11:2-6

Blessed is anyone
Who is not offended.
But who could not take
Offense? When you tell
Us so bluntly to change
Completely. To give
Unsparingly. To seek
Eternally. To forgive
Lavishly.  To love
Unconditionally.
We are offended.
Our sensibilities, our schedules,
Our bank accounts, our desires,
Our politeness, our sense of propriety,
Our sense of self.
All Offended.
All Disrupted.
This gospel,
This good news,
This revolution
Demands so much
more than we think
we can bear.
So rather than claim it,
We find excuses
to be offended.
To critique, analyze, judge.
And there you are,
Grinning like a prankster,
Still offering with open arms
A blessing to anyone--
Anyone at all-- willing
To uncross their arms
Long enough to receive it.

the art of mending.

the art of mending.
a post election poem

we are torn apart
as if we had forgotten
we are one fabric--
cut from the same cloth
of flesh, bone, and desire.
Separate as we are
we cry like children
ripped from
their mother's arms
or a limb wrenched
from the body,
uselessly flailing.
We must now
take up the art
of mending--
threading our lives
stitch by stitch,
seam by seam
until we are bound
by the frayed truth
that has always been:
we belong
to each other.

the great day.

This poem by Carl Dennis is a gentle reminder that the great day may never come. We may never compose our opus. We may never make a pilgrimage to the place of beauty we've painted in our minds. We may never achieve the mystery or passion or success that we've imagined for ourselves. But each day offers an invitation to enjoy the here and now, with such adoration and wonder that it becomes extraordinary. This poem beckons us to take the good china off the shelf and feast on the banquet of life just as it is.

The Great Day

What if the great day never comes
And your life doesn't shine with vivid blossoms,
Just the usual pale variety?
What if the best china never seems called for,
Those dishes reserved for the friends you love the most
On the day they return from their endless travels?
To use them now, for the only occasions available,
Would be to confuse the high realm with the low.
But not to use them, doesn't that seem wrong too,
To leave the best wine undrunk in the cellar
For the next owner of your house to open?
What then? Can you will yourself to see a common day
The way a saint might see it, as a gift from heaven,
Or the way it appears from the window of a hospital
On the first morning the patient feels strong enough
To edge across the room and look out?
There on the street an angel policeman
Is directing the flashing mosaic of traffic.
Or can you see the day as the dead might see it,
Not the ones who'd rather rest but those delighted
To abandon the gardens of Hell, however fragrant,
For a chance at crossing the sea again in a storm?
The day their ship, long given up for lost,
Steams into the harbor, all flags flying,
Would be a day to be toasted with rose champagne
In heirloom glasses. Down the gangway they come,
A little thinner, a little unsteady,
Eyes wide in wonder at their rare good fortune.
Can you see what they see as they look around
Or feel what their friends feel waiting on the dock
Must feel as they run forward?
"Let me look at you," they keep saying,
Suspending their formal speech of welcome.
"You look good. You look wonderful."
~ CARL DENNIS in *Ranking the Wishes* © 1997, Penguin