What Am I Missing?
If you asked me if I was on a mission,
Had a mantra, a rallying cry
(I might hesitate in feigned humility and feigned surprise)
And then I might say, well yes
It covers the world and the world is covered by it
If you must know
Even if you don’t
Care to ask
Don’t care to listen
Didn’t even ever wonder
That’s okay, ’cause I am still talking
One day I woke up to the wondering of this
And the next day I woke up again to the intense unsettling of this
Days went by and I heard a trembling in my veins and in my sinew and bone
And my insides and my outsides and in time
All the parts of me were singing in unison
And the choir of me was loud
When I listened closely from the outside in and the inside out
It was like the milkyway was an orchestra, each star an instrument
And they played loudly in me, all horns and strings and keyboards, in sweet harmony
I heard a song like a psalm though the Pslams are already written
I heard praise and shouts of blessed remembering
And hymns to no more forgetting to abide awhile in Him and in my days
The verses sang a halelluia chorus of “right now is glory”
Holy is humming in the sacred now
And you are a fool, though a loved fool, to refuse to see
To dance in the music of these days
And even though the lasso was ’round the stories of now
And we were tethered, we two
Together at last
And though the harp and the electric guitar played a duet,
A hymn of holy matrimony’s first dance
Paired, partners in listening out for the songs from the milky way chorus of wonder
I with my bucket for catching it all
Slipped and fell
And the stories came shooting out, as if the heavens released the stars like rockets headed toward Earth
So I must go gathering again
And dream some more
Of the places and people I forgot to remember, but first to go see
and go behold
And go love
Because in all the joy I thought I had
My neighbor I had forgotten
Join me at GraceTable. I saved a seat for you at the table.
When I was a small child, my mother made certain I called my godmother to thank her for the gifts she gave me. Aunt Francis always gave me a piece of my silver pattern, her generous gifts a bit lost on me at the time. My stomach tightened up like a rubber band ball as I picked up the phone to call her each and every July, after the birthday gift arrived. I stalled and delayed, until Mother prompted me one final time to make that call.
Aunt Francis had a severe speech impediment. It manifested itself with long periods of silence between words. (Join me at GraceTable for the rest of my post.)
Living Out The Prequel
If I am a story
Or a story is me
And we are turning pages
There is this unfolding
My breath is held and
I may forget to breathe
But living does not rest on whether
Or I forget
It is the mystery of baited breath
God grants me this until the end
And did God feel this way
On the days, one and two
Knowing what he knew of all that lay ahead
Knowing all he knew
About the peonies in shades of flesh and rose and the oyster with its hidden pearl
The sound of rain and rainy drops
Slowly tickling the backs
Of a parched and desert dry cracked earth
Do I know I know not what is to come
But breathing deep and breathing fast
Swallowed up by the fog of a heaviness
Expectant in the coming next
I know as any mother knows
To hold the baby to her breast and sit back
Long and languid, rest in waiting
I know as the salt marsh tide knows
When to ebb and
When to flow
And in its knower
Knows that it will never stop
I know that I am walking
Through the days of prequel joy
Pregnant in expectancy
Of splitting hairs of heavy wait
Of counting stars and counting dreams
Of wondering how much joy a soul can hold
All the while entangled
In a mystery of how will it all end
In the days left in the waning
Of the remaining
Until healing comes to all
And the prequel gives way
To what He has in store
So I will turn the page
Savoring every word
And will to come
Follow along for the month of November as I express my gratitude in the form of “the poetry of letter writing.” I will never say all my thank you’s in just a few short weeks. I won’t even come close to honoring everyone that inspires me with their gracious spirit, deep well of kindness, or ability to bless me and others with the overflow of their heart.
But I can start. So this is just a way to begin
One poem of gratitude, one thank you note at a time. (Thank you, as always for reading and journeying with me).
In an effort to be more of who I am, I want to be more like you.
It is a paradox that I am chipping away at daily.
Not the part about being like you. But of focusing on simple acts.
Engaging in the simple act of singlemindedness.
(I think I was made to focus on small things)
I think grand and great are left for others.
This is a revelation. With a small r.
But that would be presumptuous of me.
I do not imply that your work (did you know I call it the “fluff and fold”) is not a big thing
Did you know, I long to love like you. Love simply and gently with your service and your smile.
I walk in hungry for kindness (don’t we all). And you give, so generously.
You take my soiled clothes in your hands, dutifully. Every. Single. Time.
I give you dirt and you you give me joy.
I give you a job and you give me your best.
I leave and you remain. You spend hours serving among the spinning machines.
Watching dirt wash away. Witness to transformation. Giving the world cleanliness and fresh starts.
You are throughly immersed in your work, thoughtful and diligent.
I want to write and love and live and serve with the devotion you give, to the laundromat.
The world needs more Brenda’s.
Secretly I know that you carry your private world around with you, concern for those you love, as you feed the coins into the machines.
But the grace and gentleness are all I see. You are all business. No hints of your personal life.
Oh lovely Brenda. Knowing you is a gift.
Until we meet again at the Fluff and Fold
with love and admiration,
Joining Laura today. She makes Monday’s so extra lovely