"You're like our best friend, our blessed virgin Mary, our apple eating Eve, our mother superior, our first time, our ex girlfriends, the womb we crawled out of and our big sister."
Spoken to me by Caleb, oldest of a silly clan of brothers.
It's a great deal facetious and yet speaks a little more truth than I am comfortable with.
This has always been me. Vital to their lives in that comfortable memory filling way. I'm a constant, some feminine smile in their life that will be there tomorrow as it was today.
It's not a bad thing at all. In fact, I was a little flattered. But one day I will fail or fade out of this role and nothing, not even my refusal to ever leave some love started will keep things the same.
One day I will only be a memory and I will mourn the death of my reign as the woman in their lives. They will marry. They will move. They will at least date someone. Most likely it will be marry. And that woman will ever after be the woman in their lives. And that's completely natural, right? I mean, I actually think it is.
Which makes me believe that it's me that is not normal. I am sad when these relationships fade, when my time is up, my love no longer wanted or needed. I am deeply wounded and it has taken years to let go of some of them.
Maybe this is why women long for children- little bodies to love, that even when big, still belong to them. Maybe this is why the pain of a broken parent-child relationship is so searing and aching.
All I know is, I don't want to fade out of all of their lives. I am longing for one to call me home.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
alive to the glory of living
Picture this.
There is a street, a cul de sac. It sits near the downtown of a city devoted to college students, football, and social church standing. If you know the town, you probably know the street, have driven down it at least once, and glanced at the six abandoned houses with no more than a passing question. Huh, I wonder what happened there? Melancholy and quiet, these houses have died or fallen ill.
Now Spring is coming and with it the houses begin to change. At first, nothing can be seen from the outside. But the trash is gone and floorboards have grown over gaps. Now the grafitti is withered and coated with fresh white paint. Now the holes in the walls are covered and the broken porcelein toilets replaced. The rusty pipes can swallow again and the basements are not drowning anymore.
Now the growth is covering the outside. Quietly and quickly it comes. Broken glass windows are whole and the rugged siding leveled. Now the the boarded up doors have grown clean wooden frames and brass door handles. Now the weeds have scattered and something fresh and colorful has carpeted the yard. Now the houses do not seem so quiet or sick.
One night, there is smoke out of a chimney and muffled laughs and strings played, and a subtle warm light from within.
Summer has arrived and now there are lights at night and smells of things baked and sounds of sinks running. Now there is movement and sound, footprints and new furniture. Now there are doormats and chairs on porches. Now there are pipes smoked and cars parked. A bike rack, a mail box, and a sign that says, "Come in, you are home."
Now the nights are filled with music and stories laughed and whispered. Now there are faces pouring in and out, walking from one house to another. Now there is food and drink shared and spilling over. Mirth is louder now and spreads into the afternoons. Walk in and each house holds different stories.
The house on the left, the white one? No more white walls inside. Everything floor to ceiling is constantly growing into drawings and paintings and color and shades. A hundred different stories are drawn upon the walls from a dozen different authors. No one but the creations themselves live in the house. It has no doors and many windows. A place to be shared.
And the brick house with the big porch? She smells better than a bakery. Full of new creations and sometimes chocolate sometimes spicy. She is full of tables heavy with honey, and meals shared every minute of the day. She is loved by all who cross her thresh hold, and she offers the breaking of bread at a table where Yeshua is always invited.
The third house is mostly filled with couches. With couches, chairs, futons, pillows, bookshelves, boardgames, and conversations. Memories have been made here and stories written. Friendships have begun and songs sung, hearts known, pasts revealed, broken parts restored. Here is brotherhood and sisterhood, here is fellowship and a body of many many sets of shining eyes. This is my favorite house.
The fourth is dancing, throbbing, crooning. There is music, there is merry making. There are melodies and strings strummed, drums thumped, keys played, brass blown, harmonicas whining, voices rising, and bodies making the best of their curves. This house is not quiet, it is not still. It is breathing loudly and lit up within. I like this house, it is the dancing after a wedding feast.
The fifth house is quiet. Beautiful and quiet. Her floors are for kneeling, her doors for knocking. The house is quiet but electric with breath. With words cried out to YHWH, with murmurings of spirit rich and thick. Shoes are left on the doorstep and though quiet, this house is never left alone. I am almost afraid of this house, but I love her. She is terrifying and close, honest, and I see a shimmer of glory wrapped around her.
The last house, what a place. She is quiet, too, but for snores and late night whispers. She is the fullest house of all. Visitors may pass all other houses, but at night, call her home. She is full of beds and places to lay weary heads. She is home to all that sleep there. She is known best, for her doors do not close. She is a testament to love, for love does not end at the turn of day to night.
And in the morning, faces again move from one house to another. To paint or sing, play, talk, pray, eat, laugh, or sleep. The faces change, more come, some leave, more leave, some come. The street is no longer melancholy, it is pulsing and breathing, laughing and crying. The houses are alive with the glory of community.
Hear my dream YHWH. I ask for this. Come live in these houses with us. We'll be dirty, strange, human, broken, needy, colorful, wretched, beautiful bodies. Our hearts ache to be close to one another and somehow close to you. To feed, clothe, create, cry, know and be known.
What will the autumn bring?
I am alive, I will not forget it.
There is a street, a cul de sac. It sits near the downtown of a city devoted to college students, football, and social church standing. If you know the town, you probably know the street, have driven down it at least once, and glanced at the six abandoned houses with no more than a passing question. Huh, I wonder what happened there? Melancholy and quiet, these houses have died or fallen ill.
Now Spring is coming and with it the houses begin to change. At first, nothing can be seen from the outside. But the trash is gone and floorboards have grown over gaps. Now the grafitti is withered and coated with fresh white paint. Now the holes in the walls are covered and the broken porcelein toilets replaced. The rusty pipes can swallow again and the basements are not drowning anymore.
Now the growth is covering the outside. Quietly and quickly it comes. Broken glass windows are whole and the rugged siding leveled. Now the the boarded up doors have grown clean wooden frames and brass door handles. Now the weeds have scattered and something fresh and colorful has carpeted the yard. Now the houses do not seem so quiet or sick.
One night, there is smoke out of a chimney and muffled laughs and strings played, and a subtle warm light from within.
Summer has arrived and now there are lights at night and smells of things baked and sounds of sinks running. Now there is movement and sound, footprints and new furniture. Now there are doormats and chairs on porches. Now there are pipes smoked and cars parked. A bike rack, a mail box, and a sign that says, "Come in, you are home."
Now the nights are filled with music and stories laughed and whispered. Now there are faces pouring in and out, walking from one house to another. Now there is food and drink shared and spilling over. Mirth is louder now and spreads into the afternoons. Walk in and each house holds different stories.
The house on the left, the white one? No more white walls inside. Everything floor to ceiling is constantly growing into drawings and paintings and color and shades. A hundred different stories are drawn upon the walls from a dozen different authors. No one but the creations themselves live in the house. It has no doors and many windows. A place to be shared.
And the brick house with the big porch? She smells better than a bakery. Full of new creations and sometimes chocolate sometimes spicy. She is full of tables heavy with honey, and meals shared every minute of the day. She is loved by all who cross her thresh hold, and she offers the breaking of bread at a table where Yeshua is always invited.
The third house is mostly filled with couches. With couches, chairs, futons, pillows, bookshelves, boardgames, and conversations. Memories have been made here and stories written. Friendships have begun and songs sung, hearts known, pasts revealed, broken parts restored. Here is brotherhood and sisterhood, here is fellowship and a body of many many sets of shining eyes. This is my favorite house.
The fourth is dancing, throbbing, crooning. There is music, there is merry making. There are melodies and strings strummed, drums thumped, keys played, brass blown, harmonicas whining, voices rising, and bodies making the best of their curves. This house is not quiet, it is not still. It is breathing loudly and lit up within. I like this house, it is the dancing after a wedding feast.
The fifth house is quiet. Beautiful and quiet. Her floors are for kneeling, her doors for knocking. The house is quiet but electric with breath. With words cried out to YHWH, with murmurings of spirit rich and thick. Shoes are left on the doorstep and though quiet, this house is never left alone. I am almost afraid of this house, but I love her. She is terrifying and close, honest, and I see a shimmer of glory wrapped around her.
The last house, what a place. She is quiet, too, but for snores and late night whispers. She is the fullest house of all. Visitors may pass all other houses, but at night, call her home. She is full of beds and places to lay weary heads. She is home to all that sleep there. She is known best, for her doors do not close. She is a testament to love, for love does not end at the turn of day to night.
And in the morning, faces again move from one house to another. To paint or sing, play, talk, pray, eat, laugh, or sleep. The faces change, more come, some leave, more leave, some come. The street is no longer melancholy, it is pulsing and breathing, laughing and crying. The houses are alive with the glory of community.
Hear my dream YHWH. I ask for this. Come live in these houses with us. We'll be dirty, strange, human, broken, needy, colorful, wretched, beautiful bodies. Our hearts ache to be close to one another and somehow close to you. To feed, clothe, create, cry, know and be known.
What will the autumn bring?
I am alive, I will not forget it.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
i cried for the first time since i left my heart
in brooklyn and crawled a thousand miles south and west of the city
thought I would follow your smoke signal home.
Find you on the porch, with your pipe in hand,
but I got there and you were gone.
The smoke that remains, was from a book you had burned,
a book I wrote too may words in.
You flew five thousand miles east across the sea,
to write better stories than I could.
Now I'm writing words in the book of a gentlemen,
one I fear I may hurt.
The handwriting's sloppy and the story
melancholy, but at least I am writing at all.
and tears fell today when we spoke, because there was honesty.
the truth was piercing and I felt anger.
pens do not erase
in brooklyn and crawled a thousand miles south and west of the city
thought I would follow your smoke signal home.
Find you on the porch, with your pipe in hand,
but I got there and you were gone.
The smoke that remains, was from a book you had burned,
a book I wrote too may words in.
You flew five thousand miles east across the sea,
to write better stories than I could.
Now I'm writing words in the book of a gentlemen,
one I fear I may hurt.
The handwriting's sloppy and the story
melancholy, but at least I am writing at all.
and tears fell today when we spoke, because there was honesty.
the truth was piercing and I felt anger.
pens do not erase
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