I used to be on staff at a large church. Sunday, for staff members, is an inherently different experience. At worship services, we are the servants, the ones who design and implement an environment for the crowd to worship the Father. Sometimes, we worship Him too, but our goal is to serve. Our worship comes at other moments; it is good.
The worship center of our church was always meaningful to me. Even mornings that completely occupied me with problems and work...on those days, still, the worship center was a place of God's presence. I could not always pull my head away from the work, but I always felt Him there. Some days I would enter, and hundreds of people were worshiping or listening to a sermon, and I was not fully engaged in my spirit. I was in servant mode.
In those times, I often imagined my Father, enthroned at the front of the room, receiving the glory and praise that He is worthy of. I enter, not participating, and He sees me. He nods gently at me as I slip into a chair off to the side. I am His beloved daughter. I am written on His very heart, and He sees me. It doesn't matter that I am not worshiping Him with all I am. I am tired, and He knows everything. I am so comforted to be there, because I am His.
Now, I am in a completely different place. My life is very good, but I will be honest, part of me is hurt and still healing. Because I am a certain maturity (we won't say "old"), the hurt doesn't consume me; it's not terribly important that it is there. But my Daddy knows. I live this wonderful life where He has placed me, and I never stop talking with Him. Please do not lose the goodness of where I am. But the hurt keeps me from some of the formality of my faith. I don't formally pray much, not as often as I used to.
Sometimes, my formal prayers have a picture, like the one I used to have when I was a staff member. I am standing by my Daddy, and I am looking at what He looks at. I am listening always for what He would say, but I can't quite turn and talk to Him. Instead, I reach up my tiny hand...I find His hand, and slip mine inside, and just stand next to Him, in silence.
I am His beloved daughter, and I am hidden in His heart. And He is glad to hold my hand and just wait. He is. This is enough for me.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Monday, November 26, 2012
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Kneading Hands
Zechariah watched his wife, kneading
the bread with her strong hands,
hands that lifted water in their
heavy jars, hands that held no child.
We are good, he thought, but
no. No one is good. Just God.
And her empty hands brushed at
her skirt, she absently tucked
her hair back up. She lifted
the paddle to the oven door, then
reached for oil, pouring a small
amount to a vial stuffed with
rosemary. Again, wiping her hands,
again tucking her hair, again
standing empty. She smiled
over her shoulder, feeling
his eyes upon her aging body.
He knew her long hair, once
black like the darkness in
the corners of the Temple, now
streaked with gray, the wisdom
of her age. Only God
is good, he knew, and what
can we expect to have
from his hand.
No genealogies were written
of those without children.
No begats with no belonging,
no place to be written. And Zechariah
sat in the kitchen, his own age
allowing him this moment of rest
in days that were full of teaching,
serving, tending the garden.
Old Avirim who worked
in the Temple decades ago
had died, no sons. And Zechariah
now itched to write them down,
to write them all, the litany
of childless men, with women
baking their warm flat bread
in empty homes. An urge
rose in him, to know his wife,
to write on her beautiful
aging body his love, indeed
the mystery of God.
the bread with her strong hands,
hands that lifted water in their
heavy jars, hands that held no child.
We are good, he thought, but
no. No one is good. Just God.
And her empty hands brushed at
her skirt, she absently tucked
her hair back up. She lifted
the paddle to the oven door, then
reached for oil, pouring a small
amount to a vial stuffed with
rosemary. Again, wiping her hands,
again tucking her hair, again
standing empty. She smiled
over her shoulder, feeling
his eyes upon her aging body.
He knew her long hair, once
black like the darkness in
the corners of the Temple, now
streaked with gray, the wisdom
of her age. Only God
is good, he knew, and what
can we expect to have
from his hand.
No genealogies were written
of those without children.
No begats with no belonging,
no place to be written. And Zechariah
sat in the kitchen, his own age
allowing him this moment of rest
in days that were full of teaching,
serving, tending the garden.
Old Avirim who worked
in the Temple decades ago
had died, no sons. And Zechariah
now itched to write them down,
to write them all, the litany
of childless men, with women
baking their warm flat bread
in empty homes. An urge
rose in him, to know his wife,
to write on her beautiful
aging body his love, indeed
the mystery of God.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Kneading Hands
Zechariah watched his wife, kneading
the bread with her strong hands,
hands that lifted water in their
heavy jars, hands that held no child.
We are good, he thought, but
no. No one is good. Just God.
And her empty hands brushed at
her skirt, she absently tucked
her hair back up. She lifted
the paddle to the oven door, then
reached for oil, pouring a small
amount to a vial stuffed with
rosemary. Again, wiping her hands,
again tucking her hair, again
standing empty. She smiled
over her shoulder, feeling
his eyes upon her aging body.
He knew her long hair, once
black like the darkness in
the corners of the Temple, now
streaked with gray, the wisdom
of her age. Only God
is good, he knew, and what
can we expect to have
from his hand.
No genealogies were written
of those without children.
No begats with no belonging,
no place to be written. And Zechariah
sat in the kitchen, his own age
allowing him this moment of rest
in days that were full of teaching,
serving, tending the garden.
Old Avirim who worked
in the Temple decades ago
had died, no sons. And Zechariah
now itched to write them down,
to write them all, the litany
of childless men, with women
baking their warm flat bread
in empty homes. An urge
rose in him, to know his wife,
to write on her beautiful
aging body his love, indeed
the mystery of God.
the bread with her strong hands,
hands that lifted water in their
heavy jars, hands that held no child.
We are good, he thought, but
no. No one is good. Just God.
And her empty hands brushed at
her skirt, she absently tucked
her hair back up. She lifted
the paddle to the oven door, then
reached for oil, pouring a small
amount to a vial stuffed with
rosemary. Again, wiping her hands,
again tucking her hair, again
standing empty. She smiled
over her shoulder, feeling
his eyes upon her aging body.
He knew her long hair, once
black like the darkness in
the corners of the Temple, now
streaked with gray, the wisdom
of her age. Only God
is good, he knew, and what
can we expect to have
from his hand.
No genealogies were written
of those without children.
No begats with no belonging,
no place to be written. And Zechariah
sat in the kitchen, his own age
allowing him this moment of rest
in days that were full of teaching,
serving, tending the garden.
Old Avirim who worked
in the Temple decades ago
had died, no sons. And Zechariah
now itched to write them down,
to write them all, the litany
of childless men, with women
baking their warm flat bread
in empty homes. An urge
rose in him, to know his wife,
to write on her beautiful
aging body his love, indeed
the mystery of God.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Signature
Smile,
Jesus loves you
sang her bumper,
just one small tasteful
sign. Jesus rode
in the backseat,
hunched down
flipping the lid
on the ashtray as
the car left Wal-Mart,
passing the remarkable
young and handsome
homeless man, hastily
lifting his cardboard sign.
Jesus loves you
sang her bumper,
just one small tasteful
sign. Jesus rode
in the backseat,
hunched down
flipping the lid
on the ashtray as
the car left Wal-Mart,
passing the remarkable
young and handsome
homeless man, hastily
lifting his cardboard sign.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Late, Staring
There was one lamp burning.
Some were asleep, but of course
Jesus was dead. All together,
but in the late hours
after the first rooster crows
when the deep dark still rests
everyone is alone.
Matthew was the most
abandoned. Peter and John
could return to fishing, but
he had left a cheating
lifestyle, thrown a party
for Jesus and
all his thieving friends.
He had come out.
His life would not refold
into tax collecting. He knew
no other work.
Had he ever cast out demons,
traveled preaching,
run off children? He
could not account.
He was cast off
in the upper room, in
a corner saved
for sinners, any dreams
for three days rotting
in a new grave.
Some were asleep, but of course
Jesus was dead. All together,
but in the late hours
after the first rooster crows
when the deep dark still rests
everyone is alone.
Matthew was the most
abandoned. Peter and John
could return to fishing, but
he had left a cheating
lifestyle, thrown a party
for Jesus and
all his thieving friends.
He had come out.
His life would not refold
into tax collecting. He knew
no other work.
Had he ever cast out demons,
traveled preaching,
run off children? He
could not account.
He was cast off
in the upper room, in
a corner saved
for sinners, any dreams
for three days rotting
in a new grave.
Monday, December 8, 2008
6:58 a.m.
The sunrise spoke to the light hidden
in the bricks and the trees and
the forms on the earth began
to glow, pink and alive to
the adversity of an awakened day.
The sun skipped a little higher
and the blue tones sang
of morning and ending and
possibility. And then dawn
was over, and it was Wednesday.
in the bricks and the trees and
the forms on the earth began
to glow, pink and alive to
the adversity of an awakened day.
The sun skipped a little higher
and the blue tones sang
of morning and ending and
possibility. And then dawn
was over, and it was Wednesday.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Ninety
At ninety my grandmother begins
to recount stories we had never heard.
How her mother screamed when Ann
was born, at home, no drugs, and
my Mimi whimpered at nine, brave
enough to hide it all these years.
I always knew that she, the oldest,
was responsible and linked by duty
to a woman who was unsafe by
our standards, sad and lonely, who made
great stuffing and biscuits. Mimi
has lost her baking at ninety but still
pays tribute to her mother, who
(we now learn) buried a fetus
in a shoebox, made her eldest help
and promise not to tell the other six,
a promise Mimi kept to her death.
The miscarriage, the blood, who knows
how far along she was but not
too far—enough to deliver
something dead, at home, no drugs,
and handle it. Like Mimi has always
handled things, like each of us, a line
of the oldest, responsible, and tied
in some way to women stringing back
who screamed, bore children, made biscuits.
My child bounds in my womb,
a daughter, a promise. What will I say
at ninety, that she will scratch down
in the morning, things I have hidden
now flushed into light by my own
aging and leaving, my desire to live
in the stories I tell.
to recount stories we had never heard.
How her mother screamed when Ann
was born, at home, no drugs, and
my Mimi whimpered at nine, brave
enough to hide it all these years.
I always knew that she, the oldest,
was responsible and linked by duty
to a woman who was unsafe by
our standards, sad and lonely, who made
great stuffing and biscuits. Mimi
has lost her baking at ninety but still
pays tribute to her mother, who
(we now learn) buried a fetus
in a shoebox, made her eldest help
and promise not to tell the other six,
a promise Mimi kept to her death.
The miscarriage, the blood, who knows
how far along she was but not
too far—enough to deliver
something dead, at home, no drugs,
and handle it. Like Mimi has always
handled things, like each of us, a line
of the oldest, responsible, and tied
in some way to women stringing back
who screamed, bore children, made biscuits.
My child bounds in my womb,
a daughter, a promise. What will I say
at ninety, that she will scratch down
in the morning, things I have hidden
now flushed into light by my own
aging and leaving, my desire to live
in the stories I tell.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Boxing God
People like to keep their God in a box, which
I never seem to have on hand, either
for religion or that gift needing
to be wrapped. So I use a zipper seal bag,
and despite the advertising, it leaks,
and God spills all over my refrigerator.
Perhaps I should try a decorative tin or
one of those accordion folders with
tabs, to help with easy reference.
He doesn’t seem willing to be contained,
always turning up in the bottom of my purse
with pennies and old receipts. Once I found
the Lord beneath the cushions on the couch,
and one time late Sunday the children left him
out with their toys. I spied him through
the kitchen window as the rain began.
You have heard the Lord is like the wind,
which I might try to bottle and sell
at roadside stands or home-based parties.
I have labels in coordinated colors, and
on my birthday I received a little gadget
that prints my name, over and over.
God smiles, and affixes my offering
across his workshirt pocket.
I never seem to have on hand, either
for religion or that gift needing
to be wrapped. So I use a zipper seal bag,
and despite the advertising, it leaks,
and God spills all over my refrigerator.
Perhaps I should try a decorative tin or
one of those accordion folders with
tabs, to help with easy reference.
He doesn’t seem willing to be contained,
always turning up in the bottom of my purse
with pennies and old receipts. Once I found
the Lord beneath the cushions on the couch,
and one time late Sunday the children left him
out with their toys. I spied him through
the kitchen window as the rain began.
You have heard the Lord is like the wind,
which I might try to bottle and sell
at roadside stands or home-based parties.
I have labels in coordinated colors, and
on my birthday I received a little gadget
that prints my name, over and over.
God smiles, and affixes my offering
across his workshirt pocket.
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