Poetry: A Shared Vision Between Friends (For Kayla)


A snow-covered hill,
Fat mugs of hot, sweet tea,
Warm faces, full hearts,
Nothing between you and me…

Cold feet and freezing fingers,
Slow walking or a mindless trot,
A journey, so didactic,
We’ll never reach the top.

The conversation lingers between
quick wits and bold haze
Admittedly, we’re dilettantes
of the machine, and all its ways.

Time seems more like space
When you are by my side,
I don’t notice its passing,
I don’t recall life’s diatribe.

We were cut from the same stained cloth,
It’s all the same, we’re the esoteric,
The original never-looked-for,
but the I’m-never-lost.

Living in opposite corners of the same brain, freed
We frolic in snow past the tall, white trees,
Remaining through trials and seasons,
The very best dichotomies.

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Poetry: Caskets change everything


We were falling
Past space and other places
The worn-out identities of
everywhere we’d been

Burnt out on bars and bathrooms
Faulty lighting, hallways of never-end.

We got to spend our youth
Racing through the motions
As if things would stop, pause
or slow us

down.

Sometimes the realization of being alive
Hit like clocks clapping together
But we never saw how time and weather
made any difference at all

Life was like a movie,
We lived like we were dying
Until we saw you, dead.

Caskets change everything.
And death really messes with your head.

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Prose: A Random Memory


On this particular day, I was late to church for prayer or maybe I was early. I walked in and sat in a chair that faced the wall opposite from the one I entered. I noted the familiar faces. There were probably 5-10 other people already deep in prayer and meditation. I faced the wall, put my feet on top of the floor heater and slouched into a ball. I began talking to God about my day, trying really hard to emulate the way I would talk to a friend. I hadn’t really done this before. My prayers are, for the most part, very structured, reverent and formal. I had finally summed up my day and really wanted to tell God how nature had affected me that day. I wanted Him to know my gratitude, to express an awe for the majesty of creation in a manner that expressed familiarity and comfort versus separation and reverence. I kind of just started shaking my head slowly back and forth, ignorant to what was about to come out… and I spoke:

“I really love what You’ve done with the place.”

I couldn’t control the giggling until I noticed my madness affecting all the other silent conversations with God.

This, I feel, marked a very special transition in how I began to identify with the creator of the universe.

Essay: I’m no heroine, but I know a couple.


“Would to heaven,” said Eugenie de Menancourt, “that I could have such a happy and saving influence on your fate, Beatrice, as you have had on mine! But I am destined only to be a burden to you, and to rely on you for everything, without knowing or comprehending the past or the present as far as it regards to you – without understanding your means, your wishes, or your purposes.”

— One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henry Quatre, Volume 20 By George Payne Rainsford James, Laurie Magnus

Whether it is recognized or not, everyone has a hero. Hero is rarely the first word you might choose to describe that person who holds a redemptive quality for you – one who saves you from yourself and provides a sense of hope or inspiration. Since music has always played a huge role in my life, I always thought my hero was a musician. It wasn’t up until recently that I realized who my hero really was, and always was. The heroine of my life is my mother.

My mother’s story is one of hope, the struggles of losing and the triumphs of redeeming. My mother is a source of strength for all those who know her character and the story behind it.

When I was young, my mother was a symbol of quiet, inner strength for me. It’s not that she never cried, but she never wanted me to see it and in even her most broken of states, her sadness hardly even hindered her in all that she had to get done. She was a martyr for the family she so dearly loved; a family that often failed to express the appropriate gratitude. I’ll never be able to pay back my debts to her.

I was eight years old when my mother had a miscarriage. They had only just told me weeks before that I would be having a brother or sister. I remember my father, trying to make it a light-hearted thing. In hindsight, I can tell they had planned for that moment to tell me. My father said, “OK, family meeting. In the bathroom. Come on. Huddle in.” With mom and I giggling, we huddled in the small space of my bathroom that extended off of my room. I don’t remember what he said or how he explained it. I just remember that mom sat on the toilet while dad talked. When he was finished, she was crying. She left the bathroom. I stared vacantly at the floor, knowing I should have a stronger reaction based on hers, but I didn’t really understand what was going on. It was a little like being at Grandma Vaeth’s funeral, except I understood, even at six, that I would never see her again. I remember trying to cry about it, but “the rest of my life” seemed like an unfathomable concept to me. I figured they just didn’t understand that she was still there in a way, and if they could all just accept that, everyone would stop crying.
But the understanding I had at that funeral isn’t something I was given in that bathroom. I don’t remember what I asked my father, but I know I brought up God. I have a feeling I was questioning His existence. My father told me God was everywhere. I said, pointing into the shower, “Even in that bar of soap?” making a mockery of such an idea. “Yes, Nicole. Everywhere. He’s watching you all the time.”

My mother’s miscarriage was due to an eptopic pregnancy. We almost lost her that year. The thought that I could’ve lost my mom before I even knew her terrifies me.

When I was in eighth grade, I came home from school one day. Dad wasn’t there, but it wasn’t unusual. Sometimes he didn’t get home for an hour after I did. The telephone rang in the kitchen. I think I was on the computer at the time, even though I wasn’t supposed to be when no one was home. It was my dad. I don’t remember how tactfully he told me, but he informed me that my mother had a stroke and that they were at the hospital. He told me to walk the dog and then to go to Joanne’s, that either she would bring to the hospital or he would come get me.
I collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing so violently, it could’ve shook the earth to the core. The pain and the confusion, not fully understanding what exactly a stroke meant, if my mother would die or live plagued me. I called my boyfriend at the time and talked to him as I walked the dog. He didn’t know what to say to me. He was incapable of comforting me, but his pseudo presence at least stopped the sobbing.
I remember standing next to the hospital bed in the ER, for they hadn’t gotten her a room yet. I held my unconscious mother’s hand and couldn’t keep it together as she looked more fragile than I’ve ever seen her. I specifically remember the machine. If I talked to her, I can’t remember what I said. I just sat staring blankly at the machine, letting its noises wash over me with the assurance of her vitality for minutes, maybe hours.

Through my teenage years, my mother was a strong wall. She knew when to fight, when to pull back and when to draw near. I was a wretch 24/7. It wasn’t until I found God that I fully understood the value of my mother and all she’d done for me. It wasn’t until I started to love myself that I began to really appreciate the person my mother is. I’ve never known a single person who didn’t fall in love my mom almost immediately upon meeting her. She has the kindest heart, the warmest laugh and the most welcoming arms to cry into.

My fondest memories of my mother are on the worst days we ever had. Whether it was her bad day or mine, whenever things got hard and unmanageable, she’d curl up next to me in bed, hold me and rub my back or play with my hair as she sang these lyrics:

“Raindrops keep falling on my head,
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red,
Crying’s not for me,
‘Cause I’m never going to stop the rain by complaining.
Because I’m free, nothing’s worrying me.”

I think this photo says more about my mom than anything I could, but I tried.

Prose: The Age of False Advertising


Often when I see the sky, a really piercingly beautiful sky, I think to myself that such a scene belongs in a painting. I find this very telling about the human nature, or perhaps only my nature. When I see something too beautiful to describe, my mind can only process it as being fake or synthetic. A copy, even. Surely not the prototype. Reality is ugly, so anything I perceive to be beautiful is often mistaken to be a charade. It’s the cause for much of the failings of my faith. To think of a G-d so beautiful, so loving, so merciful and giving, to behold him in the framework of my mind even for a second brings me to the logical conclusion that He is not real, and loveliness on such a grand scale is not possible.

But the G-d who created the stars and the skies, every sunset and every natural landscape is a G-d whose beauty surpasses all of these things. I believe that.

Poetry: Separation


Separation

It gives me time to think
Forces me to stop
The horses look up from their stables
To watch me dead in my tracks

Dying from the inside,
Wandering on the outside
Skirts of God’s mind

Did I put these cuffs on my wrists?
Did you ever take them off of me?
Did I put them back on again?
Play it back, rewind it like a movie.

I don’t want to be the only star
I don’t want to be alone on the cast
I choose you as my director,
On the only gig that lasts

Pay me for my selfishness,
Pay me for my pride,
Give me blessings in place of honor,
Give me peace in what resides.

I’ve made a mess of things,
But you came to save, not judge,
I’ve never known a man
with such capacity in love.

I blame it on inertia
When I try to trust and fail
I know you wrote me lots of letters,
So every day, I wait for mail

Will you still love me above the highest ceilings?
And will you love me on my floor?
You said you’d never leave me
And I can’t take the separation anymore.

Poetry: How Long, My Lord?


How long did David cry before his tears became words and words became joy?
How long did Jesus pray before His fear became love and love became sacrifice?
How long was Jonah alone before hatredbecame obedience and obedience saved many?
How long did Moses hide before his guilt became acceptance and acceptance became blessing?
How long did God miss man before He sacrificed the best part of Himself for the worst part of us?

How long will I go wrong before God sets me right, again?