Seismic Shift

I want to experience a seismic shift
a kind of earthquake of the soul if you will
I want to feel the plates inside grind
as who I should be slides into
who I so often am

I want to watch the cracks form on the surface
and swell into ever widening gaps
wide enough to swallow who I was
I want a rift to form so deep so massive
between my mistakes, sins, my past
so that I can see us standing side by side
and at last will find rest.

I want to stand looking at the newly formed
landscape of myself, in absolute awe
of the beauty of your creation.
and the same way we marvel at mountainous
rock formations, I want to celebrate
what you have done.

Incarnate (a poem inspired by Colossians)

Incarnate
How can a human body hold all that is God?
Frail flesh and ribs wrapped around
the origin of life Himself
Did the chest cavity that held the lungs
that held the breath of God
not burst?
Did the weight of his Deity not
crumble his bones, sink his feet
deep into the earth,
buckle his joints?

A simple skeleton supporting,
simple skin encasing the soul
of the Savior
a simple heart,
pumping simple blood to the cells
of the Messiah.

This mystery, this Christ among us, with us,
in us,
this companion king somehow came,

His deity encoded DNA
not destroyed when infused with
His holiness;
His mother not killed
when the God-man
grew inside her womb;
A whole city not struck dead,
when God’s boy played outside.

How a human body housed the Christ,
How forgiveness cried
from human lungs,
how his body one day broke
not under the weight of his deity
but under that of humanity
so that we may know Him
who makes us like God.

Captain

When they first introduced me to the captain,
They told me he was dying.
They said it in such a matter of fact tone,
That I took it to be Truth.
And the captain, lying there,
his frail frame draped under a dingy, white sheet
made no effort to object to the bleakness
of this prognosis.
He didn’t blame us.

He has AIDS they said
He will not make it another month.
He hardly moved his head to say hello
And he never reached out his hand to shake mine

A gesture I would become so accustom to over the next two years
That I’d come to expect a hand shake to say hello
A handshake to agree mid-conversation
A handshake to say good-bye
I’d even begin awkwardly reaching out to shake hands
Of touch-less Americans as I headed out the front door.

But he never shook my hand during our first meeting.
I remember clearly now, how he lay there, unmoving,
His body too weak to bear the weight of his own arm.

And I remember watching those same arms
lifting boat motors and anchors out of the water
over the sides of a wooden sailboat
in a single- sided tug-of-war.

And as the waves slipped past us
And the sail swelled over us
they leaned and whispered
“He’s not strong enough.
He shouldn’t be captain, you know.”

And when I saw him walk slowly
Across the grass, his shoulders slightly hunched
Hat on, chin up, I always made sure to say
“Bonswa Captain.”
Good afternoon, Captain.

And three years later I saw,
in the background of a friend’s photo,
the same proud look on his face
the same now strong arm on the motor
sailing his boat full of strangers
who have no idea how honored
they should feel to have such a
strong Captain.

Toyota Tercel

It's one of the best gifts I've ever received. It came with cap-less hubs, a loose front fender, and a headlight that occasionally chooses to give an extended wink to all passing cars when it shuts off as we hit a pothole. But, this 1992 Toyota Tercel is honestly the possession I most often thank God for.

Now don't get me wrong, I spend a fair share of time grumbling about it. In the summer I whine about the lack of air conditioning, and in the winter I whine about scraping the ice off of the interior sides of the windshield and back window.

But overall, I get a warm feeling in my heart when I think about Little Red as my husband and I affectionately call her. She's got her fair share of faults like slow leaks in the radiator, gas tank, and tire. The paint on her hood is chipping. And as every mechanic has told me she's rusted through and through.

Somehow, amidst all her infirmities, she manages to keep running. She's endured the clumsiness of at least four first-time stick-shift drivers and her clutch is still hanging on. She's providing me with an independence and a freedom my husband and I wouldn't have without her.

She's allowed me to move to SC, to job search, to mentor, to meet friends. And through her frail rusted frame reminds me of her previous life, driving on salted Michigan roads. She reminds me of my sister who so generously gave her to me when I couldn't have afforded to buy a car for myself.

And I can't help but think maybe Little Red embodies more truth about us than I would see in a new car. (not that I am against new cars). She's not hiding anything under her hood. There is no shiny exterior. The rusted undercarriage carries a history of slow erosion a slow softening.

She's leaking almost all of her essentials--air, fuel, coolant--and needs to be constantly checked an maintained. She's not sheltered from the elements. They coat her outside and in, fill her up. And from time to time she needs to be scraped and wiped inside and out just so that I can see what's in front of her.

Some nights she has more light than others, always enough to keep driving but not always as much as I'd like. She won't quit, but she can't always hold it all together either.

She's not perfect but she sure is drive-able, valuable even. She's broken. She's a blessing

But

"Do not be self-sufficient but place your trust in God." Thomas a Kempis

I read it and the tiny conjunction jumps off the page and shakes me by the collar.

"I have buts of my own, you know," I think hard hoping that troubling trio hears the harshness of my mental tone.

But...

there it stands, unmoving,a fulcrum in this scale of a sentence

and I am unwillingly forced to see my self-protective disposition balanced against the alternative--trust in the Almighty.

But...it's not this heavy. It doesn't have to be unbalanced. I can be independent, self-sufficient. I can take care of myself.

And even as I say it, think it, I know the only truth in this line of thinking is that it draws me back to the center, back to the one word that both joins and separates.

But...

Ode to a Rodent

Almost every day of the year you can find one splattered on the side of the road, a mess of fur and flesh near the center line that you've narrowly avoided once again. He is not the kind of creature you look upon with awe and wonder. Can you believe I saw one?

Rather we pass by him casually as he stands at attention for a moment, his tiny head and twitching nose popping out just above the tall grass, before he turns and lumbers away, his furry backside bouncing with each step. We don't even notice his salute.

Some of us have even hunted his cousins. In fact I've heard stories of his kin killed with everything from shovels to shotguns. All this done in the name of population control or property protection.

I've never shed a tear over his blood shed in the street. I've never stopped to wonder at his majestic walk.

Yet one day a year, this dear rodent takes center stage. The weight of this year's weather resting on his tiny brown shoulders, he gives a glance that determines our destiny. Today, dear Phil, is your day of dignity.

His

I have been thinking a lot about adoption. About my sweet niece in India who will be with us as soon as the paperwork is done and every step has government approval. I've been overwhelmed to see how much I love her without even knowing her. How willing everyone is to do whatever it takes to bring her home.

I've been overwhelmed watching the preparations for her arrival. How her mom and dad moved to a new home for her and set up a bedroom. How they pay the fees for the paperwork and the agency from their meager savings without blinking an eye. What wouldn't you give to bring your child home?

I think about Nana and Papa setting up a room and buying toys so she'll have a place to stay and things to do when she comes over.

About her mom and dad studying her language and eating Indian foods.

About the book they made for her to introduce her to her family.

About the words in that book: "I will forever protect you." ~ Dad
"I will forever love you." ~ Mom

I think about their dreams of her before they knew her name and their dreams for her future before she knew their names.

I think about the way they love her not because of something she has done or hasn't done, but because of one single fact, that she is theirs. She is ours.

And I can't help but think of Galatians 4:6. And of a Dad who would pay whatever it cost and do whatever it took to bring his kids home. Of children who are valued and loved for the simple reason that they are HIS.

Of an incredible adoption that included more than new toys and a nice bedroom waiting for us. Of a Father who says, "I will forever protect you. I will forever love you."

And I think I am learning something new, something revolutionary. The kind of lesson that shakes loose tar in my heart and cleanses my system of earning, performing, controlling with a fresh flush of love.