Outgrown

Ethan unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on my mood, has learned to dress himself. If we find ourselves for any length of time at home, he favors his old school style Spiderman pjs, disregarding entirely regular clothes. Which is fine, when we have time to fire up the TV and watch some circa 1960's Spiderman cartoons, when, in the opening cerdits, they advertise proudly that their cartoon is now in COLOR. And Ethan usually puts his shoes on the wrong feet, which is all very cute until you realize the lady behind you in the grocery line is staring in dismay at your child's feet ,and you, the mother, have allowed him to walk around in duck-like disarray for a matter of hours.

I do try to keep Ethan in clothes that fit, but over the summer, he has really has grown, and I haven't had time to clean out his closet. So, I get him ready for pre-school in some pants that I just bought, perfect in length, and as I am applying my mascara, thinking all is well, and that I would be getting him to school on time, he traipses into the bathroom, sporting only his Lightnening McQueen underwear and an old pair of jeans that appear to now be capris in length and too small for him to button around his middle.

"Mommy, button these. Button them, please." He stretches them at the edges, and hopes beyond hope that the button and the snap will actually meet. He stands there looking like he is ready to wade a creek, as we say in Kentucky, but there is no creek, just Ethan pleading with me to make something fit that clearly won't anymore, and me, fuming in my impatience that he doesn't understand that his pants have been outgrown.

I can be honest and say that life to me is like an all too small pair of pants. I have been so dismayed, even to the point of utter sadness, that my life doesn't fit anymore. I also imagine that God is in his bathroom trying to get Himself presentable for the heavenly host with me begging Him to make my old ways fit again. He looks at me and says,"I have provided you with a new pair of pants. Just put them on, for crying out loud."

The problem is, I am still sucking in my stomach, laying back on the bed, gripping the zipper in a pair of pliers in hopes that I can zip it all up. And even if I can do that, I will still be a picture of misery walking around in a pair of pants I have been poured into.

But, sweet Lord, I want to wear those pants for some reason.

I need guidance and reassurance that I will look better in some other kind of life, one crafted by my Maker, instead of the misfit one I am currently sporting. I don't care if it is even a Spiderman costume, complete with fabricated fiberfill six pack abs (which, by the way, is what Ethan wil be wearing this Halloween; society miscreants beware). I just hope to find the courage to go shopping with God and hope He knows what looks good on me.

God Behind the Door

"I love what God has made. It is awesome." --Emma Allman

I am beginning to understand. Life does not provide you a blanket of happiness. There is no perfect wool blend of good feelings that God knits together with huge, gilded knitting needles. I think we all, as tiny brained mortal humans, believe this is what should be given to us. A woolly blanket of utter joy in which we can cuddle up day in and day out.

I am in full realization that perhaps this is not the way of things. I am often trapped in the shell of my existence, almost fainting at the thought that life is life. Just that. A chain of days bound together by breath and bone, of cups of coffee, and e-mail, of strangers passed in the grocery store, or in cars on the highway. It's a long line of days that we won't remember. We live them, but yet, the content of them is lost about as soon as we fall asleep.

I am beginning to understand that life is about dots. Random dots, like the flashes during a picture, that stop the continuum of days and make us remember. And often, flashes come in the form of children. In my case, children at Vacation Bible School. And in particular, in a story about Peter.

Now, each evening at Vacation Bible School, there is a Bible lesson. And each night, the room in which the children hear the story is quite the theatrical display. One evening, my group of second graders stealthily moved about the church, steering clear of "Roman Soldiers", looking for a small private room in which to gather as professed Christians (this secure area, in Vacation Bible School times, was the church prop room).

The little ones gathered in the small room, with a cross lit by a "fire" (it was only a Halloween prop, no fire involved, but dramatic nonetheless). It illuminated a cross (the brass one, from our sanctuary, but again, very dramatic). They awaited Peter.

For back story, the leader of our church's praise band had agreed to play the role of Peter. My oldest nephew, who was my VBS helper, noticed right away that that "Peter" was dressed in a garment that very much resembled a plush blue Snuggie. My nephew inquired, "Hey, is that a snuggie?"

To which Peter replied, "Yes, it is. A Biblical snuggie."

Later that evening, as Peter entered his secret room filled with second graders, dressed in a Biblical snuggie, perhaps he didn't realize that it would make me hear God through the door.

I stood outside the secret room, listening to Peter tell the children how he denied Jesus three times. Denied ever knowing of Jesus. Through the door, I heard little children sounds. Some giggles, some gasps, some muddled little children conversations. Peter reprimanding the children for getting too close to the "fire".

Denying Jesus. Interesting. Denying the good of him, the gifts, out of fear, or apathy, or anger, or sadness that we are not bundled in a blanket of perpetual comfort. Have I been a culprit? Turning my back on the gifts, so selflessly given?

The Bible point of the day was, "God loves you no matter what." No matter what. No matter if you turn your back.

After Peter left, when it was time to gather back in the sanctuary, a little girl, who had rewarded me daily with little back rubs and hand massages, pulled me down to her level, and whispered, "That man looked like he was wearing a dress." She smiled in the secrecy of her shared thoughts. I squeezed her hand a little.

"They wore things like that back then," I whisper back. The now infamous Biblical snuggie.

So flashes. Through wooden doors. Things you remember. Light that illuminates moments. Moments that perforate the chain of days.

And a God that always calls you home. No matter what.

God in the Closet

God,

I am in the closet again.

I think this is the best place to find you. In the dark. Perhaps you won't notice my flaws. I turn off the lights in hopes you don't notice them. Because in the light of day, they are all I see.

The thing is. I am lost. Hopelessly lost. Not lost like the little guy in a Dr. Seuss book, because that little guy eventually found his way. Yes, he did indeed. 98 and ¾ percent success guaranteed.

But, I am lost. I am lost in a way that books or maps or old fashioned ingenuity will not be of benefit. I am lost in a way that is black in its murkiest form. It's lost in a way that has no definition but lost.

I am outwardly fairly put together. I have always done what is expected, moved through the course of this life in a way that society examines and approves. I have had many people say, "You make this look easy."

But if they could only see me in this closet.

Surely, God, this is not what you imagined for me. This drudgery of day in and day out. I cannot fathom that my God would fashion any of for this for His beloved. His inheritance. Did you know most people don't think about this at all? That the drudgery is enough. I am on an island, it seems, longing for something more, something on which I can't place a black and white label. I know this longing only as a physical, palpable pain that I pack up and take with me everyday, like an item in my lunch bag. It is a portable pain, like a hard, bitter apple. It's the thing I never eat, but always bring along.

God, I am not asking for you to change anything. I am not asking for a way out. It's just You and me in the closet, fumbling about among disheveled pairs of khakis, and I want to be as honest as possible in this stripped down place. This space of absence. Although, now, I think I have accidentally placed my foot in the dirty laundry basket.

God, I am hurting. Hurting in a way that no one sees. And that is OK, for them, but not for You. You have always known me, right? Before I was ever conceived, right? You had a plan for me, didn't You?

Didn't You?

I am not in a position to question the Creator of the Universe. You wield the galaxies like swords and drop stars through the sky just to see children marvel. I get that. I imagine You opening your arms and embracing the expanse of space, like taking up a loving child. But, God, I am just a piece of dust, not even that, on the fabric of the universe, but I am hoping You will see me, and just pick me up on the tip of Your holy finger, and squint at me, and think: this one. This tiny bit of one, needs Me.

Again, I am not asking for my life to change, or for you to drop a big, glowing red arrow into my living room to point me in the right direction. Actually, I would LOVE a big red arrow, but that might be a little impractical. All I want right now is Your comfort.

Here, in the dark, I would like Your comfort. Enter this place and envelop me in Your capable arms. My Father, I need your comfort; take the bitter apple from my lunch bag and replace it with Your peace.

My children are banging on the closet door. They are inquiring, "Mom, are you in there AGAIN?" I do find myself in here a lot. But, God, I need you a lot. Consider my request? I would much rather pack a big slice of Your love in my lunchbox any day and ditch the apples.

Your forever faithful servant,
me

Melting Shadows

The paintings on the wall of the Clay Center are small but powerful. I have come to them in a deepened and worried frame of mind. I call to Emma to wait, look at the picture, what does it say to you, which one is your favorite? Emma is consumed in the thin presence of Now, and doesn't know what answers I want. She merely tugs at her friend's sleeve, and then embraces her, which would be so awkward if she were grown and her friend was grown. I think to myself, we don't greet each other like that, as adults. I am cut off from the others, keeping Emma in my sight, because I am so unlike them. The good moms. The moms that bake cookies and put bows in their daughters' hair. Emma tucks her hair behind a protruding ear, and I almost audibly gasp at her naivety. Someday she will know she is different. She doesn't see it now, but someday she will exist there on the fringes where the population is spread out like the sheen of butter on a piece of bread. But now, she points to a painting of dots, dots of different colors and sizes. Whose borders, though, are perfectly curved in never ending lines. No paint bleeds outside the dots and their definity. The dots line up like soldiers readying for battle, in perfect formation. There is no room for me, a mom whose imperfection leaves prints in the wooden gallery floor. My dot would be oval, or shaped like an amoeba, blue paint spilling from its irregular shape. One painting is called "Melting Shadows", a modern looking thing of a painting, and I think of black-gray streaks on a unclean window. Emma is ready to go.

dissolving descending
in rivulets on the
dirty side of the window
I have forgotten the sun
where do these thin
streams of obscurity
originate out of the
bleak underbelly of the
gray sky I pull back
the rock of the day
dormant for too long
and reveal a tender
place that has no air
to heal light has
shriveled like the skin
of a hand held in water
too long the outside is
melting a candle that
cannot hold its shape
and loses itself over
a silver candelabra
I have become fluid the
tension of the surface
formed by gravity and
the laws of physics which
appears as the only things
that make sense

Eve of the Recital

she dances with grass stains on her tights
and demands that I twist her hair at the
nape of her neck into a tornado fastened
with brown bobby pins I watch her wave
her arms like weeping willow branches as
her bit of bangs falls to the corner of her
hazel eyes so unlike anyone and her
shirt brandishes peace signs as she
arabesques at her teacher’s command
slow movements like she is under water
I gaze at her stopping time to be in
awe of this fleck of a girl straight hair
ribs protruding under her clothes she bends
to tuck a loose ballet slipper lace away
and returns to first position so delicate
her fingers meet an invisible barrier but
carry the weight in a figurative basket of
air and grace so serious is she her pink
tutu bounces as she travels to center on
the toes of her tatty slippers they
must do until recital and I wonder what
flowers to bring to her that day as she
exits at curtain one I believe her favorites
are pink carnations as long as the wrapping is
pretty she completes her dance christened
Tiny Cakes and she is grave in the last turn
clock wise and on toes she proceeds
off stage I gather my things in my mind flowers
an offering to the performer I seek her in the
dancer’s dressing room filled with mottled colors
of tulle and tiny girls just learning to twirl

Small Things

It may seem strange how we used to wait for letters to arrive;
But what's stranger still is how something so small can keep you alive.
-- Arcade Fire


it is the small things a pearl of a thing
tucked into a memory folded over in a
crease of time I see them embedded
in the haze of a star a million light years
away they are weary these travelers
these little things a breath inaudible
a wind on the back of my neck what
tiny things I tighten my fingers around
them my knuckles turn white trying
to cleave to them this ant of a thing
that breaks at a touch melting in the
heat of my palm I open up the flesh
of my hand to divulge a splintering
of my life line such a miniature
of a thing dancing in the white specks
descending in the liquid of a souvenir
store snow globe what a diminishing of
things falling away into a crevasse of
remembrance where I hide when I need to
subsist I make ends meet on these things
I know are you

An End

I have taken up my nightly running habit again. The first night, I believe it was by the grace of God I ran without fail for an hour. I needed it. I needed the feeling I got from it. I felt Him around me. I felt Him pressing down on me, not oppressively, but to bind me up in a tight comfort. I have felt a drying up in me for awhile. I felt a jolt of something, running, that this wasn't the end, but a beginning. When I woke up in the morning, my legs were a mess of sore discomfort. To go down the stairs was a bit of a trial. But it was good, the reminders of an awakening.

I listen to lots of different music when I run. I detest songs with cellophane lyrics; my husband will tell me how he likes a song, and I will say, "But what is it about?" Anyway, some certain lines in songs call to me, and something blossoms from them. Sometimes it something happy, sometimes it is strange and lonesome, but it is definite parts of something that comes from a source that isn't all dried up after all.

"This can't be the bitter end." - Silversun Pickups

the end it marks
the last of the
movie reel when the
stiff film noisily flicks
about the projector
rousing drunkards from
a thin sleep and young
loves from touching anxious
fingers in moments of pulsing
light it is the end a dark
mark of punctuation that
a forlorn student strikes
away with an eraser drowned
in saliva it is a concentration
a close of an era a mark
on the wall of time
staccato a caveman drawing
a rough human figure and then
becoming extinct this end
this termination a pink slip in
the pocket of a listless
man this conclusion of
events the children file
off stage at the end of
their pageant and mothers
crane their necks to see
their children in the
spotlight just one more time
when youth drains away and leaves
a brittle shell of skin overlaying
bone a taut drum that
beats beats beats
as the sun descends into
the mouth of a bleeding horizon
is it the end a pulling up of events
into a tiny place
a dot on the slide
of a microscope something
to marvel at an oddity that
only exists frozen on a
pane of glass