On Election Day in a Foreign Land

The new king makes pretty speeches:

He crowns himself with gold.

My King comes in frankincense,

His bloody death foretold:

In thorny crown and naked flesh,

Himself my treasury.

The new one offers years of wealth 

and false prosperity.

But my King says, "Here, take this Bread --

I'll break Myself for thee."

The new, in pomp and circumstance,

establishes his throne.

But my King, carrying all my shame,

conquered death alone.

When He had put to death my sins,

the ones that conquered me,

His living, breathing righteousness

resurrected me.

Because I am a Woman

I am not supposed to love the smell
of orange cleaner on my floors
if I mopped them myself.
It is beneath me,
because I am a woman,
and domesticity enslaves me.
If my husband mops the floors,
or a legal alien in an apron mops my floors,
and I pay her/it/him for it,
I am allowed to enjoy it.

If I plan a meal and buy the food,
and prepare it,
and set it on the table
the ideal thing to do,
if I am a real woman,
is to resent the effort spent.
Because I am a woman,
and feeding people is beneath me.

I am not supposed to like sitting down to nurse a baby,
because the breasts that baby needs
and the womb it came out of
are the symbols of my servitude,
of my lesser pay.
Because I am a woman,
and nursing a baby is beneath me.
Paying someone to give it a bottle empowers me.
If the baby needs me,
it makes me smaller
than if no one needs me,
because I do a job that any man could do.

I was not supposed to like it
when a man wanted to make a home for me,
and asked me if he could keep me forever,
and buy me dresses,
and would I raise his children for him?
He wouldn't have asked if I was a man,
and that should anger me.
I should only like it if he offers to use me and throw me away,
because I am a woman,
and marriage fetters me.

I am not supposed to walk around barefoot,
because bare feet show my poverty.
I am supposed to wear high-heeled shoes,
so he can't sit down and take my feet in his hands
and rub the soreness out of them,
because I am a woman,
and my happiness is dependent on shoes and a power suit
and money.

I ought to feel guilty
when a butterfly in my stomach takes flight
as I pin clothes on a line
and a breeze blows on them.
Bad woman.

I should be embarrassed that I planned to cook for them,
instead of getting a job
and using my paycheck to buy them some frozen chemicals.
Or telling them to get a job and buy their own chemicals.
It's medieval for me to do it.

For All The Grace I Have Not Tasted Yet

My sister and I were praying together today,
and as she prayed, she was thanking the Lord for hard things:
for awkward times, and heartaches.
She thanked Him because those hurts impart compassion.
They limit judgment, and increase care.
I was already thinking about sharing this poem I read this morning,
but her prayer tied in with the part of this poem that most spoke to me.
Maybe it will also speak to you:

My heart is resting, O my God,
I will give thanks and sing;
My heart is at the secret source 
Of every precious thing.
Now the frail vessel Thou hast made 
No hand but Thine shall fill;
For the waters of the earth have failed,
And I am thirsty still.

I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise;
I seek the treasure of Thy love,
And close at hand it lies.
And a new song is in my mouth
To long-loved music set:
"Glory to Thee for all the grace
I have not tasted yet;

"Glory to Thee for strength withheld,
For want and weakness known;
And the fear that sends me to Thy breast
For what is most my own."
I have a heritage of joy
That yet I must not see;
But the hand that bled to make it mine
Is keeping it for me.

My heart is resting, O my God,
My heart is in Thy care;
I hear the voice of joy and health
Resounding everywhere.
"Thou art my portion," saith my soul,
Ten thousand voices say,
And the music of their glad Amen
Will never die away.
~Anne Laetitia Waring

For the grace I have not tasted;
for strength withheld;
for intimate acquaintance with want, and with weakness;
and for fears that drive me to You:
Thank You.
Wow.
Yeah.

Before I was afflicted I went astray: but now I keep Thy word.
Thou art good, and doest good; teach me Thy statutes.
I know, O LORD, that Thy judgments are right, 
and that Thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me.
Let, I pray Thee, Thy merciful kindness be for my comfort, 
according to Thy word to Thy servant. 
Let Thy tender mercies come to me, that I may live... 
~ From Psalm 119:67-77

A Good Day To Breathe

I looked down my street
and saw boiling slate clouds behind the steeple.
Normally the steeple looks gray,
but it looked white against that backdrop.
The other direction was bright with piled gleaming white clouds.
Toward the darkness again,
three seagulls small in their distance,
riding in advance of the lightning that flashed behind them,
and the thunder that rumbled toward us.
My wind chimes played crazily when the wind picked up.
Cool air coming.
A greening sky.
We ate our dinner almost silent.
"I like the ones that snap," Talia said.
"I like the growling ones, too, though," I said.
Soft at first, the rain poured down.
Jeff and I went out on the porch and sat down on the loveseat.
One by one, the kids followed.
Three climbed onto us with their bony wiggles.
That scent -- that God-cleaned air full of cold moisture.
I leaned back and looked up at the changing light in the sky,
and the flashes,
and the storm drain across the street with the spouting insurge.
It's a good day to breathe.

What Do I Know of Holy?

What do I know of holy?

Of Unapproachable Light?

I, who lived in the darkness;

I, who was born in the night.

What do I know of Dayspring?

Of Sacrifice-for-a-cause?

I, who give love in tenths;

I, the breaker of Laws.

You, the Lover of ugly;

You, who sanctify ground;

You, Creator from nothing:

In You, my holy is found.

From the Journal

O my Father, O my Savior!
O my precious Friend and Lord!
You are holy, You are gentle,
and You save me by Your word.
Lift me up when I am fallen,
steady me -- my foot might slip.
Can I trust You're here beside me,
holding faster than my grip?
You alone are worth the trials --
You are prize enough for me.
You are Light in all this darkness;
touch my eyes so I can see.
When the suffering here is over,
when the losses cease at last,
I'll look up to see Your smile,
safe at home -- my hope held fast.
All the sorrows, all the losses,
every grief that e'er touched me
will have no power, no reminder,
to dull our joy in one degree.

A Divine Romance

I was reading this amazing poem in the category of marriage,
and it blew me away.
Surely its author was referring to our Jesus.
I loved that it so beautifully described the interchange of love.

"...Nor time, nor place, nor chance, nor death can bow
My least desires unto the least remove;
He's firmly mine by oath, I his by vow;
He's mine by faith, and I am his by love;
He's mine by water, I am his by wine;
Thus I my Best-Beloved's am, thus he is mine.

He is my altar, I his holy place;
I am his guest, and he my living food;
I'm his by penitence, he mine by grace;
I'm his by purchase, he is mine by blood;
He's my supporting elm, and I his vine:
Thus I my Best-Beloved's am, thus he is mine.

He gives me wealth, I give him all my vows;
I give him songs, he gives me length of days;
With wreaths of grace he crowns my conquering brows;
And I his temples with a crown of praise,
Which he accepts as an everlasting sign,
That I my Best-Beloved's am; that he is mine."
~Francis Quarles (1592-1644)

I've been reading through Nehemiah with my children lately.
I read chapter 12 in a children's Bible -- I'm not even sure what version.
But its simple language really caused the thanksgiving and praise
that His people put out to stand out.
I started thinking about the place thanksgiving and praise ought to have
in our relationship with Him.

I like how this poem pictures Him crowning me with grace,
and me crowning Him with praise.
Let's praise Him more.
Let's not leave His love unrequited.
He is our altar.
We are His holy place.
Let's be all His.

Anxious Prayer

I choke my prayer out,
gag my fear,
and catch my breath for you.
I force myself to
take a step
and brave-faced, walk in hope.
But in my heart I
choke and gag,
and I still hold my breath.

Syllables

NO!
Barren?
Without hope?
I'll have no child?
Not son or daughter?
No grandchildren either?
I cannot bear it.
What shall we do?
No laughter?
Despair.
Dead.

But-
What if...
What if God-
Maybe He would-
Have pity on us,
And give us our desire:
Laughter, sleepless nights and smiles,
Money woes and worries,
Adrenaline flush,
Hand-me-down clothes,
Hospitals,
Fevers:
Bliss