Valentine

I got a card the other
day, from a woman I’ve 
always loved. I knew to 
wait for morning to open 
it. At night her words could 
flow to my feet and grind
their pace in the hallway. 
This time I waited then ran
to work, to think on other 
things, wishing my smile
weren’t thrown sideways 
by the air in the envelope. 

The card arrived from 
multiple planes and split 
into many translations. 
Linguists could debate 
the many few words
from a language known
only to three. I didn’t 
need a linguist. I read the 
note and knew the love, 
the unlove, and the 
twisted fight with 
anger.  The empty space 
where the words were 
born was bigger than
I could answer. 

Stolen Identity

Waiting for them to turn
off his phone, snatched
somewhere between 
here and 5th, we think,
as he walked past a 
thief, unknowing. That
phone’s a lifeline, a point 
or connection, a royal 
pain in the ass. 

Will he still be a person
without his access to
wi-fi and Google-maps,
to mark his place on
the pavement, in the 
spaces between 
destinations and the 
persons who hold his
identity in the ways 
they blink their eyes?

It’s blocked now, nothing
in or out, no words 
or numbers traveling
through the between, as
I write about it on my
own brain that I carry
outside my head. We’ll
see if we’re deleted in
the morning. 

 

Invisible Questions

I watch murder mysteries on
t.v.  There are so many to 
choose from. Some are even 
sweet, in their way. Many
require subtitles due to the 
accents. 

I save bugs from my class-
room, and here I am looking
at corpses. We all die, though. 
We’re all part of a storyline, full
of characters of sorts, picking
up mysteries here and there
as though they were chestnuts 
ready for baking or words to
a Christmas song. 

All our questions hide 
themselves in the sock 
drawer and make
themselves invisible in our 
daily lives, looking ordinary 
while whispering secrets just
out of reach of our ears. We 
like it that way. 

Mortality, our
insignificance, our importance,
diseases, hunger, poverty,
the sound of rain in the dining
room, all dress themselves in
everyday clothes so we pass
them by on the sidewalk, but
we watch the actors on t.v.
because we know we’re 
missing something. 

Together

Somehow being with someone
else makes it better, all the 
major and minor tragedies
of every day. She knew this 
was true as a human, because
even though her dad would’ve
been no good in a fight, she’d 
felt safer at night when he was
home. Anyone who’d intended
to kill them would’ve succeeded. 
No matter. Being alone is
worse. Unless it is better. 
Unless the other person is
the person breaking in, with a
knife, and a mouthful of 
slicing in it. Except for 
that. But mostly, a connection,
an exchanged smile, a kind
eye, someone who doesn’t mind
the idea of saving just about
anything from pain, makes
the world better and 
inexplicably safer, even when
nothing has changed. 

Seagull Tears

She didn’t cry when the
seagulls died, or seemed
to, their nest uprooted
with a handy plank and
discarded in a slick black
trash bag on the roof. 
She didn’t cry then. She
cried later, when she couldn’t 
find her keys, and when 
she sat with friends 
discussing completely
unrelated things, and 
when she went to check
her email. Grief is funny
like that. 

The birds were
okay. Watched over as
they had been they 
never knew someone
checked every morning
to see how they were,
named their babies,
worried over flying
lessons. They didn’t 
know how much they
were loved, messengers
of hope in a concrete
landscape. At first
she felt stupid for
grieving. Idiotic birds
making messes. Most
people don’t even like
seagulls. But then she
realized, the loving was
in the seeing, and most
people are blind. 

Belief

I find I’m coming to be an avant garde kind of Christian who may quite possibly be considered no Christian at all by people I do and don’t know. I persist, however, in believing in Jesus, so I myself am unable to fully separate myself from the term “Christian” even though I find some supposedly Christian views to be in direct opposition to the person I believe Jesus to be. 

I believe in God and I believe he is good. He made the universe out of an overabundance of love. I believe he made us and when he said we should have “dominion” over the natural world he meant we should serve it and care for it, or else the leadership style of Jesus means nothing. I believe Jesus is the son of God and provides a bridge between ourselves and father God, but I also believe that anyone who is truly seeking for God in love and truth will be able to spend eternity with him, no matter their faith background. No one can serve darkness with a pure heart, so I believe there are people serving the triune God who may not even know they’re doing so. Hell is only a place where people can go if they choose not to be with God. He will not force himself on anyone, so the only people who go to hell are the people who decide to do so. 

I adamantly refuse to believe that God allows suffering so our characters will improve. He does sometimes end up improving our characters when we’re in the midst of suffering, but that’s because he specializes in making good come from bad things. It’s not because he planned for disaster to happen for our spiritual “benefit”. Birth defects are not the equivalent of an ethics and moral compass lesson. They’re tragedies, as are the rest of the diseases, wars, social injustices and the rampant destruction of the natural world. 

I don’t know why he sometimes answers prayer and sometimes doesn’t. He’s a deity. I suppose it’s his prerogative. I do have to admit, however, that his seemingly unpredictable nature leaves me feeling insecure, even while I admit that in the balance between my knowledge and God’s, he will certainly win.  This is why I still think he is good. My understanding  is practically inconsequential when determining the character of someone who happens to be infinite. As such, he did create a stunningly gorgeous and bizarre stage on which our little human dramas play out, and for this I am grateful. I do believe we mucked up his original intentions for the place, although he must’ve known we’d do it. He made us anyway, which means he’s a hell of a lot more sure of his plans than I am. 

And by the way, I don’t see how the fact that something is divinely inspired (in this case, the Bible) means that it’s perfect. Artists and poets and musicians are divinely inspired all the time, and it doesn’t mean there aren’t any errors in the work. In addition, we have over a dozen versions of the Bible and each of them focuses on different things. We’d need to know Hebrew to have even a shot at a correct-type interpretation. The stories recorded were placed in a particular time and culture. How do we manage to take these stories and mold them into messages that promote discrimination, homophobia, mysogeny, and other acts that are not initiated by love, when Jesus was himself the embodiment of love?  He never became infuriated by anyone but the religious leaders of the day. I believe that if we’re really going to follow God, pride, self-importance, greed and cruelty must be abandoned. Pride is a big one, which I believe the church as a whole has tripped over for millennia. We can become so certain of our own views and correctness that we forget the main point of the whole story I think the Bible is ultimately trying to tell. Jesus himself gave us the most important rules to follow, which are to love God and each other. And what does God require but justice, mercy and humility (rough translation)?  These are my cornerstones.  

I freely admit to being scared of God, which emotion I’m supposedly supposed to both feel and not feel, having both the fear of God and having been perfected by love which casts out fear. God is love, but fearing him is the beginning of wisdom. I know there are different translations of fear in this context which makes me refer back to my earlier statement about needing to study the Bible in Hebrew.  Figuring out who God is feels like trying to package the Milky Way so it will fit in my kitchen cupboard. He’s enormous and mysterious and loving and inscrutable and odd. If you don’t think he’s odd, take a look at those fish that live in the dark and are made of teeth, except for one glowing lure right in the front. Weird. So I guess the fact that I can’t figure him out is actually quite reasonable. 

I must admit, I like the idea of knowing him as a person, which some have interpreted to be possible. I also have to admit I feel very much like the main character in that old animated film called “Antz”.  The main character is talking to his therapist and saying something like, “I just feel so desperate to do something important with my life but I can’t escape the feeling that I’m insignificant.”

“This is wonderful!” the therapist replies. “You’ve made a breakthrough!”

“I have?” replied the ant. 

“Yes! The therapist continues, throwing open the window curtains to reveal the outside world.  “You ARE insignificant!” he says. 

Perhaps someday God will respond to this desire of mine to know him in what appears to me now to be a ludicrously personal way. If so, he will have affirmed his weirdness and a crazy streak of affection for minuscule things. I, however, cannot make this happen. No amount of studying supposed facts about his character is going to substitute for him stepping into my life in a perceptible way and saying something like, “Hey. What’s up?  What’s going on in your heart and mind?  Why don’t we go get some fair trade, organic tea in a compostable mug at a family-owned shop (because I don’t support child labor or slavery or racial inequity or wanton destruction of people or natural environments)?  I think I’d like that. 

Shock

Sometimes there
is a hair trigger
split running right through
a moment when all was
fine and breezy, 
the kind
of time when a luxurious
complaint about
someone else’s driving, or
bird shit on the car, seems
reasonable.

Then an unexpected
rift occurs,
and the earth becomes
flat like a
tree that’s been
beaten into
paper, or
a heart that
has lost its
beating.