Mighty pink-caped crusader
sunflower-power’d icon
flying on currents of love
Exemplar extraordinaire
a destined superhero
for your new baby sister
Superhero sister
love
Wish come true
For oh-so-long she wished her,
dreamed of being big sister…
meeting at last, she kissed her.
Reflections of gratitude: Spiritual journey
For my newborn granddaughter, Micah
What shall I tell you about the day you were born?
Your Grandpa and I were waiting in the carpool line to pick your big sister up from kindergarten when your dad texted: Micah is here! 9 lbs!
Gratitude flooded our hearts as photos flooded our phones.
We wept at sight of you. Your sister would say “happy cried.”
Looking at your beautiful rosy face, a thousand thoughts fluttered in my mind, like birds descending from the azure sky, landing one by one on soft, moss-covered branches…
I remembered it was supposed to storm that day, and it didn’t; the late October sun shone for all it was worth, illuminating the countryside with brilliant gold, orange, yellow, and scarlet.
I forgot the shadows, worries, and grind of daily life.
I remembered the story of my own birth, told over and over to me by my grandmother: She, Daddy, Granddaddy, and Grannie stood looking at me through the nursery window, Grandma “happy cried,” Daddy said I looked just like Granddaddy.
I forgot to be sad about not going to the hospital to see you on the day you were born due to limited visitors in COVID protocols.
I remembered that I’d be able to come the next day, and that it would suffice.
I forgot there was even a pandemic.
I remembered the joy of your father’s birth, the fierce motherlove which surged in my veins, which surges still, and exponentially now, for you.
I forgot about fearing my own inadequacies.
I remembered to wear Grandma’s locket.
I forgot, until your curious big sister opened it, that your father’s newborn picture was nestled inside.
I remembered the promises of God, that blessings fall on the generations of those who love Him, my precious, precious baby Micah, daughter and granddaughter of pastors: Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commandments (Deuteronomy 7:9, ESV).
I have never forgotten that.
Thankful for the infinite grace of God. Love you always, Micah. – Franna
********
with thanks to Denise Krebs for hosting November’s Spiritual Journey Thursday group, with a focus on gratitude.
and also to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge.
I am deeply grateful for you all.
Abecedarian poem
ABCs for Micah, on the day after your birth
Autumn-child: So lovely
being born amid crackled-leaf,
cider-steeped, cinnamon-spiked
days of
ever-bright,
flaming color, crisp and
glittering under first-frost grace.
Hallowed moments
infused with
joy while I dream of
kissing your fuzzy head, your
little newborn face.
My precious Micah,
never doubt your Franna’s fierce love,
opal-bright, like autumn fire,
perpetual, eternal,
quietly flickering,
radiant and
sacred,
throughout all our tomorrows together.
Upon your coming, beloved Baby Girl,
veritable heart of my heart, I wait in the wings
with hugs (ooooooo) and kisses
(xxxxxxx) all for you from
your Franna, so blessed with new-life
zest.
On fire and prayer
On the last Monday of October I drive to work in pre-dawn darkness as deep as midnight. Rounding bends on deserted backroads past unlit houses, gaping stubbled fields, hulking shapes of farm equipment, shadowed barns, patches of woods, when off in the distance, through silhouetted tree trunks—fire.
A bonfire. Tall flames, bright orange against the blackness, undulating skyward. Startling. So Halloween-esque. Hauntingly beautiful in its way except….I can’t tell what’s burning. Probably trash. The fire seems large for that, and before sunrise? I am too far away to see anything but the fire itself. I cannot see smoke or smell it. No screaming sirens. No alarms. Only silence, stillness…should I investigate to be sure? The road twists and turns, demanding my attention, and as I reach a tricky intersection where a few sets of headlights from opposite directions approach and pass, I realize: I’ve lost sight of the fire now. I am not sure of its location. Somewhere close by it’s burning, consuming, destroying, I hope nothing precious, nothing of value… and so I cross the intersection, praying it is controlled until extinguished.
On I drive in the darkness, shivering.
I think of anger.
*******
Fire, anger. The contrast of being controlled, purifying, and righteous, or uncontrolled to the point of destroying, intentionally or not, what is precious, valued, and loved. Thinking of that fire throughout the day yesterday—there were no reports of damage—reminded me of a poem I wrote last week:
Why I Pray
In the absence of peace,
I pray.
When my mind cannot fathom
or even form questions,
I pray.
When I am weary
of injustice, of sifting truth and lies,
when my inner well has run dry,
I pray.
I pray for power beyond my own.
To overcome the red-hot dagger of fury,
that I should not wield it,
thereby scarring others
and myself.
To knit words of healing instead,
one by one,
like snowflakes falling
to form a blanket of blessing,
a holy hush.
Freeing myself by forgiving
myself
as well as others,
feeling the weight drop away.
That quickening sense of awe,
for even if I cannot call
fire from Heaven (thankfully),
I can move mountains of ice
in my own heart.
Because, as long as I live,
I will battle need, loss, and fear,
trusting that love conquers all
—its beating wings in my heart,
forever my reason
to pray
again.
*******
with thanks to Andy Schoenborn for the “Embrace your why” prompt and the mentor poem written by a student, shared on Ethical ELA’s Open Write last week.
and to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge, always encouraging “a world of reflective writers”—so needed.
Photo: Burning fire at night. wuestenigel. CC BY 2.0
Here
a Spiritual Journey offering
in memory of my father
and in honor of Micah, my granddaughter
who will be born later this month
*******
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again…
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.–Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
October is here
and with it, memory:
it is the month
of my father’s birth.
I am here
because he was here
once upon a time.
October is here
and with it, wild geese
coming home.
My father loved them
like he loved planes
in the wild blue yonder
of his service years
when he was young.
At his funeral procession
a flock of wild geese
stood by in solemn ranks.
He chose to be buried here
so Air Force jets
would fly over his grave
every day.
October is here
with its fiery oranges, reds, golds
and heartrending blue.
Blazing colors that are here
for just a little while,
coming and going
before the long sleep
and eventual rewakening.
October is here
with its bright story
of permanence
cloaked in
the temporary darkness
of impermanence.
October is here
with its beckoning to
see, smell, taste, feel, know
life in all of its spice
and fullness,
never bound by a calendar,
a schedule, a checklist…
October is here
with its own organic order,
a natural reminder
of all our comings and goings
and of the taking of one’s place
in the family of things.
October is here.
You will soon be here,
firstborn child
of my firstborn child.
I, too, am
the firstborn child
of a firstborn child.
My father named me
for his mother.
Your father named you
for God
by whose infinite grace
I am here
to see your coming.
A downy-soft blanket and a whole lot of love are here awaiting you, little precious one.
Your name is one of ancient faith and praise: “Who is like God?”
*******
with much gratitude to Ramona Behnke, who inspired our monthly Spiritual Journey Thursday group to write around the word “here” with this quote from Emily P. Freeman’s podcast, Episode 188: You Are Here (And It Matters):
“What if you being all the way here actually mattered, with your cold feet and your stomachache and the light shining through the window. You with your stack of books, by the bedside table and hopeful feeling inside your heart. You with your deep grief, over a loss you thought you’d be over by now, standing in the kitchen while you microwave your coffee. For now, this is true. So what is true of you? And do you really believe God is with you no matter what? That you are not alone, that you don’t have to be you all by yourself? Here’s to being where you already are. Fully present with all that is true. And then here’s to doing your next right thing in love.”
*******
Decima poem debut
On the Ethical ELA Open Write for Educators today, Mo Daley invites poets to try the decima. Originating in Spain, the form is comprised of ten-line stanzas, eight syllables each, with the rhyme scheme ABBAACCDDC.
These poems typically go on for forty stanzas. I’ve managed only one!
Here’s my decima debut, as well as far more important debut…
First Poem for My Granddaughter, Micah (Whose Name Means “Who is Like God?”)
But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. —Matthew 6:33
Three things he said he’d never do:
marry, have a child, start preaching
like his dad, all the while reaching
out for what is solid and true.
God brought your mother. And now you,
Beloved One, coming this fall.
Blessing and fruition of all
my boy always longed for, despite
his fears. Now with tears of delight
he embraces his Father-call.
Franna loves you so much already, Baby Girl.
What’s in a name poem
I love the mid-monthly Ethical ELA Open Write for educators. The kickoff for July is hosted today by Mo Daley, who offers the invitation to explore your name, and who you are, through poetry.
I happened to write a post about my name in March: Frances. This morning I rework it here, with a few more layers of meaning…
Early morning
before the dawn
as first birds begin to sing
I light a candle
on my table
I sit
by its wavering halo
to write
about my name.
In the beginning
I didn’t even know
it was my name.
My kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Brown,
called the roll:
Frances?…Frances?
She finally narrowed her eyes at me:
Aren’t you Frances?
Sitting before her at a tiny table, I blinked:
No. I’m Fran.
An inauspicious start
to my academic career.
The first shaky foot
on the lifepath
of learning who I am.
I didn’t love it at first,
my name.
Early on
(sometime after kindergarten,
that is)
Daddy told me
it was after his mother,
Ruby Frances
Grandma
my consummate storyteller
avid letter-writer
daily diarist
devout reader
tireless defender-angel
Grandma
On the day you were born
I stood at the nursery window
and cried.
You looked
like a little angel.
Grandma
My life’s memories
begin in her arms
on her lap
being rocked
in time to the beating of her heart
and the cadence of her voice
singing
Jesus loves me, this I know
or reading reading reading
until I could recite
the rhyming stories
by heart, page by page
long before I went to school
Grandma
who read the entire Bible aloud
several times over
to Granddaddy
who could not read it
for himself
Grandma
who was named
after her beloved Papa,
Francis
a very religious man
who nevertheless hung himself
on a tree in the woods
in front of her childhood home
when she was just sixteen
—Grandma,
I asked, when I was around sixteen,
did you know
that the name Frances
means ‘free’
or ‘one who is from France?’
We talked about it in French class
today
—Does it? I didn’t know.
I loved taking French
—You took French? Really?
—Yes. Such a beautiful language
I didn’t tell her
we got to choose French names
for class
and I chose to be Renée
without realizing
that it means born again
or that the kids back in elementary school
could never get our name right:
Hi, France! they’d cheerfully greet me.
I’d grit my teeth:
It is Fran
or Frances.
Not ‘France’.
I am not
a country.
No one else in school
had my name.
It wasn’t cute or popular
since maybe 1886
not to mention
the spelling problem
such as on labels
from the pharmacy:
Francis
Does the world at large
not understand
or care
that the feminine spelling
is with an e?
I wanted to hurl
those little orange bottles
through the window
along with my problematic name
until the day I was teaching
a group of little Spanish-speaking girls
how to read English
and one of them grabbed my badge
to decode my name:
Fran
Very good! That’s really my nickname.
It’s short for Frances.
Ooooo, breathed my little student.
That sounds just like ‘princess’.
In all my years
I’d never thought of that
even though Princess Diana’s middle name
was Frances
and I have to laugh a little now
because Daddy always said
You ought to take Spanish instead of French,
it would be more useful.
He couldn’t have been more right, alas.
He usually was.
I wonder what he’d say now
if he knew my DNA tests
reveal a dollop of French ancestry
that he very likely
passed down…
and as I’ve been writing
the sun has risen
bright and ever-new
a red dragonfly
lands on the little statue of Saint Francis
by my front steps
never minding that I’m not Catholic
nesting birds find sanctuary here
on my porch
along with a host of small creatures
seeking a resting place
even the occasional stray cat in need
for whom I leave fresh water.
The candle’s wavering halo
is invisible now
in the sunlight spilling
through the windows
as I write about my name
this inheritance
I’ve come to treasure
at last
and it just so happens
that the candle’s fancy label says
chèvrefeuille
French for “honeysuckle”
the flower and scent
of happiness
of hardiness
of devotion
and everlasting bonds
like a legacy of love
and unseen angels
that are
always near.
Note on red dragonflies, mentioned also in my most recent post: I’ve seen them for the first time this summer. They’re stunning and in some cultures, considered a sign of the sacred.
Memory, like morning (on the day of a friend’s funeral)
with thanks to Denise Krebs who shared the hay(na)ku form on Ethical ELA today.
First draft:
On waking before dawn on the morning of a beloved friend’s funeral
Memory
Like morning
Shimmers with light
Gathering
For Christmas
Across the years
You
Playing Santa
Giver of gifts
Laughter
Colorful, bright
Exquisite as snow
Stories
Like wine
Better over time
Dinners
Savored moments
Ending too soon
Envisioning
Your eyes
Always Christmas-bright
Awe
At love
Given so freely
Embracing
Many others
Ever-widening circle
Gathering
Together today
In your memory
Celebrating
Your life
Colorful, bright, exquisite
Testimony
To faith
In Lord Jesus
Returning
your body
to your homeplace
Earth
Where our
Young selves walked
Gathering
For Christmas
Across the years
Now
In springtime
Oceans of flowers
Bloom
Like promises
Around your grave
Friend
No good-byes
Only more homecomings
Rising
From darkness
In heaven’s embrace
Memory
Like morning
Shimmers with light
Preparing
She comes into the house, suitcase in tow, little face aglow at spending a couple of nights while her parents keep doctor’s appointments. She hugs them good-bye and before they’re halfway down the sidewalk, she grabs my hand:
“Franna, want to play with me?”
Isn’t there only one answer to this question?
“Of course! What do you want to play?”
“Family.”
Ah.
We head to “her” room, where I keep books and blocks and bears and dolls and even a couple of old baby blankets for wrapping them. She’s always the mom. I am always the oldest child. I have to help her hold, feed, and potty-train the toys…er, my siblings.
“First I need to unpack,” she announces.
“Okay,” I say, as she unzips her suitcase, navy-blue with pink and white unicorns. “So, tomorrow we find out if you’re having a brother or sister! Isn’t it exciting?”
She nods: “I want a sister.”
“I know you do…but a brother would be nice, too” (because her parents and I think the baby is a boy).
She nods again, pulling a couple of stuffed animals out of her suitcase. She sets them on the bed. “Mama told me to be happy if it’s a boy.”
I am about to speak but just then, I notice something…
She’s brought Allioop, the raggedy orange cat that belonged to my son when he was little. She’s dressed him in Curious George’s T-shirt. He leans against the pillow beside a woolly bear sporting a pastel nightcap.
Allioop and the bear are wearing diapers.
“Did you put these diapers on your toys?”
“Yes. I’m practicing for the baby. Watch…” She shows me how to remove and replace the diapers with their little Velcro tabs.
Strikes me as one of the greatest acts of love I’ve seen.
Preparing.
Her parents FaceTimed to tell us that the new baby is, in fact, a girl.
My granddaughter, who’s five, bounced up and down with joy:
“My wish came true!”
She later told my son that she can’t wait to teach her sister the word “photosynthesis.”
Dear Baby, what a wealth of love surrounds you, already.
*******
–with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge.
lit bits and pieces 