Here is a memory
I shall keep for you
all of my days:
when we ask
Where is your turkey?
you pat the colorful creature
adorning your shirt
while attempting to say
gobble gobble
and when our family
gathers round the table
to pray
amid the reverent cadence
of your Grampa’s words
I hear you say
nen
nen
nen
—I shall keep it for you,
this memory:
Thanksgiving gold
your one-year-old
baby voice
blessing us all
Amen
we are still here
despite our scars and stripes
every day another opportunity
to help and to heal
each other
Happy Birthday to the Baby Boy
a gogyoshi
You have been in the world
for twenty-five years
exactly 9131 days
and I am grateful
for every single one
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.
Psalm 90:12
For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him.
Therefore I have lent him to the Lord. As long as he lives, he is lent to the Lord.
1 Samuel 1:27-28
Freedom is
a curious thing
trailing feathers
of eagles’ wings
mightier than
any earthly king
who may forget
she stands to bring
from her holy nature
a healing wellspring
to human hearts
if only they cling
to wisdom, to peace
—of these, let us sing
in a state of unity
let Freedom ring.
*******
I photographed the Statue of Freedom in March 2018. She stands in the Capitol Visitor Center’s Emancipation Hall. This plaster version was the model for the bronze one atop the Capitol dome. Like a mythological warrior queen, she wears a helmet, bearing stars and the head of an eagle. While the eagle’s power and fierce majesty have led governments, empires, and regimes throughout history to adopt it as a symbol, it’s those long eagle feathers that captivate me. To Native Americans, they represent sacredness and healing. Think on that symbolism awhile.
As an American on this Independence Day, freedom to heal, not harm, is my 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
God grant us
Amelioration
Mitigation
Expiation
Reconciliation
Illumination
Civilization
Amen.
The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these. – Matthew 19:14
For Spiritual Journey Thursday. A double etheree.
Now
I wake,
now I rise,
wiping the sleep
from my sleepy eyes.
Time to eat, time to pray.
Thank you, Lord, for this new day
to live, to learn, to love, to play.
In Your kingdom, where I have a place,
remember Your little child saying grace.
Remember all Your children, needing grace
when we’ve forgotten to seek Your face.
Draw us back to that holy place
in a child’s believing heart.
O Lord, in the morning
cast us not away—
help us, we pray—
You are great,
You are
good.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation… Psalm 51: 10-12
Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my meditation. Hearken unto the voice of my cry, my King, and my God: for unto thee will I pray. My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up.
-Psalm 5:1-3
*******
For more Spiritual Journey offerings, visit Reflections on the Teche – with gratitude to Margaret Simon for hosting.
Today, a golden shovel poem: taking a line from another poem or work and crafting a new poem with the last word of each line comprising the original.
Mine is taken from a verse of Scripture in honor of its promises, spring, and the healers across the world on the front lines of the COVID-19 crisis.
Prayer for the Nations
In newness the
tender leaves
of promise, of
restoration, of the
dogwood tree
uniformly were
donning white robes for
their works of mercy, the
bringers of healing,
bringers of comfort, of
life, as ministers of the
prayer for the nations.
*******
Revelation 22:2: “The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
In addition to its Christian symbolism, the dogwood represents strength and durability; it is able to endure adverse conditions.
Photo: Sunlight and dogwoods. Duane Tate. CC BY
Last July, my husband suffered a heart attack and cardiac arrest. After thirty minutes of CPR, shocks with defibrillator paddles, an emergency stent (four telescoped stents, to be exact), induced hypothermia to minimize damage to his brain, and a week in the hospital, he came home. He was readmitted a few weeks later with chest pains—another heart attack. We spent two more weeks at the hospital for a “wash” of blood thinners and subsequent bypass surgery.
It was a long, bleak period. Time seemed to stop. We did not know what each day would bring, or how altered life would be.
Throughout this time, cards and calls kept pouring in. Not just from our church, where my husband is pastor, but from churches all across the area. We are praying, everyone said. We will keep praying.
One night, when my husband was home at last, recovering, a friend came by with a special gift: “The Women on Mission at my church made this for you. We prayed for you out loud the whole time we worked on it.”
A blanket of many colors. Big, warm, laced with love, with faith.
My husband healed, wrapped in this prayer blanket.
Life slowly returned to normal.
I share it now with you, Friends, in this bleak period when time seems to stop, when life is unexpectedly altered.
You, too, are wrapped in a blanket of prayer.
lit bits and pieces 