somebody turn the lights out // there's so much more to see in our darkest places.

they say that everyday is the start of something beautiful,
but it's hard to see the beauty in the gray area, the no-man's land
the uncertainty of whether your dad is going to live or die
and not knowing if I'm strong enough to tell oyu
"it's gonna be okay"
and hold it together if it's not.

I wonder if you saw how red my eyes were.
I tried to hide it, matter-of-factly,
but I had to let myself worry on the way over,
so I wouldn't once I saw you.
Does that make sense?
(I so desperately wanted to anchor you).

I don't know what I did that night.
I thought I'd distract, but I didn't, or watch you cry,
but I didn't,
or even just hold your hand (which I did, but not enough).
Maybe you just needed to lay, skin to skin,
feeling the contours of my arm
and holding on so tightly, you thought I might float away.

Building an altar is sacrifice, they say,
and choosing worship over panic
is a costly decision.
But I heard more notes of love and fear
in what you couldn't bring yourself to pray
than a thousand choirs' worth of singing.

When you stared at my in silence,
and then told me I was a blessing,
your gaze was so unlike you, I shivered.
This stranger-version of you,
in so much pain he is no longer himself,
made my heart ache with the weight of it all.

And in the dark, the monsters are in your own head,
now that we're adults
(they still exist, and are scarier than before
with no one to reassure you).

I'm glad you found hope in the light, strength, and song
and that you held me to make yourself feel better
because the world isn't so cruel as to end with me in your arms.
-12/14-08

eventful.

today was eventful in a lot of ways.

church this morning was interesting. I went to a women's bible study group beforehand because I didn't really have anywhere else to be (senior high and young adults [read: college] was taking a break, and so I went to jess's mom's group with jess and Mrs. Sanchez and Lisa. So that was really interesting for me; we talked a lot about children and basic problems that women have in dealing with kids, from being too disciplinarian to not enough, and allowing the father to take over for all the "hard" stuff, to being too "smothering" or wanting to fix their lives for them, and it was really interesting, mostly, from the perspective that every single one of these women loved their husbands, but definately found fault with them in a variety of ways. Each of them had a different thing that really wasn't working, but all of them wanted it to and tried really hard to work around it. Which I thought was awesome. It made me kind of sad to listen to some of the people (like mrs sanchez, "if Javier tried to grow a backbone, I'd break it! -laughs-) when they made their husbands out to be weak, because I don't think they are, or that that's what they're called to be.

One of the things I loved was when the woman leading it made this connection between Eve and Adam and how men and women are called to be in relationships, and that when God created us as male and female, our natural inclination (as women) is to be conniving and get our husbands to do what we want by wheedling them into it, and as men, our natural inclination is to sit back and take it and be pushed into different things because we don't really want to be bothered to do that on our own. But, the neat part, is that God's command to the fallen Adam and Eve was a role reversal of our comfort zones on both parts--women, to be subordinate to the will of the man as the final call, and men to be the prayerful leaders of the house, to have to make these kinds of choices as an equal partner with the wife but ALSO with God, and recognizing that if God hadn't commanded this to us, relationships as we know them wouldn't work and wouldn't be as full.

Neat, huh? I liked it.

So, Al (not my favourite preacher, but still good nevertheless) talked today about the anticipation and arrival of jesus (which have already happened) leading to adoration, which naturally leads into an attitude change. This also ties in well to what the leader of the women's group was saying to a woman who was talking about her husband (a new christian) and how he doesn't treat her son (his stepson) like an equal part, but more as a shadow of her ex-husband. And the woman leading the class turned to her and said, "honey, you know what? he's got jesus now, and following that lead is going to make things a whole lot better. You just have to give him time to grow in it!"

That reminds me of this idea of adoration leading to a change in attitude. Because it will, if we let it. Hebrews 2:14-17 (mostly 14, that's my favourite verse) talks about jesus's destruction of the fear that binds us; the fear of death. I know it seems silly, because I don't really think I'm very afraid of death, but then I look at all of the anti-aging products out there, the ways to keep your mind sharp, the treatments to bring you back from the edge of death into a shadow of what your life once was, and I realize that everyone's afraid of death.

The other big focus of al's talk was on the attitude switch being about selfishness, and changing our selfish attitudes (which are very me-first, egocentric) and taking time to be overcome by adoration. Being filled with a profound reverence for God, and being overcome by the emotions towards him. How freaking sweet is that? Our invitation, from God to his creation, is to be radically and emotionally changed, to be overcome, and to have such a shift in attitude that we're all out here for each other. Philippians 2:4-11 is a huge focus on this, that Christ came to model an others-centric attitude (he came to serve, not to be served. why don't we do that?).

We owe him our best. The shepards and the wise men gave it to him. They just didn't understand yet that he wasn't talking, por lo mayor, about material things. He's talking about our lives, our control, our decisions, the very essence of what makes us, us. And it's a really neat thing to let go of.

hallelujah

I think this is my first miracle. I hope it's not my last. He's alive, and getting better everyday. Hosanna.

from josh:

CIVITAS

I find that in stepping out of the city
I’m immediately forced to touch reality
I lost service and then found it
Lost in the arms of grace (in human form)

This place smells comfortable
It tastes like the saliva of a sweet declaration
It sounds like homemade food and feels like the stars
It looks like joy
I’m home

Through the car’s heat
Familiar Street shines red and green
With hints of yellow in between

And then it hits me,
I can’t live alone
Not now
Not ever

Thank God I won’t have to

Backyard lessons and frontseat drivers remind me
Love resides here

December 2008

my heart is breaking.

I didn't realize how much it hurt to watch someone you love go through this much pain. Josh's dad is missing. He has been since roughly 7am yesterday, and I'm really worried. God gave me the strength last night to be strong for him, and we spent the night holding each other and praying that it would be okay. God, I know there's still hope. I told him he doesn't get to give up on that yet, and he's right. Hope is the expectation of a coming good, and an anchor for our souls.

I know that, but I keep repeating it to myself anyway.

I know there is good coming. God, please let it be here soon.

I love you, Lord. And I know that Jim does too. Please hold his hand, wherever he is.

i never knew making him smile could mean this much to me.

I told a boy, once, that I wanted to go
to a college in England.
It freaked him out that I dream big
(it freaked me out that
he thought he loved me).
I still dream, but I don't think he loves me.

I told a boy once that we shouldn't
put a limit on things.
"Just let things happen," I said.
He told me I couldn't expect to understand him, at 16.
I still know more than he realizes, but
I understand why he shot that dream down.

I told a boy once that I wanted to be a missionary,
to doctor in South America
He told me to get real and stop dreaming God.
I still dream South America, but I never dreamt God.

I told a boy yesterday all of these things,
and that I'm falling in love.
He told me that they made sense, my dreams
and smiled
(which ties all good together).
-07/05/08

Two poems from the summer.

Route 17

I will always feel at home in appalachia.
Inexplicable, but the rolling green
(hills, at best, rather than the mountains they claim to be)
dotted with farms
pierce the blue of the sky in a way only barely-mountains can.

Inhale the sunny cold of Maine,
exhale the infinite mossy green of Pennsylvania.
(sometimes New York sneaks up on me
and my breath catches in my throat).

It's hard to drive on 17 in a straight line
when beauty catches your eyes and tries
to pull you off the road.
Rumble strip.
--07/06/08

REM
Sometimes I kiss your forehead while you're sleeping
and watch you shift a little,
wondering if I interrupted your dream.

Maybe your huge, steel airplane
just did a barrel roll
or your car turned into a boat
and sped off into the sea.

Maybe you just made a three pointer
(in a losing game, probably,
though I might be underestimating your basketball skill)
or sewed a man's heart into his chest
and watched it beat again.

I wonder if you watched your sister pitch a no hitter
or your brother hit a hole in one on 18 to win it all.

Or maybe I have no effect
on the content of your REM.
But why, then, do you smile when
you feel my lips on your face?
--07-06-08

good morning

In my dreams, now, I wake up like we used to.
New dawn light peering through seafoam blue
curtains,
bathing the room in a rich yellow green
like the crayola crayon always left, untouched, in the box
because there was never any use for such a shade.
I see the use now,
soft on your eyelashes, nose, bed-mussed hair.
From Target, I think, and they were on sale.

I usually wake before you, and play with
the day-or-two's worth of beard
making its presence known on your chin,
brushing off the morning sun from your cheeks.
My fingers linger in that warm spot
behind your ear.

I love that you keep your eyes closed to say good morning,
and how you smile, still mostly asleep, when I respond.
Sometimes you roll over and bury your nose
deep into the pillow, as if a bouquet of daisies
(the kind you picked for me once on the side of the highway)
and I wonder if you still smell them
if you close your eyes.
(I do).

I miss watching you act out the last few second of that dream
as a pirate, captain, or major league shortstop, about to
win the world series,
and the disuse in your voice when you force out a
one-syllable good morning.
("hi.")

But mostly I miss the half-light, stretching its legs and beating its chest
as it claims dominion over the shadows
on the contours of your face.
And how it never quite made it to that warm spot
behind your ear.
-12/02/2008