Infamy

 It rained in Uvalde Tuesday night,

a steady, hard rain all night long—

a cleansing rain to wash away our brokenness,

a steady refrain;

a funeral veil to cover the bodies

of nineteen little ones—

why so many?—

plucked at the bud and not the bloom;

a useful rain,

fitting symbol of a city on her knees in agony.

For a moment, the sky wept with us,

just like Jesus.

Dark clouds have replaced the rain,

growing ever ominous by the day.

Uvalde.  Synonymous now with Columbine—

Columbine, a rarity in those days,

a far-reaching tragedy.

For both, a trail of events were set in motion

that would take years to overcome:

Uvalde’s Trail of Tears,

her Pearl Harbor,

her cross to bear.

Infamy.

The Voice which Gives Me Life

For Vincent

Waiting,
I sit in silence as I listen
for the Voice which calls me forward.
Turning,
I move about my cramped quarters.
Hearing,
I note the soundings that engulf me--
thump-thump, swish-swish, glug-glug, shh-shh.
This is a noisy place.

Growing,
I bump into my outer limits,
a sanctuary fertile with its purpose.
Tasting,
I drink in abundant flavors.
Feeling,
I touch textures which envelop me; they
speak of warmth, security and meaning.
This is a sumptuous place.

Seeing,
I perceive the light and darkness, shapes
which filter through the membranes closed tight.
Knowing,
I am known by my true name.
Hiding,
I am not hidden from the One who
skillfully has wrought my inward, secret parts.
This is a shrouded place.

Stirring,
I hear the Voice which says it's time--
time for wonder, adoration, love.
Time for breath to make my own voice heard among the chorus,
to know as I am fully known,
and praise the Voice which calls me forth to life.
This is a glorious place.

Eagle's Wings

They that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength;

they shall mount up with wings as eagles...

-Isaiah 40:31

Distance reigned as I grew up.

Disorder closely followed.

At times Loneliness, a friend to both,

sidled up to sit beside me

and cradle me inside her arms,

poor girl.

Sleep stole away my hours then,

with laziness and lethargy her strong elixirs,

to mask the pain that hurt too much to feel.

Yet even then, He stood--

Lord over even these--

wings outstretched to cover me.

And then, through life's crescendo,

in a flash the cover vanished.

Panic struck as Mother struck another--

not with hands but force which crumpled both

the car and driver.

Questions hovered as expectations waned.

But live she did--not just days, but weeks

stretched into years,

years later,

docile,

with gentle spirit,

dead only to

Past's accusation.

But where was I?

Or, rather, where was He?
Silenced were the voices which, earlier, had called so loud,
replaced now with a deep, deep sorrow
too great for words.
Wordless, there He stood, wings still outstretched,
with tears held in His eyes, the
darkness pushed behind Him,
awaiting orders.
Shadowed by His hand almighty,
there I sat beneath Him
protected
from the storm,
full of grief and yet
still full
of strength
to carry on
and hope eternal.

Miscarriage

A growth forms inside me,
knit in secret and
as yet
yet to be.
It bulges my circumstance
with the hint of new life, an
intoxicating fragrance.
With each affirmation
the fullness enlarges,
anticipating the merge
of two halves into whole.
Surely it's coming
soon to arrive
with its bundle of joy
everlasting.

Delivery

Birth.

Like death, it is the fullness

of requisite labor pains

of sorrow and travail,

someone else’s constant toil

to bring us

in a moment

from where we are to where we yet will be—

on the one hand, joyously,

from the unseen to the seen;

on the other, tearfully,

from the seen into the sea

which spans the sands of time,

a great Cloud which stands over and above us

full of witnesses to choices made,

both good and evil.

This Someone watches over us,

to make sure all is well,

makes sure we make it

to our destination,

temporal or 

eternal.

Funny how the way we come is very near

the way we go—

through another’s constant vigil,

brooding,

working,

striving,

toiling

to bring us safe and sound

to our new home.

What Holds Me

Tiny kittens lay heads down upon my chest,
their virgin fur tucked gently 'tween my fingers.
Secure,
they launch their pleasure's test drive,
tentative yet strong and smooth.

Puppies jump into my lap,
their uncontrollable excitement spilling over,
and soak me through
with showers of their sloppy kisses
softly innocent and sweet.

Children bump into my arms
so plump and charming,
chubby fingers interlocking mine.
I watch them stumble over untrained feet
in wonder.


I've held so many things,
but never once what holds my gaze.
Each time any one of these creeps nearer,
so do you.
What if I stepped closer?

Awake

I'm dreaming.
I'm supposed to be asleep,
rocked like a baby
in the warmth of Your will,
and yet I lie awake
rebellious
in the ample bosom of desire.
I taste its nearness
as my eyes slip closed--
flitting open
to the emptiness beside me,
poor substitute for love's affection.

Unborn

The fifteenth.

I’d been looking forward to that day for months—

on that day a train

I would have ridden to Chicago.

And you, my dear,

would have slipped so ever softly

on your own tiny journey.

I’d been carrying you since I was born, expecting

that one day you’d come on time,

unharmed, and whole.

I never felt you coming—

but I knew you where you would be

when you arrived,

somewhere dark and hidden

safe within.

I was on my way to see your father—

or rather,

the one who would have been so,

had I let him.

I was nervous,

for I knew I carried you inside me.

I knew you sat there waiting,

captive in that locked-tight muscled wall.

I knew, too, I couldn’t really keep you

if I didn’t introduce you to him.

In two weeks’ time, you’d slip away

as quietly as you had come.

And if you left, my ache

to hold you in my arms would go unfilled.

You needed him to teach you

what you yourself should be—

the last component
to complex algorithm,

the final note in glorious symphony!

He would have loved to meet you,

to know the color of your eyes,

your skin, your hair,

to let your porc’lain hand curl ‘round his finger.

You would have been like me,

which would have pleased him.

You waited, but he never came.

I kept you from him, child.

Forgive me;

it just wasn’t time.

What if it's You?

What if it's You?

What if it's Your hand that ties up

my stomach in knots?

What if it's Your net that catches

my breath at the throat?

What if it's Your choice

leading my will to submission

like a lamb to its place

in the fold?

What if it's you?

What if it's your eyes

I'm supposed to gaze into?

What if its your arms

which are meant to caress?

What if its your well

that is meant to refresh me?

What if it's your guidance

I am meant to attend?

A Student of Letters

I stare at the letters

I still haven't said,

though Rome has unlocked

their exotic sounds.

My palate could test them,

swirl the mixture of flavors

around on my tongue.

I could finger their rhythms,

like sight-reading a solo

for clarinet.

On my own,

I could sound their phonetics

like a student in grade school

learning to read.

Teacher,

you still haven't taught me

your name.

My Surprise

You amaze me, did you know?

You tell me things no man has ever said—

save one, my dad.

He’s seen the worst of me and still he says,

“I’d marry you.”

And yet, that is one threshold

we have never crossed.

And I am grateful

because this means that I am free

to cross that line with you,

Querido.

You sneak up on me, love—

in the shower as the water trickles

past

and pools in puddles at my feet;

while awake at night, imagining;

as I drive along the freeways

of the city,

silence blaring from the radio.

It’s like a beating on the inside,

my organs all at once arrested

by the sweetness of your words

remembered.

Asombroso.

You’re like a treat too-oft enjoyed

which leaves a cavity,

empty

but for love’s enduring pain;

or like the tickling of my feet that’s felt

like Phantom’s fingers

somewhere along the hipline.

I can’t escape you.

Dulce.

You could be the next

uncovered Wonder of the World

the way you take my breath

away—

brilliant as the Lighthouse built

on Pharos,

majestic as the celebrated

victory of Rhodes,

influential as the Pyramids’ remembered

dynasty.

Poderoso.

Your faith astounds me.

In its infancy compared to mine and yet—

matured beyond what I have yet to do.

Many people on the other side had called me “missionary”

just because I wasn’t with them.

But you—

No one pats your back for bravery

and yet you go

selflessly to give that some might see,

like Peter, Paul, or John, the Savior’s

right-hand men.

Fiel.

Shipwrecked

Lord, what are you up to?

I want so much and yet

my desires float away like driftwood

on the currents in the endless sea of time.

I thought I could apply

to grad school this year

but I've missed November's deadline.

Why not chase my dream to where it beckons

from far along a distant shore?

"Korea's not the place to hang your hat,"

I heard You whisper

as I began preparing for my move.

If You were to extend the call, I'd go--

and yet the day

the festival of kimchi pride was held,

my own reaction

to familiar smells surprised me.

I found myself there thinking, "Oh, Korea!

If you e're need support, I will uphold thee,

but I do not now believe I'll e're be with you."

It is too beautiful a place, indeed,

for such a derelict like me to mar

its fair complexion.

Beth Moore addressed the issue yesterday,

referencing Paul's shipwreck found in Acts.

"Take courage, men," she said he said,

for I know fully from the Lord the vessel sinks

but your lives will this day be spared."

My ship's been wrecked!

What brought me here has been destroyed--

and now I watch You,

watch You watch me stay afloat

atop this restless

endless

sea of waiting,

waiting for Your lifeboat's rescue.

Arrested

You have the right to silence--

to contemplation in

inaudibility.

The right to seek attorney--

wisely to solicit Counsel's side.

The right to forego further questions--

to curb communication if in too deep.

These are the Miranda Rights

of those who are arrested

by Desire.

I hear the siren 'fore I

ever spy the lights--approaching,

it intensifies, its frequency a

steady rhythm.

My heart pounds louder

at the sound, the muscle seized

with urgency. Dare I

raise my head to witness as

my new life marches in?

The siren slows its whine to rest

behind me as

the officer steps forward. "Ma'am."

He doesn't have to say

what's coming next, the truth

that floats between us like

Hope's unborn

yet unabandoned child.

Desire swiftly turns me 'round

to grab my wrist

and place it firmly 'gainst

my lower spine. I wiggle free

in protest.

His fingers tighten once again

to wrestle 'gainst my will to

stay unconquered.

Anticipation hand-cuffs, sinking

teeth into my skin, and renders

motionless my arms.

My arms relax, enraptured,

unable to resist. It feels delicious.

Once taken in, Anticipation

so swift resigns her post, unbending

wrists so that A Dream recaptures

them for fingerprints. Examining

each tip with gentleness, he

quietly caresses each by each--

the touch exhilerating.

When finished, he escorts me to

Desire's cell, in order

to await Fulfillment's bond.

Adjustment

An array of books—

both read and reread,

unopened and unfinished—

stand erect between metal bookends

that were never sold in the garage sale.

Larger books, peers of the first,

rest wearily against a wooden slat

two perches down.

The august shelf,

what some in this library occupy again,

speaks its age

through chips in dulling whitewash,

yet another relic from the fundraiser.

Air surrounding the assemblage

smells of must and cat urine,

pungent witnesses to time's relentless passage.

Diagonally opposite the structure,

a pair of bunk beds guard the entrance to the room.

A purple blanket drapes the lower bunk,

its year-old wrinkles dismantling its elegance.

Above the color,

crinkly plastic stately covers tucked-in sheets,

protection from those clammy nighttime visitors.

Between the weathered denizens

squat two newcomers,

oocheguk stamped sluggishly across

their crumpled flanks—

keepers of some unfamiliar treasure.

Outcasts,

left defenseless in the family room’s dark corner,

here they sit rejoicing in the surety

that their mission

to transport their charge to safety

has been righteously accomplished.

Welcome home.

For Things I Know are Meaningless

In Scripture, Simon Peter said,

“Thou art the Christ,

Son of the Living God.”

And what was Your reply?

“Blessed are you, Simon,

for this flesh and blood did not reveal.”

Like Peter, I have been awakened

to the truth of who You are:

the Christ, Anointed One,

slain Lamb who now lives.

You make all things new.

You have made me new.

I am alive to God,

no longer slave to sin.

I know how You meant life to be—

poured out like a drink offering.

I know You desire to reconcile

through my hands and feet.

“Oh taste and see the Lord is good,”

the psalmist wrote.

I have tasted; I have seen.

Will I now seek to fill myself with another?

Will I turn my back on all You’ve shown me?

You have chosen me, Lord.

Will I now choose to reject that

for things I know are meaningless?

a prayer of confession

originally written spring 2005

Creation

So you couldn't swim with big fish, eh?
I know that I could not have,
either.
Thirty poems in as many days
seems strange
the more you contemplate it.

It takes a lot of work to birth
that many independent thoughts.
For that is what you do when you create:
bring to life new things
which as of yet have been
inanimate.

Creation is deliberate in its process.

Scripture says that "in
His image He created them."
So what is it from Father God
that we reflect?
Well,
what is it that God does but make things new
from all that once
was desolate?

And that, my weary friend,
is the only vision that for me informs
the poem.

ETDFK

I feel a sense of thoughtfulness

as I contemplate the end.

Not sadness, really,

not regret.

And surely not depression!

Reflection?

But neither

do I feel a sense of immanence.

The mystery surrounding ETD is that it's that:

estimated, undefined,

unsure.

I'll know the moment that I board the plane

which instance stands corrected

on the shore of time.

The one regret I have is that I haven't

been acquainted with the language

past

the indispensability

of market jargon.

Lion

To JDL. You will always be my twin.

When I was six years old,

I pretended just to be

a lion tamer.

And my twin brother, Jason,

was the lion.

We would go outside to play

in our backyard’s tall grass.

I would walk around,

swirling pathways in the blades.

And Jason would obediently follow,

crawling

on his hands and knees.

We didn’t like

when Grandpa’d mow the grass—

and cut away our secret hiding place.

We played Lion in our room

when that occurred

until

the grass grew long and green

and we could step into our luscious world

again.

Procésses

When you sit to start writing procésses,

you know that your father assesses

everything you will say--

be it March or in May--

But what will he think of the messes?

a silly little limerick written especially for my friend December's

St. Patrick's Day Limerick Contest

A Reflection

From sitting in the middle of a big pile of picture books.
From scrumptious mud pies and lopsided sandcastles
from my own private beach.
From carpet, windmill, and Johnson grass
and all the little creatures that hide there.
Helping the crepe myrtle trees shower their soft pink flowers
all over the ground.
I am from runaway pigs, playfully stubborn steers,
old blue jeans, dirty boots, and a purple baseball cap.
From John and Stephanie,
From teaching, ranching, and the great outdoors.
From hard work, good manners, and more chores.
I am from Lutherans and Baptists
The Lord's Prayer, books of the Bible, and the twenty-third Psalm.
I am from small-town living with an emphasis on family values.
I am from playing the piano with Grandma at my side
and curling up on Grandpa's lap when he sits in his big brown chair.
I am from a small corn patch and tall golden sunflowers.
From watching a beautiful sunset, listening to the cows graze,
and laughing as my little dog
jumps through the over-grown grass.
I am from those moments....
a leaf of my family tree.

written by my cousin, Amanda Lanier,
in winter 2005 when she was 9 years old