You cannot have a drivers license anymore.
I want to get a five-acre parcel—
I can’t just sit down and get inspired.
They can change on the fly,
It’s just more condensed.
His heart was already going another direction,
Texting me at 5am.
I slept all day yesterday.
I’ll come find you in your office after lunch.
I’m gonna have to get used to him first,
Which is really sad.
I’m good on the prose.
Blessed are You
Lord Jesus,
King of the Universe,
for sending Your disciples to preach—
even Judas—
before they grasped
what You were all about.
Blessed are You
for letting thousands of people
get hungry on a hillside,
for letting demons
run a fortune of bacon
over a cliff to drown,
for letting a woman use her hair
as a washcloth, on You.
Blessed are You
Lord Jesus,
King of the Universe,
for never being much of one to worry
about Your next meal
or Your fickle followers
or that you sounded crazy
or preached too long.
You saw the person in front of You
like they’d never been seen before
and didn’t worry about the rest.
It’s wet paint
It’s an artifact at the science and history museum
It’s frosted birthday cupcakes
A piece of candy on the floor
A dead mouse
A hot pan
Rows of glass on the dishware shelf at Target
Electric fence
Sand art
Don’t touch that!
It’s a fight about money
It’s a friend’s anger at God
It’s a memory that twists my stomach
A mother’s embarrassment
A father’s shame
A hospital bill
God as feminine
Donald Trump
LGBTQIA+
Don’t touch that!
It’s a papery hornet nest
It’s a snake sunning on a rock
It’s a spiderweb
A cup overflowing
A polished concert grand piano
A fragile seedling
Perfect place setting, with folded-napkin swan
“Emergency Call” button in the elevator
Picnic leftover, buzzing flies
Don’t touch that!
It’s weight gain
It’s addiction
It’s a black eye
A cousin in jail
A protruding (pregnant?) belly
A brother-in-law in rehab, again
Extramarital affair
Ex-girlfriend
Was grandma “saved” or did she die an atheist?
Don’t touch.
Breathe. And not just
during the contractions.
You must be well-oxygenated
to care for another human being.
Give up. And not just
once. Keep at it.
You must release your grasp
before your muscles cramp.
Laugh. And not just
when it’s funny.
You must include sadness and shock
and exhaustion in your mirth.
Tell the truth. And not just
to yourself.
You must tell the other moms,
and listen to their tellings.
Accept your new self. And not just
the nurturing and brave parts.
You must accept the anger,
the desperation, the invisibility.
And remember to breathe.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for this cardamom-orange latte,
moment of perfection
in a fretful day,
soothing my lips,
hospice for my tongue,
comfort in my throat.
Blessed are You
for the beans and the heat and the hands—
makers of this,
and for the joy You feel seeing me
sit and sip and sate,
and for the peace I ingest
seeing You seeing me.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Lover of the Universe,
for the zest of orange,
the comfort of cardamom,
the sensuality of taste,
the weightiness of being held,
always held
by You my Lover.
Even a candle has seasons,
A smooth-topped beginning,
Wick white and waxy.
First burst of flame,
First melted pool.
Midlife of a candle
Suggests service.
It is seasoned, available,
Each lighting a faithful burn.
The candle wanes.
It’s fiery moments are numbered.
Uneven wax shows age.
It’s weight is diminished.
Then, the last burn—
The light, the heat, the flicker.
Perhaps it pops and sputters
Until its pulse is gone.
It, too, has passed.
Every lighting was a beginning,
Every extinguishment an end,
Every burning a symbol—
Every thing has seasons.
Come, come, whoever you are.
-Rumi
Wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a hundred times.
Come, yet again, come, come.
“Come … wanderer,” God invites.
In what ways have I wandered?
The wilderness of parenting.
The jungle of marriage.
The labyrinth of religion.
Is wandering about being lost?
Or is it about looking for something new? Something about which I can’t say, “Oh, I knew that.”
Wandering leaves me wondering if I fit in, if I am still invited in.
You invite me in. “Come,” You say, “come wanderer.”
Yes, I am invited. Yes, I belong. Yes, there is a place for me, even—maybe especially—when I don’t fit in to the containers I used to fit in—the labeled Tupperware, the organized totes.
Now the pieces of me are less organized, but still You say, “Come,” and all of me comes even though I thought maybe the pieces were too scattered.
They are not. All of them respond to Your voice.
It is not my job to organize myself. Or to stop wandering. Everywhere I go, You meet me there.
If wandering has taught me anything, it is that You are everywhere.
“Come,” You say, and I am surprised to find You are standing right next to me. You are not calling from a great distance. “Come,” You say, “let us wander together. Show me something you’ve found here. And I’ll show you some things too.”
Wandering and loneliness are intertwined, and You and I, we are familiar with both.
“Come,” You say, and I know that You know this place, that You are no stranger to wilderness or jungle or labyrinth. These are Your kitchen, your garden, your cathedral.
“Come,” You say, and I know that I have always been home. For You are home to wanderers.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for hair—
a rainbow of textures,
a wisp or a thicket,
growing on heads
and peeking from armpits
and ears and noses.
Blessed are You for hair,
proof that You make stuff for fun—
red, brown, black, blonde, white,
ideal for play—
ponytail it, spike it, color it, braid it,
grow it, dreadlock it, cut it, gel it,
clip it, curl it, shave it, twirl it.
Blessed are You
for hair that needs care—
these strands on my head must be tended,
a combination of work and play,
same as the strands of my spirit,
woven for beauty,
made to be silly and serious,
often in need of untangling,
but beautiful in the wild,
salty-beach-air-jumbled moments.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe:
flame—do You warm cold bodies
or burn “wrong” people?
wind—do You play with our hair
or destroy our homes?
rock—do You stand firm beneath us
or avalanche upon us?
Blessed are You
beyond understanding
yet close as my skin,
a mystery, infinite, expanding,
yet fully present in the nose on my face.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe:
light, but creator of night,
the kind of wild that is safe for a child,
loving fire, burning desire,
bread and oil, seed and soil,
lawmaker and lawbreaker,
water-fountain of life.
I wonder about all this
(God isn’t supposed to be chaotic),
wonder if I should be worried,
until I remember we are holding hands,
fingers laced together,
and You don’t mind
if I close my eyes
for the scary parts.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for potential—
a door ajar,
a hint of what I can’t see.
What is there?
Blessed are You
for potential
to give and receive,
comfort and be comforted,
see and be seen—
relational miracles.
Blessed are You
for creative energy
to birth poems and essays,
make spring rolls and peanut sauce,
weave laughter through dinner and bedtime.
Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe, for this—
Potential means I don’t know.
Not knowing means I’m not in control.
Not controlling means I’m free to love.
And love makes even the impossible possible.
Potential.
Green fruit has potential to become ripe.
Ripe fruit is potent with flavor and satisfaction.
Empty things have potential to be filled with anything—even dust and spiders.
Full things contain possibilities for all kinds of creation.
Best of all, potential is NOT something I can DO.
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