Monday, December 8, 2014

Lines from the Months of this Last Year: March

1 (2).
Love is kind.

We walked arm in arm. It might have been beautiful. We weren't paying attention to the brittle lights over the Atlantic Ocean. Stars didn't matter. Only clean cold oxygen and our elbows pressed close and the earnest rap of our voices.

5. Ash Wednesday
Tarrying, tarrying. I'm the one tarrying.
We went back and forth all night on the ferrying. And I ate your apple, and you ate my pear, in hopes that Saint Nicolas soon would be there.
It's so absurd, Jesus, how far away the wedding feels already. You know. Hoody Magoody, I don't know. I don't know how to feel about this because for so long I've been eating the crumbs from under his table. I'm under the wrong table, huh? Ashes to ashes. Jesus.

"You are so kind, and I will remember this night for years to come." (Karen Peris, Minta's Waltz).
Lord, I feel so loved. Help me keep loving, seeing. Being real. Thank You for all the things You are weaving together, these moments of hope and bliss. Bless us and give us Yourself to eat.

Help me to be meek, Jesus. How often I think "Hate! I hate hate hate this!" Driving, or feeling penned in or patronized or controlled. I need Your wisdom, discretion, meekness and obedience and pure heart.
Because I want to see You. 

Lord, I need You desperately. I mostly wrote that because it rhymed with what came before. But I want to actually mean it, because it IS TRUE. Blah. Haha!
Keep doing more than I can imagine. Make me transparent. Touch me, pull me out of my cave. Teach me songs in my sleep. Show me what to do with these arms.
Teach me patience. Give me true love. Happy Birthday.

So many sweet conveniences. Saint Francis. YOU YOU YOU YOU. Glorying in YOU. Glorify Your Name in me, my only Jesus.

With You, You wild thang, nothing is impossible.
How can I know You, Holy Terror?
Why do You love me?
Show me You love me. Again and again.



These words are such fun but I feel guilty using them. Especially the first two. Is it misusing You?
I'm an iconoclast. Not. Yet...

17 (18).
Late Saint Paddy's.
Jesus, thank You for so many things today. Toast and eggs and working out. Feeding juncoes and finches from my hand.
Thank You that when I knocked my solvent over, the lid was screwed on. Thank You for cards. For the peeler. For the 2 books. Mom insisted on wrapping them. She reused paper from the bridal shower gift. And the best part: she gave me a sweet little card in a tiny pink envelope, and she didn't write anything in it at all, so that I could reuse it.

Send out my songs to sound at least a little like You.
Help me disappear.
Help me with everything. To choose to trust. To choose contentment.
I give You forever. Tonight.
Tomorrow. Take me Jesus.

Her call came while I was unzipping my jeans. I saw the number on the caller ID, but didn't recognize it, and heard Mom pick up. I didn't take my pants off, waited, figuring it must be for me, this late.
Mom knocked softly on my closed door a moment later. I answered, and heard the flatness of her reply.
Lord, how. How do we begin to fathom how close You are in this, when we can only be numb.

I watched "The Royal Tenenbaums" earlier today. It is not a good movie. I did not like it. But I'm not so sure.
In its perversity it circled around and made occasional dips into truth, and raw raw beauty. Tender human beauty. Needy ugly sexy gaudy twisted childlike beauty. Triumphant beauty. Like a Flannery O'Connor, just without Jesus.

God, how will You meet us after all, all this is taken away?
What is real comfort?
Blueberry muffins. Silence.
Remembering six months from now.
Lord God, remember us. Your will be done.
Glorify Your Name.

Display Your power, like in Ezekiel 25. That we may know You are the LORD.
Your power. Your Love. The two things I know about You,
My Jesus.

Help me be a good friend. And a better lover to You.
I'm so focused on myself, so often. How am I portraying You? What does my life,
what do my priorities, say about You?
Help me fearlessly praise Your Name.

Jesus, thank You for today's small victories.

Praise and support are so helpful and so...unhelpful. Help me not be self conscious. But since this IS also a gift to others, help me not be selfish or private out of mock modesty. Just please make it what You will. Bigger than me. In spite of myself.


5. Reference to Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Recuerdo"

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