“Glory be to Christ, the light of creation and of the preservation of all living things.”

—Epitaph 

I sit

on a

dead

person

and think

on Christ:

the light

of creation.

I lean back

on the headstone,

name unknown.

Today, he rose

from the grave.

Picture this:

limbs reach up

under me,

poke out

of the earth.

A body emerges,

pushes its weight

up from

the ground.

The stone tumbles.

A revolution

of dirt

sprays

upward,

mud-spit

and wind.

A strange Savior,

not afraid of filth

to preserve

us:

limp, barely

living

things.

I want so badly to be less than I am,

to be unnoticed, to be small, to be hollow.

A vessel, open:

ready for you to pour through,

gaping 

for your glory.

I want so badly to be less than I am,

and more than I can be.

Recently, while reading a novel, I came to that part in the book when all of the misunderstandings start arising. Up until then, it had been a very funny, but straightforward set of love stories. Most things were going in favor of all the major characters. Suddenly, there was a miscommunication. A prominent businessman who had collected a priceless (to him) small painting believed that a kind, jolly, heavy-set woman had stolen it from him. Since his brother seemed to be falling in love with this kind, jolly, heavy-set woman (with a history of shoplifting) this amounted to quite an inconvenient situation. While the reader, privy to all that is occurring, knows that the woman is not guilty, the reader cannot do anything about it. Instead, he or she must endure this agony of miscommunications, alternate explanations and misadventures that will lead the characters into a variety of unnecessary situations.

As a reader, I found myself a tad bit frustrated. I wanted to barge into the novel, bring the two people that needed to communicate with each other into the same room, and tell them to talk it out until the situation was resolved. No need for these mishaps, these messy misunderstandings, all this confusion. As soon as this little glitch was cleared up, the brother would be free to fall in love, the businessman could find his painting, and the woman would not have to endure the awkwardness of unfounded accusation.

Then I got to thinking. If all these things were immediately cleared up, would there really be a story? I mean, as long as the characters are missing each other, there are things left unknown, there is agony of the heart, there is still a reason to keep reading. Once the discrepancies are cleared up and everyone is free to have a happy ending, it does not exactly make for interesting reading. Did I really want to read about all of the characters ambling towards their happy endings, free from obstruction, exempt from all trial? The answer was inevitably “no.” What is the sense of a story in which struggle is absent, the ending is not hard-won? All sense of victory and satisfaction would be gone. It would be, simply put, a boring read.

I have sometimes heard the analogy of our lives to stories. Recently, when reading Francis Schaeffer’s Art and the Bible, I was struck by his statement that the greatest work of art that a Christian accomplishes is the life that he or she lives. How great would this work of art be, this great and elaborately woven story, if there was no strife or struggle? Being a “fixer,” I often want to jump to the quickest solution. I want to call the repairman, make the apology, send the email, and I want the situation to be resolved. Yet, when I step back from everything, I know that easy answers do not make good stories. Perhaps it is ok to live with a little bit of uncertainty, a little bit of heartbreak. Perhaps the moments of tension are those in which true character is revealed, personalities are tested, truth discovered, and convictions deepened. Perhaps it is friction which perfects us, trials that bring out the depths of who we are.

I composed this in my head today while running. There are trials in my life now that I desperately wish were resolved. There is tension in my heart, and hurt. However, as I look at the greater story, I catch a glimpse of beauty on the horizon. There is beauty even in the tragedy, for it is in the moments of tension that I find out what I am truly made of. These moments are when my story amplifies God’s glory the most. This gives me hope, opens my eyes to the greater reality. I look around me, and I give thanks. Are these yards not peppered with birds chirping and flittering? Is the sunshine not peering out and gracing my forehead with warmth? Is the world not full of wonder, after all?

“For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever!”

—2 Cor. 4:17

Have mercy on us

when grace comes screaming by,

the afternoon light

could cut your heart in half—

and we are too focused on the paint job to notice.

(A Christmas poem)

Out of a deep night—joy.

Such a strange story: nail prints and stars.

Baby born in a stable,

small ambassador of heaven.

He laughs—the sound of light.

Eyes that were full of comets, iridescent wings;

higher than heavenly beings.

He suffers; blood flows.

He hangs, breathes, dies.

Out of a deep night—joy.

He rises, becomes our hope—

Hallelujah! No longer in the grave.

Such a strange story:

woven in the fabric of our flesh.

Like Mary, we ponder in our hearts—

sway to this pattern of waiting, hoping.

We thirst. We long.

We open our eyes, unfurl into His greatness:

Out of a deep night—joy.

to Katty Cruz

1.

I glimpse

your land of litter.

Plains of trash

extend

beyond my eyes

in all directions.

 

Broken bottle glass

glints green and brown

in the misty heat.

Bags of rubble sit,

abandoned.

 

The brown ground

shifts to grey,

then to the faded blue

of a washed-out sky.

 

The land is a vast

dust rainbow,

wasteland

in shades of grey.

 

Makeshift shacks

of cardboard

have been tossed up,

fenced off on edges.

 

The spaces between the door and walls

gape wide—

blank eye slits that stare,

black and long.

 

Fire wells up, sporadic.

I do not roll down

my bus window,

afraid of the stench

of burning trash.

Your father is one of the men

with gas-masks,

an alien creature

on this grey planet.

 

He bends his back

to forage for scraps,

hoping to scrape up

four dollars.

2.

In the middle of rubble,

your school stands.

Escuela Christiana

de la Esperanza.

In front is a painted mural:

rainbow on faded blue.

 

Here children make art,

sell it to strangers.

Inside, card tables are littered

with color:

painted paper plates,

makeshift vases.

 

3.

Your painting

on cardboard

is cobalt blue:

all sky.

 

A leafless tree floats.

Six black birds make “m” s,

a yellow flower-sun

is suspended.

 

A tapered path

reaches into distance,

orange and maroon cubes

kiss each other’s corners.

 

It narrows at the top,

fades into infinity,

into the future,

into the blue-grey

of my eyes

or the skies

that you live under.

 

It reaches into the blue in your soul

hidden as in mine,

the blue that is hope

that this road

will lead to life.

On Revision of Punctuation

(In sympathy with my students)

The walls will become delicate,

even the trees will become glass.

You will walk fragile

in your snow globe world,

afraid to touch anything.

You will watch the old snow fall as words

from wise and knowing lips.

The stars will dissolve into chromatic dashes

like splatters in a Pollock painting.

People will mime themselves into boxes

built by elipses.

They will waver and shiver

inside their cages

of commas.