When We Speak

I wrote this hymn as a response to the sermon from a couple weeks ago which focused on a reading from James 3.

Tune: The Sacred Harp, see The Lutheran Service Book 848

Lord, our tongues are quick to evil
Lord, our words we use to harm
Lord, our thoughts are full of poison
And we spread them without care
We cut down our friends and neighbors
With no thought of how they'll feel
Our communion suffers greatly
When we don't use words to heal.

We forget our words have power
Sharper than the weapon's edge
We are careless when we use them
Between friends we drive a wedge
Lord, our comments hurt you also
With one tongue we curse and bless
It cannot serve different masters
Keep it tame to serve the best

Tales from the Waiting Room II

The computer consumes my attention and I do not look up for a few minutes, forgetting that the biggest part of my job is to greet people with a smile before burying them in a mountain of paperwork they must conquer before seeing the doctor. I hear a small rustle and look up. His wrinkles multiply as the corners of his mouth turn up. I apologize and frantically click at the computer, trying to find the right screen. I begin the dance; the man and his wife know their steps well. I ask; they answer. “Yes, we live there. That’s our number.” Ah, we can end early; their insurance cards have already been added to the computer. The man still reaches for his wallet, either deaf (I assume he did not hear my cue to skip a step) or unwilling to deviate from the well-known choreography. All right I can do the whole routine. I stomp on the feet of my impatience.

It is not his insurance cards that appear from the creases of his faded brown billfold. A picture, edges worn, emerges from the leather pocket. The church backdrop gives more insight into the color of the smiling girl’s dress than the ink’s sepia hue. Her eyes match those of the woman before me. “That picture was taken 60 year ago.” His face radiates the same happiness and love as the younger version’s captured on the paper, but his voice adds an edge of pride that can’t be caught by film. “Happy Anniversary.” I add a line to my usual song as I hand them their paperwork. He gently returns his memory to his pocket and takes his wife’s hand. “I should write this moment down” flits through my mind before the computer claims my attention once more.

Tales from the Waiting Room I

He saunters down the hall

White fabric clings to his muscular frame

Ink sprawls across his exposed arms

I hope he doesn’t trip over his shorts…

She rides in her chair

Encased in a rosy cocoon

Her memories etched across her face

She hopes the doctor’s news is good

He pauses

She stops

He skirts her chair

And tucks her blanket closer round her body

The Next Several Weeks

Dear Readers,

I have recently been cast in a local stage production. Because of the extra time I will need to devote to the play, I will be posting only on Fridays for the next several weeks.

Thanks,

Hanna 

Invisible Man I and II

Invisible Man: Original Version

Quiet, invisible man waits

Dark, silent night creeps

Large, old clock chimes.

Quiet, invisible man stands.

Big, wooden door creaks.

Night air is warm.

Invisible, quiet man walks.

Black, square payphone sits.

Invisible, quiet man stops.

Bright, little key turns.

Shiny, silver coins clang.

Brown, cloth bags bulges.

Brown bag is heavy.

Strong, invisible man grunts.

Quiet, invisible man runs.

Big, wooden door opens.

Brown, cloth bag drops

Soft, warm bed groans.

Quiet, invisible man sleeps.

Looking back, I am thankful my teacher didn’t take off points because I used several of the adjectives more than once. And recounting now after 10 years, I’ve noticed I only wrote 19 lines. Whoops… 

I edited it a bit.

Invisible Man: The Thesaurus Edition

Quiet, invisible man waits.

Dark, long night creeps.

Large, old clock chimes.

Silent, unseen man stands.

Big, wooden door creaks.

Night air is warm.

Imperceptible, soundless man walks.

Black, square payphone sits.

Indiscernible, inaudible man stops.

Bright, little key turns.

Shiny, silver coins clang.

Brown, cloth bags bulges.

Canvas bag is heavy.

Strong, unobservable man grunts.

Stealthy, covert man runs.

Large, carved door opens.

Brown, cloth bag drops.

Soft, warm bed groans.

Exhausted working man sleeps.

Hot, yellow ball rises.

Freshman English

Once upon a time I was in English IA. My teacher was under the impression that my classmates and I were interested in becoming better writers. To help us in that endeavor, he assigned “weekly writings,” a short, creative writing assignment that was due at the end of each week. These weren’t free-for-all assignments; he would give us a topic and occasionally other parameters for our work.

One week (far enough into the year that he was aware that I was smart, and that I knew I was smart, but that I was not smart enough to know when to keep my smartness to myself) our class was discussing payphones. Mr K’s* gave us this assignment for the week: Explain how money is emptied from payphones when no one ever sees anyone emptying them. We were learning about adjectives that day so there was an addendum: we had to use at least 40 adjectives, but we could only use 2 adjectives per sentence. “What is the minimum number of words you can use?”

I raced the numbers through my head and my hand shot up almost before his question finished. “Yes, Miss Hartman?” He was not surprised.

“Eighty.”

Delight illuminated his face. “No,” the emphatic reply shot out of his mouth before he had a chance to think. I sat forward, looked at him, my brow furrowed, and thought back over my answer. Surely my math and grammar were correct. 40 adjectives at 2 adjectives per sentence would mean 20 sentences. Each of those sentences would need a verb and a noun. 20 sentences at 4 words per sentence equals 80 words.

Mr. K stared into the air in front of him, contemplating his response. “Wait a minute,” he pressed his finger to his lips as he thought. He looked back at me. “You’re right.” His crestfallen face displayed his disappointment in my correctness.

I leaned back and relaxed. Challenge accepted.

Tune in Friday to read the resulting product!

*Initial changed

Untitled War Story I

I wrote this story based on one of the few stories my grandfather would tell about WWII. He was in Germany at the very end of the war, so I tried to add a bit of German. It comes straight from Google Translate so I can't vouch for its accuracy (and would go so far as to say, it's probably wrong). If you actually know German, and what I have written sounds stupid, please feel free to correct it.

Untitled War Story I

They approached the farm house from the west and knocked on the door. John shielded his eyes from the rays of sunlight piercing into his eyes and inhaled as they waited. The odor that had tickled their noses on the walk up the mountain had grown stronger. “What is that smell?” he wandered to himself.

A moment later the door opened. “Ja?” a short, stout woman answered. Her faded red shirt and patched skirt were dappled with dust, broadcasting they had caught her during morning chores. Pieces of gray-brown escaped from the yellow cloth which encased the bulk of her hair. Her eyes darted between the men suspiciously. She held a broom tightly in her hand, and John fought the urge to step back out of its reach.  

“Um, ehem,” the translator fumbled for words, “Grüße Fräuline, wir sind mit der U.S. Army. Wir müssen ihrem haus nach waffen zu suchen.”

The woman looked consternated. John’s confidence in the translator began to waiver. The translator repeated himself. Finally with narrowed eyes, she snipped, “Ja, aber nicht mit a käse durcheinander.”

The translator cocked an eyebrow. John stifled his annoyance, “What did she say?” The translator turned and said, “She says not to disturb her cheese, sir.”

“What?”

“She says…”

“Yes, yes, I heard what she said. What does she mean?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

John faced the woman, who still blocked the doorway, but spoke to his translator. “Tell her we need to come in now.” The translator spoke; the woman continued to stare, unmoving. John was unsure if she had understood the translator until finally, the woman acquiesced and shuffled out of the doorway.

John stepped inside and halted. He felt a thud and was thrust forward slightly as his men ran into each other behind him. He had never seen such a sight. He now knew the origin of the strange smell and the meaning behind the woman’s enigmatic statement.

Cheese. It was everywhere. White cakes buried chairs and Limberger bricks created barriers around the bed. Only a small corner of the table remained free from the dairy imprisoning the rest of the surface. John glanced up and saw the rafters decorated with blocks of cheese.

“Uh, sir?” an incredulous voice come from behind John, “what do you want us to do?”

John swallowed his emotions, not taking the time to determine if it was laughter or tears he was suppressing. “Search for weapons,” he kept his voice as level as he could.

“Yes, sir. How, sir?”

“Move the cheese.”

“All of it, sir?”

“Yes. The whole house.”

John saw the man’s jaw clench as he struggled to keep his composure. The mounds of cheese were a daunting sight and would at least triple the amount of time they must spend at the house.

The woman stood in the corner and scrutinized the men as they moved to the fortress on the adjacent side. They hefted the first wheels of cheese.

“Nein, nein, nein!” The woman began yelling.  

They stopped moving, confused by her sudden torrent of refusal. “She did say not to disturb her cheese” the translator proffered an explanation for her behavior.

“Well, we have to move the cheese. We’ve got to search the house.” John was terse. “She can move it herself if she wants, but we’re staying until the search is done.”

The translator relayed the message to the woman. Her face contorted with anger, fear, and annoyance. John was grateful looks don’t kill because he and his men would have been dead three times over. Finally the parade of emotions on the woman’s face ended with a look of grim resignation, and she grudgingly said, “Feine, können sie helfen.”

“She says we can help,” the translator reported.

“Good,” John replied, “let’s get started. I don’t want to be here all night.”

They began dismantling the walls of cheese. The woman riveted her eyes on them, making certain they did not damage any of her goods. The day grew hotter as they moved around the house, carefully lifting each slab, checking every nook and cranny for weapons. After they examined each crevice of the dwelling, they restacked the hunks, rebuilding the edible fort that guarded the woman’s possessions. 

Orange, fuchsia and purple streaked across the sky as they walked back down the mountain.

The smell of her house still clinging to their clothes, John wondered if he would ever be able to face another piece of cheese and hoped the laundry woman could make his uniform smell normal again. 

What I do when work is slow

I.

Golden specks aloft

Float on the air, in the light

A beautiful dance

II.

A rainbow slithers

Side to side, blue tail shimmers

On four legs it goes

III.

I push the button

White sheet come one by one

It jams. Annoying

By the Sea

I amble down to the edge of the water. My long sleeved shirt is just enough to keep away the cold from the air that blow loose hairs around my face. My companion races ahead of me. His hungry yips brake the stillness, and I pause as the black fluff comes back to nip my ankles. “I don’t have food for you,” my voice an unwelcome disturbance against the lapping waves. We reach the lake, and he plops down, ignoring the broken food dispenser. My eyes sweep over the rippling mirror. Small waves rush up the sand and slide back to the sea. The stars begin to hide. Orange and pink start to streak the purple-blue sky. A yellow arch peeks over a hill. My thoughts dance through the pages of the Bible. These waters were not always so placid.

Storms overcome those who follow Christ’s voice and step onto the water. I sank in the fear that washed over me when human strength was weak and faith began to waiver. A wall of icy water crashed against my head with a surgery gone awry. A fatal car crash, a weight I couldn’t shake dragged me down to the bottom. I tried to cling to something solid, but it crumbled with a rejection, and the opportunity slipped through my fingers. I bumped against the goodbye I couldn’t say, a barrier between me and the sky.

Something warm and rough grabbed my hand. I clung to the carpenter’s calloused fingers. He lifted me up. I breathed again. Relief was sweet in my lungs. Beneath his feet, the waves became a peaceful pathway. He walked easily, though I slumped against him, and I knew he carried the weight of two. Hands lifted me back aboard. I relaxed against the hewn wood sides of the boat of my former life. It looked the same, but I am not. I have been through the storm; I am changed. I cannot stay here. My Lord’s voice calls from the waves. I must step out again.

A short bark crashes through my thoughts and douses me with reality. The golden orb has overcome her shyness and climbed above the hilltops. I tear my eyes away from Tiberius and peel off my extra layer. “I suppose it’s time for breakfast.” I give voice to dog’s morning reverie.

Web

Web

It glistens in the porch light 

Her masterpiece

Gossamer threads intertwine

A pattern stretching three feet wide

It sparkles with dew

And glimmers as he leaves

We duck

So not to disturb her artwork

We pause for a while

Admiring

Discussing

Enjoying a moment of friendship

Saint and Sinner

I wrote this hymn this afternoon (31 July - I've been using the schedule feature on blogger so you'll be reading this in the future) as a reflection on our dual nature as saints and sinners. It's a hard subject to tackle in prose, let alone hymnity. I don't like the first line; it doesn't capture the depravity of man. While the rest of the hymn does a better job of emphasizing that any good in our lives comes from God, the first line on its own leaves room for the idea that humanity has some innate goodness. What do you think? How theologically sound should hymns be? Any suggestion for an alternative first line?

Tune "Christ Be My Leader" Lutheran Service Book 861

Two natures in me, one good and one dark
What God had made perfect is breaking His heart
Death had claim ov'r us, our goodness was gone
God sent forth Jesus, bought us back with His Son

I have done nothing to gain my new life
Christ did it all, He was the sacrifice
Everything good that I have is from Him
Without His guidance I do nothing but sin

Christ is within me and that is by grace
He came to save us, the whole human race
We're clothed in his righteousness; He set us free
Now we can join Him in eternity.

I passed by

I passed by

I saw her once,

Outside my door,

Digging through trash

For recyclables to sell

To make ends meet.

But I was stressed,

My work permit woes

Clouding my attention

From what is truly important

I saw him once

On the road to church

Sitting on the rock

On the side of the road

His earthly possessions

Bundled under the cardboard

My heart hurt

But I was on the bus

What could I do?

It’s not like I could have stopped

My excuses mirror the Levite’s and the Priest’s

Is there a Samaritan wondering the streets of Ha Noi?

I will never know.

 

It wasn’t me. 

Her Gift was Greater

A couple weeks ago I attended a Faith and Writing Workshop at Concordia Seminary in St. Louis. Our first writing exercise was to dabble in (what I assume was greatly simplified) midrash, a sort of filling in gaps in the Biblical narrative. Here's my first attempt at what I hope becomes a regular writing exercise.

Her Gift was Greater

It had been nineteen years since her husband had died, and thirteen since the death of her only son. She sighed as she slowly maneuvered her way our of bed, trying to move her body in a way that didn't ache. She had arisen early since she planned to walk to the temple today, and as she had gotten older, the walk had gradually gotten longer and longer as what had been a one hour walk with her husband and new born son forty years ago, now stretched before her as an arduous and painful five hour plod.
She slowly eased around her house, finding her clothes more by feel than by sight. She felt her stomach growling and shuffled over to the table for breakfast. She felt around the table, the wood bare underneath her fingers. In the fogginess of her memory the thought of last night's dinner surfaced. The end of her small loaf of bread.  She sighed again, taking in a deep breath and releasing it slowly, blinking back tears. She knew that meant a trip to the baker, another three hours of waling added to her day.
Where had she put her money, she wondered, trying to recall where she had placed the small reddish-brown clay pot she into which she put her meager number of coins. She finally spotted a small blurry object sitting next to her bed and remembered depositing two small mites into it three days before. "Only two?" Her mind fumbled with the realization. "That's only enough to buy a tiny morsel of bread, and I still have to give an offering at the temple."
She slowly lowered herself onto the bed, trying to decide what to do. Suddenly she saw in her mind a clear picture of her husband talking to their son. "Always put the LORD first, son, and the LORD will take care of you," he would say before scooping him up and swinging him around as they left their home for the temple. She brushed away the tears as she sorted through her emotions, pushing away feelings of loneliness and gathering strength from the faith her husband had always displayed. She dumped the two, tiny coins into her bag and began her long journey to the temple.

Mark 12:41-44, Luke 21:1-4

On Missouri's Constitutional Amendment 2

MO Constitutional Amendment 2: A Rant or In Which I Climb on my Soapbox and Vent about Yesterday's Elections 

I am perturbed by the recent passing of Amendment 2 to the Missouri State Constitution and the misrepresentation present in the ballot language. The way the ballot read suggested that the voter is only voting to protect a Missourian’s right to pray (a redundant proposal even if that was the only thing the amendment did. That right is covered in Amendment 1 of the United States Constitution and can’t be undermined at a state level). When one reads the full text of the Amendment which was not available at the polls, it becomes clear that the amendment goes far beyond protecting prayer.

Buried in the middle of the text of this amendment is the provision “that no student shall be compelled to perform or participate in academic assignments or educational presentations that violate his or her religious beliefs.” This has ramifications far beyond what lawmakers and supporters of the amendment seem to have foreseen (though Rob Stitt of Lee’s Summit MO understands and describes in his letter to the Lee’s Summit Tribune’s editor). The ballot may have said that lawmakers “estimated this proposal will result in little or no costs or savings for state and local governmental entities,” but they don’t seem to have factor in the cost schools begin to sort through questions created by this amendment. I will list a few that came to my mind this morning.

1.      How does one define a religious belief? How will teachers determine what is a valid religious belief, and what is a clever child trying to avoid an assignment they don’t want to do?

2.      Are parochial schools bound by this amendment? I would assume yes, which I find amusing, since according to the article by Chris Blank, AP run in the News Tribune the MO bishops urged Catholics to vote for it. This amendment will essentially give non-Catholics attending Catholic schools in Missouri a free pass from homework in religion classes.

3.      To what level of schooling does this amendment apply? Will a Creationist desiring a degree in biology be excused from any course work applying to evolution? Will someone who believes the world is only 6,000 years old be allowed to graduate with no knowledge about carbon dating?

Finally, “protecting” students from things they don’t agree with will be detrimental to the development of their critical thinking skills. Preventing them from learning about how other people think won’t make their faith stronger; it will make it weaker. They won’t learn how to defend their ideas against those who disagree with them, nor will they learn to appreciate differing opinions. Shielding students from other beliefs will make it harder for them to develop into open-minded, tolerant, and well-educated individuals. This amendment does them a gross disservice.

Breakfast

I sit outside on a summer morning enjoying the coolness around me that I know will evaporate as the sun, now providing the perfect amount of heat, claims more and more of the sky. The breeze blows, offsetting any excess heat the sun may try to add during the next few minutes. I soak in the blue, the green, the puffy white, the chirps, the swish, the rustle. My toes curl and I wiggle them, basking in the simple joy of cereal on the porch on clean, clear, lazy morning.

Something moves. I see a lean shape slinking towards me. She pauses, poised to pounce, changes her mind and saunters in for a closer look.

"What is that? Is it tasty? It smells like milk! Let me see." Her head darts with each unspoken question. The black face comes forward, nose first, trailing long dark whiskers, followed by large, inquisitive, yellow-green eyes. I pull the bowl away and answer her most important question. "It must be good or else she would share." 

Tentatively at first, but with growing boldness, my new breakfast companion places her paw on my leg. "Can I see?" Her head is cocked and her eyes look intently at my bowl. She tries to appear innocent, but I know better. I move it higher. All bashfulness forgotten she moves across my lap and around my back, her tail snaking after her as she keeps up with my movements, following the bowl as I try to keep it safe. Stepping into my lap again, she stretches her body out, reaching her paw towards the prize. My spoon is now too far away to reach my mouth, and I realize was have come to the end of our dance. I admit defeat. With one last spoonful, I set the bowl down.

The furry head descends, tongue out and the rhythmic sound of a reverse waterfall adds itself to the morning.  

A Friday Special - On Birth Control and Chicken

On Birth Control and Chicken – (Simplistic and not as well written as I would like, but thinking and writing are both processes. Here’s a glimpse at an early step).

I’ve been thinking a lot about “free” birth control and “homophobic” chicken providers recently. Not exactly sure why, but I think it might be because the blog-a-sphere and my news and twitter feeds are blowing up over the birth control mandate (which took effect on Wednesday) and the Chick-fil-A issue (if you don’t know about that yet, I suggest you stay under your rock for a few more days until it blows over). I’m throwing my two cents in, not because I think I will bring anything new to the conversation, but because it’s a good exercise to put one’s thoughts down on paper (or in a word doc in this case).

First, about the birth control thing. I realize that the Church in America enjoys a special freedom here in the U.S. that it doesn’t get anywhere else, and I understand its desire to protect that. However, I think the Church got too focused on its own freedoms and the Law (Law and Gospel Law, not U.S. law), and missed an opportunity for the Gospel.

From what I saw and read about the Church’s response, it seemed their only response was to refuse to pay to provide birth control to those who work for them. Technically, that’s fair. Because of the first amendment, I don’t think its okay for the government to tell the Church it has to pay for something it finds morally reprehensible. The Church, however, I believe is called to be more than fair. We are, to paraphrase Matt Harrison, called to care about people, to make that our business.

There are ways to be more than fair without compromising the Church’s freedoms. I didn’t hear the Church offer any other solutions to the problems that birth control tries to solve. Like offering free counseling or classes, and materials for Natural Family Planning, or providing resources and support for unexpected and unplanned pregnancies to name a couple. Perhaps wouldn’t make financial sense, but I think standing up for our faith without alienating people who disagree with us is worth a few dollars.

And about the chicken: it makes me sad that people are so worried about what should be a non-issue. (As I type this, I realize the irony behind commenting it). I think everyone is so worried about it because it feeds into our penchant for gossiping. “Oh my gosh, did you hear what that fast food owner said about marriage. I am so not going to his restaurant anymore.” I’m hoping we can move past it soon and start worrying about more important things. 

Lord, We Gather at Your Table

One of our activities at the Faith and Writing workshop I attended last week was writing hymns. This was my first attempt, and I must say turned out better than subsequent endeavors.

Lord, We Gather at Your Table
To the tune of "Hark the Voice of Jesus Crying" Lutheran Service Book 826

Lord, we gather at your table
Here you call us to your feast
Lord, your Holy Spirit guides us
Bringing all, the great and least
Everyone has sinned against you
Everyone has disobeyed
Still you let us join your supper
Taking all our guilt away

Christ died out on Calvary's mountain
So we all might come to heaven
We are joined into his dying
Cup of wine and bread unleaven
Thank you, Christ, for coming to us
We receive your loving grace
Now we all can come before you
And behold your righteous face

The Rock

I've never enjoyed reading poetry much, which I would guess is why I don't write it very often. The following piece describes one of my strongest memories from my short time in Jordan, and when I tried to put it down on paper, prose seemed to bog it down. I stopped trying to force it, and this is what I got. Perhaps some of my inspiration has come from reading the blog of a friend's brother-in-law. As I've been reading his work and writing my own, I've been wondering how the editing process for poetry is handled. Do any of you write poetry? If so, do you edit it? What's your process? 

The Rock

Dust surrounds us on this quiet road.

Our bus bumps, bumps, bumps over rocks and mounds on the road.

The desert stretches vast beyond sight on each side of the road.

Clusters of houses appear intermittently on the road.

We’re strangers on this road.

And he notices.

One foot hits the dirt

And another

Shoes left behind

A hand encloses the rock

Sweaty

Pulls back and releases

Arcs

Just in time

Whack!

A hit on side of the mammoth machine

That doesn’t even pause as it continues down the road.

My Backup Best Man Toast

When I first heard my friend Brian was engaged I told him I would be available to help out with the wedding in any way he and his fiance might need, up to and including standing in for the best man (should any harm befall Sam prior to the wedding). Fortunately, Sam arrived for the wedding in one piece and my services in that capacity were not required. I was prepared, however, to make the best man toast if called upon, and rather than have it go to waste, it shall christen my new blog. (My goal is to post twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays.)

My Backup Best Man Toast


Kindred Spirits are not always easily recognizable. Sometimes similarities get in the way of a friendship. Such was the case for Brian and me when we first met. He walked into Sunday School class in the fall of 1997, tall, talkative, and smart. We learned the depth of the latter two characteristics as the semester went on. Each week my eyes got narrower and my jaw clenched more tightly each time he spoke. (Which was often. We didn't call him Rogaine Motormouth for nothing).

"Excuse me," I snipped in my head, "I am the resident genius around here. Silence, please, while I do my thing." He did not respond to my silent chastisements (or my slightly less eloquent verbal ones) and continued to give me a run for my money at everything from recalling Bible trivia to memorizing verses.

Perhaps I felt I had something to prove being the only girl in our small class of five or perhaps it was because I have a competitive spirit. Either way, I was not okay with being beaten, even occasionally.

This continued on for the next year and a half, my enmity growing each week, until I couldn't even look at him without annoyance surging through me. Then one day, he made a comment. (Don't ask me what it was; I can't remember now, but I assure you it was the gravest insult a 5th grader can make in the midst of a Sunday School lesson.) I had to act. Determined, I grabbed a Bible. The Bible is useful for rebuking, and I intended to use it for that purpose. I stood up. I walked around the table. I stood behind Brian.

THWACK!

I brought the Bible down on top of his head.

I can't recall the details of the events after that; however, I can deduce they weren't too dramatic as I am still unremorseful about hitting him, and my parents didn't hear about it until I told them years later. I would like to say that this was a turning point in our relationship, but that did not come for a few more years. But it did eventually come, and I am extremely glad that it did. Our similarities have become the basis for a great friendship. I've had the privilege to watch the relationship between him and Elyssa unfold and blossom into what I know will be a strong and happy marriage. And fortunately for Elyssa, I have learned how to recognize kindred spirits without having to whack them with a Bible.