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

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. 

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.  

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.