Spectrum of Life

A lot happens in a year, a month, even a day.

I’m married, and I was not.

Arguments regarding LGBT in the church community.

Legal suits in town against the yearly meeting of friends.

I’ve been surprised how quickly people rear up with opinions like king cobras. Beliefs on wedding timing and relationship mantra, or arguments against persons – all with such violent strikes. Less than the content of the arguments, the entitlement and anger with which people defend their beliefs can be appalling. And frightening.

Not that such a righteous anger is always wrong. Au contraire, a righteous anger is often warranted. The scary portion is the direction of the anger targeted towards persons rather than ideas. Rarely is hate an agreeable ideal. Rarely is vindictiveness a moral imperative. It’s that same quality of person that stands outside an abortion clinic killing doctors in the name of Christ (or any higher cause).

I haven’t written in forever, and my first is somewhat angry, itself. Shoot. And that’s what I’ve noticed. Anger begets only anger.   

I think what’s been a joy to see in the passing weeks is that the flipside is also, often, true. Generosity, grace, and mercy often beget similar reactive replies. More than all of the miserable actions, more than all of the hatred and anger and angst of an uncertain people, the generosity and kindness of those loving persons in my community sticks with me.  At the wedding, people jumped into action to help, even without being asked. Whether it was pushing tables outside, organizing books, or grabbing Ems and I a bite to eat, people leapt into action. I couldn’t help but smile. It’s reminded me of all those times I’ve had the opportunity to help my friends, and how it’s never a chore, but a great blessing to be that servant. I remember how lucky I felt getting to look after a friend following a surgery (dental) and just hang out and make sure everything was okay should anything need doing. I feel similarly blessed helping each of my friends when they have to move (packing, and lifting) even if I’m the least qualified person for the task (have you seen these biceps? Most people’s ankles are bigger).  I honestly love it. And that’s what fills me with so much joy. When Ems and I wrote our prayer for the day, we hoped that the day might be filled with joy, and that that joy would be an evident reminder of our beliefs and hopes and joys. Our wedding was.

I hold these two great  scenes in balance, teetering forwards and backwards into each. The anger that bubbles up in reply to such, and the grace I force myself to remember, having been shown so extravagantly where joy is begat. These weeks have travelled fast, and are filled with great and weighty feelings, spanning a sea-wide spectrum of emotions. But I’m happy. I’m joyful; full of joy. There are heartbreaks, and there are moments so perfect I’m brought to tears.

I’m thankful for this and my community. In sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, I’m married to it in my spirit and I love it. I’m learning a lot about community and belief through my marriage already, and I’m only getting started.

Here’s to many more such days, weeks, and years. Here’s to life.

Binding of Laughter

Full of sacrifices, life is, and I am not complaining. Over and over again, my faith is tested, walking up the mountain with my money in tow, with responsibilities or love holding my hand, with other facets of my spirituality tested on similar slopes: patience, kindness, love, grace, mercy, hope. Moriah grass is lonely, bristly, and the wind always blows into your face abrasively, and there is no thoughtless path. I’ve tread this many times, and will continue to do so, and the place of sacrifice always looms before me, on the third day.

Behold, the fire and the wood, my heart says, but where is the lamb for the sacrifice?

God himself will provide the lamb, and the lie is bitter in my throat, though a thousand times I’ve lived this story, a hundred thousand times, God has shown faithful. The binding of Isaac is heavy: lead in my footsteps, burdens on my back, scorching muscles and a tortured heart, self-inflicted and mythical, for I carry only a knife and a light for the wood that laughter carries. Laughter, joy, why do you mock me with your faith?

Up and up we go, his innocent hand so small and mine so bloody, and who is my son, this time? Do I know? Patience and you’ll always understand, my son scratches his legs and arm on a thicket, not far from a pile of stones, and I bind it, for he bleeds too soon.

How do you build an altar for your heart and joy? But you must, and bind your only son with the wood he’s carried so faithfully (oh, where is mine now? Oh, father, where art thou? He cries so plaintively). I stretch forward my hand, raising it to the heavens – it’s between me and the divine, my hand, blotting out the sky, my murderous hands – and I ignore the bleating cries of Isaac, the lamb for the slaughter.

But Christ always stays my hand, and the clouds part and a dove alights on my shoulder, sheltering my face in spiritual wing. But I’ve brought no sacrifice, ah!

Do not fear, for a ram is caught in the thicket, and my patience, faith, grace has suffered another gauntlet.

All stories are part of the Story. I am caught in the hands of grace. I am the ram, I am Isaac, I am the stones beneath which my son lies, I am Abraham and the mountain, and Adonai-Jirah is real to me now, always, and never until the right time. That is the mystery, and grace. There is always a passing over, always blood over the threshold, and always God, even in the shadow of the mountain, the trails over the brambles and briars along the way, the stiff, ragged climb, the precipitous paths, and even as I stack the stones at the solemn summit – nowhere is it my clear that the sacrifice must always be made, in good faith, before the parting of the waves of the heavens makes clear what will be gained.

There is a heavy burden on this world’s heart, forever and always now. A man has been shot; children are dying and suffering from significant trauma as rockets sound and airstrikes shriek overhead and mortars crash into the streets; and starvation, dehydration, and displacement are the monster nipping at the heels of children who, before their teens, have already felt a handful of wars. Too much retribution and not enough reconciliation, in homes, villages, cities, nations, and across the world – how can we engender justice, and walk an extra mile when our knees are so weak, and the miles keep coming.

It's good to be home for Christmas

1. Mother asked father what he was watching on television while my father played solitaire in the living room, and he replied: "Thor", whereupon mother acquired a rather dazed look, and said, "Thor? How do you spell that?" "T-H-O-R." "What's that," mother asked. "A movie about Thor, the norse god of thunder and lightning." "Huh." (mother has definitely seen both Thor and the Avengers)

2. Quiddler victory. I think it's a spiritual gift. Unless against Matthew.. I think his spiritual gifting is stronger.

3. Art history study under the warmest of blankets

4. World's End in front of the fire at Matthew's

5. Snow

6. Staring through the bony trees that look like the rib cages of colossal beasts, layered with lichen and moss over every available surface, pointing to north on every facet, and into the mountains and the hills, splattered with powdered-sugar snow.

7. Thick mists swallowing the low-land marshes at the base of the hill and snaking with the creek through the tall brush covered with hoarfrost so even the spiderwebs are crystallized and beautifully articulated in white

8. Quietude and rain.

9. Books: V for Vendetta, The Story of Art, ee cummings Selected Poetry, Carl Sandburg Complete Poetry, Simic The Voice at 3:00 AM

10. Chips and salsa everywhere (mother actually procured a great assortment of my favorite foods. I think she bought enough so that if I ate only chips and salsa, or only anything, she'd probably have enough of that one thing. Home is a sort of happy-trap)

11. Journaling

12. Being completely in the country, and driving along country roads. There is something about driving along country roads that empties me of pain and fills me with joy. I don't even need to know I have pains to be uplifted. It's like not knowing what a burden gravity is until you can fly.

13. The family. They are the best.

14. Cookies (I don't even eat many cookies - read #10. But knowing that they are there increases the level of Christmas by a far sum)

15. Tree, candles, tea, fireplace, wreath, lights, music, snow - it's a Christmas wonderland


I love visiting my family, though I begin missing my friends the instant I leave them. The tranquility at home, however, is unmatched.



Frost the leaves and they are diamonds,
spider's webs are stained glass prisms
trapping winter wishes
in grasses beside the road

hart and hind leave hearts behind
crossing frozen streams that hide
among the hoarfrost patches
that linger beside the road

broad the fog's grey-gloved hand
that cossets now the argent land
whose silver hair and flaxen plains
are dormant now,
sleeping, beside the road

though the aspens shiver,
the pines share not their coat
the maples, naked, ice-chimes bear
the firs are clothed,
yet ice grows in their hair -
does the wind sing eerily
when birds and bees have disappeared?
whispering beside the road
---

The moose was here,
his musk is heavy in the mists
that shrouded his steps -

can you mask such magnificence?
his cleft toes clench
the earth so gently

he brushes past
the spider-webbed grass
reverently

how can one
walk so lightly
who bears a weight so heavy

I ponder this
as his footsteps carry me
deeper into the mists

Homeward Bound

We played soccer tonight, and I managed to hit a girl in the face almost immediately. I felt TERRIBLE. So I played defense for half the game. Following the game, Peter and I raced for the swings and the ginger beer (no alcohol content, thankfully), and discussed our weeks. It was, perhaps, the hardest day of work I've had in some time. I had such a simple task, but could not seem to get anything to work. I basically had 10 hours of poor excuses for my boss today, because I may as well have been not working.
And tomorrow I'm going home (family's home).
I think I spent an hour thinking about what books I wanted to bring with me before I realized I should probably pack other things, too. Hopefully labor-day weekend traffic isn't abysmal. Anyway, when we finished soccer and swinging, Peter and I walked back to our respective vehicles, and Peter asked if he could have his keys back from my tote bag. However, his keys were not in there. It was getting dark (8:15? 8:30?) and was nearing nautical twilight. We scampered back out to the field and carefully perused the grass. I even took off my shirt and rolled through the grass, because we couldn't see anymore, hoping I might roll across his keys. I just got incredibly itchy. Frantic, we called D and asked if anyone else had picked up keys, and he said no, so we checked the cars again. D mentioned that sometimes smart phones have flashlight apps, so we could try that. I found a flashlight in my car and we used one of our phone's flashlight apps and began searching in earnest once more. It was astronomical twilight at this time. Without the flashlights, we saw nothing. We strafed across the field and eventually, on my way back, we found the keys.

We were both, in a sense, at the edge of our faith. We shared an extra ginger beer and prayer of thanksgiving before each driving home. It was near 10. Still, I'm thankful so much for friends that will roll about in the grass with you to find keys, and friends who will pray and share their deepest fears with you while swinging and drinking ginger "beer" while sitting on the backs of cars. It was a gentle reminder of rest and a difficult week finally finished. And now, in the morning, I'll be homeward bound.