God of the forest

On the mission trip, the all-white team taught Vacation Bible School to the children.  The Mississippi band of Choctaw were those who had hidden from the forced evictions and genocide in 1832 which came to be known as the Trail of Tears.  I, personally, was deeply uncomfortable teaching that God works in all circumstances (for that was one night's discussion) to children whose people knew that kind of history.  Until I got there.  Most of the children welcomed us, and most of the adults tolerated us.

I say most.  There were those children who threw tree bark and spouted racist comments, but most were alright. 

It really hit home that before we are Choctaw, white, or anything else, we are imago dei (made in the image of God), and I had forgotten that at Wesley, to my shame and sorrow.  Sometimes in theological education, you're so busy looking at the trees you forget that God created the whole damn forest.

Saying Yes and Stone Tablets

Saying yes to something means saying no to something else.  If you choose one path, then you are by default saying no to another.  Woo.  However, saying "no" to something means you're saying yes to something else, you just might not know what it is yet.  How's that for easy to follow?

By closing the door to the path for ordained ministry, I am opening other doors, to other options.  I have no idea what those are, but they are there, somewhere.  Granted, that does not make this move any less heartbreaking.  I have put four years of education and thousands of dollars (seminary education is not cheap; Jesus would not be impressed) into pursuing ordained ministry.

And now I can't.

Romans says that all things work together for the good of those who love God; who are called according to His purpose.  I have no idea what that purpose is, but I'm trusting God to work stuff out.  Though, I must admit, a hint would be nice.  So would a stone tablet.

Meant to be read aloud

They say that, to make any sense, poetry has to be read aloud.  Like it's all line and punctuation and periods and words.  But how can you read aloud the poetry of a kiss when the whole world stops to watch what you're doing but you don't care because you're wrapped in the moment and the moment's wrapped in you and you're there and it's just....

ocean waves kiss the shore.  No, they make love to the shore in sweet serene stillness that goes in and out...in....out...like breath.  Like love.

I'll read aloud the poetry of you in kisses that somehow become gasps because you touch me.  I'll read the poetry of your face in nights that start late and end even earlier.  Nights that turn your whole world upside down simply because you came.

Or maybe those were days.  I'm not really sure.  But you were there, and I was there, and we were reading poetry together with our lips.

Starting Over

There once was a man, who for privacy's sake I'll call Jake.  I was introduced to him by the girl who later broke his heart, and we became close friends as we worked out his issues surrounding that breakup and my crush on another one of her exes.  If it sounds crazy, that's because it was.  We both loved music and poetry; he had a glorious tenor voice that sounded like velvet on your ears.  He hated it.

He became my own personal Judas.  We wound up in this weird place where we were not-quite-lovers but more-than-friends.  He kept telling me he was a terrible guy for me, and I knew he was right.  I learned, however, that both love and lust are slippery slopes, and once you start falling there's no stopping unless someone catches you or you crash-land.

We crash-landed.  Hindenberg-style.  Now Jake wants to start over and build a relationship again.  In a lot of ways, it's like he's come back from the dead.  I don't know what to do.

Ships at a distance

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
I have studied many times the marble which was chiseled for me
a ship with a furled sail at rest in a harbor
in truth, my wishes have never left the dock
have never been packed into trunks for a journey
never even been put on a map

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
I am, however, not a man; I am a woman.
It is also helpful to have a map.
I don't even have a compass.
All I have is restlessness and vagueness.
A question.

Ships at a distance carry every man's wishes.
Do they carry mine?

I am a writer

I love words.  I love the way they fit together like puzzle pieces, each having a different part of a word picture.  I love how a skilled wordsmith can craft an image using only a few hushed syllables of poetry and hover over them to create a new work of art in letter and silence and sound.  Silversmiths take the same care making stunning bracelets.

I love that red is different than scarlet is different than crimson.  Each word has a specific meaning, and should be used with care.  This does occasionally mean I am overly specific when communicating.  I like for words to convey precisely what I mean and/or exactly what happened.  However, if the answer to a question needs to be a simple yes or no, then I am very bad at that.