A Moth to the Flame

O flame, that you could teach me
to burn without compunction
to light without grief
to consume without shame, apology, or regret
to be nothing more than fleeting, dependent, and frail
and yet powerful
unignorable
undeniable
untouchable
unstoppable...
Would then I be satiated?

letters to an [atheist]

I wish you could see the beautiful things [of God]
you who have eyes for beauty
to see in a ragged people, hope, not just doubt
in an inadequate rhetoric, relationship, not just failure
in the stains, the very wonder of the stars,
not just the 'senseless.'

I wish you could recognize the patterns [of God]
you who recognize the fullness of the moment
to revel in the subversive within the frail
in the incessant nature of a tide that rails against the sand to quicken all,
in spite of it all
just to create the opportunity to live.

If you saw it, you would recognize your own strength
(and if you did, would it earn your respect?)
the power of your own determination
the insidiousness of your own invitation
the combative nature of your own pursuit
the way you bite into life
you would taste, indeed, that intoxicating adventure
you have a taste for.

I wish you could delight with me [in him]
because you uniquely could delight
in the ironies that you have touched with your own hand
the very proof for which you asked and never saw
you encountered
and were seduced.

If you could stand in the tension for just a moment
(and if you did, would it break you?)
and feel the excruciating pleasure, the exhilarating pain
of being broken by and expanded in your capacity to love
to live, to experience,
and to be so satiated that it is like death itself
but death that is new life.

So There

I entered, crying;
 I shall go out rejoicing.

 I embraced the first seasons of my life silently;
one day I shall never stop talking.

I will talk and tell stories and prattle and ask and
 no one will quiet me -

 Not the orderlies or the nurses
or the other Alzheimer’s patients,

 not even the grouchy old lady sharing my room.

The Sacrilege

You won't be the first to call me heathen
To pat my head as if I just don't understand
because of my poor, weak, "woman-mind"
because of my misled and deceitful heart
If man is the head
man ordained me
so I am in perfect submission
but you don't want man to be the head
when that man is in disagreement with your man

Would you appeal to me, then, to submit to Christ instead?
I appeal to you to submit to Christ first
As I submit to Christ first and foremost
And answer to Him as His servant
And after Christ to those he has placed in authority over me, man and woman alike
Just as those Christ has placed under my authority submit to me
Just as it is written "submit one to another"
equal in power and in negotiation

because there is no man, no woman, no Greek, no Roman, no Jew or Gentile
In God's sight
He will use them all as He sees fit and in accordance with his Kingdom
For this vessel He makes for rich purposes
and this one He makes for poor
Will you, the clay, look to the Potter and question that He has the right
to make one thing for glory and another for destruction?

You won't be the first to denounce my Christianity
he did as well - when I walked away from his abuse, his lies, his cheating
he did not like that I did not fall under his control anymore either.

The Call

I cannot grasp nor hold in my hands
the delicate whisper of God's call
but I know that it is birthed
in the pangs of my deliverance
through blood and sorrow-soaked repentance
from my beguilement with death
my resistance to life
and in the story of His faithfulness to me

Perhaps it began before the constellations were designed
before my universe was knit together in my mother's womb
But I know He set eternity in my heart
before that heart did beat
He Himself breathed life
and gathered up that wind
coupled it with a spirit like a free and feral horse
and made it mine

He called me by name when I was too young for words
He wrapped me in his arms as His own
He granted me His presence like the sun offers light
And I must tell His story
I must see His story, when He shares with me His scars
when He shares with me His eyes
so that I can speak that vision
into the thirsty lives of those who die around me

I must bind at every turn the insidious addictions
that hinder the transformation of his bride
that others might be delivered
from their own beguilement with death
I am to bless the bonding that nurtures human souls
I am to honor and remember those who go before
I am to love and be loved
I am to fight, to thrive

I cannot grasp nor hold in my hands
the fragile flicker of light that is life
it hides in my lungs as I breathe
it animates my heart
but I must offer it and all I have
to the call, to the vision, to the fight,
to thrive
a living sacrifice