Love Lives Here

      At times I am glad I am a Christian because I think the incongruities of our culture would drive me insane otherwise.  Without an understanding of the perverse and pervasive nature of sin, life would make no sense.  How else could I explain why an organization called "Love Lives Here" would raise money to support an abortionist? Love Lives Here began as a grassroots effort in Billings when some Jewish households were targeted for holiday vandalism. To show solidarity with their Jewish neighbors, the neighborhood bought and displayed menorahs in as many homes as possible. Hence the name, Love Lives Here.
     Recently in my own hometown, a local physician's assistant, our lone abortion provider, had her office ransacked.  Despite the fact that a bailbond office was also broken into, the "doctor" insisted it was a hate crime and blamed it on religious people. In our politically correct crime classifications, "hate crime" is thought to be worse than more personal crimes like murder, although I have yet to hear those referred to as "love" crimes.  It was particularly poor timing for a ransack because a 40 Days for Life prayer vigil was set to begin about that time and had to withdraw to praying at churches or homes so the vigil would not be associated with acts of violence.
     Apparently Love Lives Here does not have that problem because they have raised thousands of dollars to help rebuild a place that murders babies.  Love Lives Here supports Death Kills Here. If I didn't understand that sin corrupts reasoning, the incongruity would blow me away.  Or perhaps not, if I were not a Christian perhaps that reasoning would make perfect sense to me. Scary thought. I am trying to pray for Ms. Cahill to come to know Christ before a life which has made her bitter becomes an eternity so much worse. I am praying for the young man who vandalized the clinic and his Christian family and that the testimony of the pro-life movement will not be harmed. And I am praying that some good will come of this. Ms. Cahill is thinking of leaving our unloving community and going where people can live and let live. That's what we wanted too--live and let live.

Would Have Been

                  Would Have Been

Friday would have been her birthday

and I would have bought her clothes, a bracelet,

or some trinket she would have liked.

Although in her later years, she barely noticed the birthdays and holidays

that had once been so important to her.

At Christmas I was too busy to focus on the one gift I didn’t have to buy.

But her birthday, Mother’s Day--

they will be strangely empty this year.

As her illness estranged her life,

so it has shaped her death.

What am I supposed to feel?

Her death would have been sadder

were not her life so sad.

Meanwhile, the would have beens

hang on me like clothes,

but in a small part of my life, like a bracelet,

a trinket of the grief I would have borne

if our lives would have been different.

Waiting to Go Back Home

      My mother spent the last three years of her life in a dementia facility.  She was the only patient there who did not have Alzheimer's, but her debility and schizophrenia made her fit in well. I work with both elderly and mentally impaired in home health, but it takes a much greater level of commitment to work with dementia patients on a daily basis. That is a special calling. It helps to remember  that the people who live in these facilities are not the elderly people you see. They are children, and soldiers, and parents. People with lives they are trying to get back to, but can't. This is for them and for those who will become them.

  

 Waiting to Go Back Home

Carol is waiting right by the door, 

she has her winter coat on.

She wants to be ready when mommy appears.

She’s waiting to go back home.

Albert is pacing across the floor. 

What’s taking Martha so long?

Why is she spending so long at the store?

She ought to be taking him home.

Marion’s children are late coming back, 

school should be over by now.

The strangers around her don’t know where they are.

Why haven’t the children come home?

Who are these people, and why are they here? 

They know that something is wrong.

Shouldn’t their family have shown up by now,

so they can take them back home?

Why shouldn’t they fidget, and struggle and cry, 

and try to sneak out of the door?

Their mothers, and lovers, and children are gone

and waiting for them at home.

One Was Caged

       Seldom have I had a poem so unwilling to be girded with words as this one. It has been said that writing a book is like trying to wrestle an octopus into a mayonnaise jar, writing this was like trying to give birth to one. But, now that the labor pains are over, and my creation is not so appallingly ugly, I plan to either enjoy it or forget it.

      One Was Caged and One Was Free

From his cell, he heard her steps, light though those might be,

the jailer’s daughter, little Jen, barely past the age of ten

was bringing evening bread and tea.

One was caged and one was free.

He smiled at her with crooked teeth, folks called him Simple Ben,

in jail for thievery of balm he thought would ease his dying mom,

but fever took her in the end.

Then Ben was caged, but she was free.

“Are ya ailin’, missy Jen? Sit down, for pity’s sake.

For though it’s dark here in the jail, even by this light, you’re pale,

and I see how you shake.”

Though dark his cage, his heart was free.

Without a word, she bent to slide his meal beneath the bars.

When she straightened up again, he saw the welt upon her chin,

red where one had struck her hard.

While bound in rage, some fists are free.

“Father’s at his drink tonight.” whispered little Jen.

The jailer, in his house above, with wife and daughter he could love

chose the bottle over them.

While he was caged, they were not free.

Through the bars, Ben held her hand until her trembling ceased.

He sang a song his ma had sung, when folks were cruel and he was young,

that once had brought him peace.

Though he was caged, he wished her free.

“I’m glad to have you here with me.” she said to Ben, at last.

And strengthened by his simple love, left cell below for hers above,

in hope sleep held the jailer fast.

One was caged and one was free.

Eggs Actly

     I love to bake. It is one of my few creative outlets. For instance, here I am roasting a well known Descartes quote, "I bake, therefore I use eggs". Because most things I bake call for eggs, occasionally a small piece of shell winds up in the bowl. My immediate reaction is to force the piece against the side of the bowl to get it out, but eggs whites are viscous and full on force actually pushes it away from, not toward, the side of the bowl. In order to extract the shell, I need to increase pressure slowly (not my best thing) and slightly to the side. When it comes to eggs, a gentle touch is needed.
     I find that an excellent (eggshellant?) illustration of a spiritual reality. When we are urging others toward Christ, either for salvation or a stronger walk with God, our attempts to forcefully push them to Jesus often wind up pushing them further away from both us and the Lord. I have never heard a testimony of someone headbutted into the kingdom of God. The conviction of the Holy Spirit put intense pressure on me, the people of God did not need to. As much as I want to "help" the Spirit, what I want more is for my loved ones to know and serve Christ, so I try to come alongside, speak gently, trust God, and get out of His way. The God who breaks us in the first place knows the best way to remove our bits of shell. When it comes to people, a gentle touch is needed.