Digressions of a Grapefruit Eater

I am sitting at my small kitchen table (the one my husband lovingly made. the one my daughter spends hours per day at–coloring, weaving, drawing. the one that boasts spills of hot cocoa, nail polish & blueberry juice. the one we gather around for each meal, giving thanks and feasting.  the one that stands at the center of our small house like an ebenezer of how good the Lord is to us, of how much we have to be thankful for).

I am sitting here peeling a grapefruit.  The pith is thick, pale yellow and stubborn. Painstakingly, I pick it off, making a pile of it beside my laptop.  Something in the way it looks or feels reminds me of the paper I made in Italy over a decade ago (I am getting SO OLD!!) while studying at an art institute.   I made sheets and sheets of it, each page speckled with found objects like string or seeds or petals or strands of a dear friend’s worn out sweater.  It was hard work and took a lot of time.  After hours pulverizing the pulp, it still took hours to flatten and then more hours to dry and for all that work, one piece of paper was produced.  As a writer and lover of words growing up in a throw-away world of paper bought by the ream, the art of paper making made me pause: if all paper were as precious and hard-won as the paper I made in Italy, I do believe I’d choose my words a lot more carefully.  I’d make sure they were worth it.

And then, years later, I stumbled on a fabulous poem about this very subject. It’s by a poet named Suji Kwock Kim.  If you’d like to read the whole poem, it’s worth it. Her whole book is worth it.  But for the sake of time, I will draw attention to only the last couple of lines.

After numerous stanzas detailing the arduous process of paper-making, written from the voice of a traditional Korean paper-maker, Kim ends the poem with these three lines:

Now you know how hard the labor is.
If your words aren’t worth
my work, keep your mouth shut.

–from Hanji: Notes for a Papermaker

Note: Hanji is a traditional Korean form of paper-making that may have begun around the fourth century.

Those lines slay me.  I think about them all the time.  Because I write a lot.  And I’m not so sure all my words are worth it.

And because I can easily draw a parallel between a piece of paper and my life (can’t you??) the more important question is: am I living a life that is worth the Sacred breath that is granted to me each morning? Am I teaching my children, sweet bird Sparrow and brave Caleb River, to conduct themselves in a way that honors the sacredness of each fleeting day?

Most days, I admit, I am not.

Because day in and day out, the moments get kind of mundane, don’t they?  I mean really, my days usually look like this: wake. breakfast (oatmeal, again?). change diaper. harp at daughter to pick up her legos. change diaper. lunch (soup, again?). change diaper. harp at daughter to pick up her crayons. change diaper. take a walk. dinner (venison, again?). change diaper. remind daughter to go to the bathroom. read books. brush teeth. kiss. kiss. sleep. Repeat ad nauseam.

If I’m not careful, if I fail to be mindful, the laundry list (literally!) of daily events I just rattled off becomes my reality.

And if I’m not careful, if I fail to be mindful, I grow lazy.  I pass through each moment haphazardly and without thought.  I scribble nonsensical jargon on the metaphoric page of hand-made paper so tediously created.

If my life is a small stack of priceless, hand-made paper, I best determine myself to write beautiful, True, worthwhile things on them, lest they be wasted.  Lest they be no better than kindling for the fire.

How we spend our days is how we spend our lives. -Annie Dillard

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Advent Poem: Week 3

I am typing this one-handed, with a two month old trying to nurse himself to sleep after a marathon day of church, Christmas pageants and frantic packing for our trip home to see family.

Driving home from our church’s Christmas pageant tonight, my mind reeled with all the things I needed to get done in the two hours before I’d be too tired to function.  (We leave for Iowa tomorrow morning and I will be lucky if I remember to pack both children.) While mentally listing off my must-do’s, I remembered, with a pang of remorse and disappointment, that I hadn’t done an Advent poem and here it was, Sunday night.

As we drove, Sparrow prattled on in the back seat about the Christmas cookies she’d eaten after the performance, Caleb started to fuss, having woken up to realize no one had asked if he wanted any cookies and I mentally rebuked myself for not taking even a moment to consider Christ’s birth during the hectic week.  How pitiful to spend a week preparing for countless Christmas related activities while not considering Christmas itself! Instead, I mostly ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Or, in my case like a mom/wife/friend/daughter/sister/human trying to do all the things on my list.

I’d made cookies and gifts and helped Sparrow memorize her lines and fitted wings onto tiny backs and led a bunch of congregational Christmas hymns but I hadn’t given a single intelligent thought to Christ and His coming.

Shame on me.

And then, while Caleb ramped up and Sparrow raised her voice to be heard over him, the thought I’d needed to have all week finally came to me: the story is real.

Yes, the angels in every Christmas pageant ever done wear tinsel for halos and clothes-hanger wings like ours did tonight.  But there really were angels, a whole host of them singing glory to God and burning with a brightness that rivaled the sun.

Those shepherds, the once depicted by kiddos in cotton robes and fake beards, they were real and God announced the birth of a Savior to them in a field of hysterical sheep.

Mary & Joseph really rode on a donkey to Bethlehem, really had a baby in a stable, really wrapped him in cloth and laid Him in a manger.

And just like all those Christmas hymns say, the ones we sing mindlessly this time of year, He really is the Savior of the world, Emmanuel, God with us, Israel’s consolation, hope of all the earth.

The God of the universe really came to earth as a baby.  To wage war on sin and death and sadness and loneliness and meaninglessness and thoughtlessness everything that has ever been wrong with the world.

He really came to set His people free.  FREE. 

Why? Because He’s madly in love with us.  Us, who fail to love Him back.  Us, who go days, weeks, a life-time, without even considering Him or His Lordship. Us, who are woefully undeserving.

The Christmas pageant is real, friends.  It is a real story with life-altering, life-saving implications for all those who ever have lived and ever will live.  The story is more true than any other true thing you’ve ever heard.

Joy to the world, the Lord really has come.

Amen.  Come Lord Jesus.

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Advent Cookies & Poem: Week 2

First off, here is the recipe for our Advent Week 2 Cookies:

Grandma Sasa’s Spritz Cookies

1 Cup Sugar
4 sticks of butter
1 Egg
4 Cups of Flour
1 tsp. Almond Extract

Cream together sugar and butter.  Add eggs.  Mix until smooth.  Add flour and extract. Use cookie press to form cookies.  Bake at 350 until brown.

If you don’t have a Spritz gun, I highly recommend one.  They are absolutely delightful.


And now, Advent Week 2 Poem:

During this second week of Advent, I wrestled with whose perspective to consider Christ’s birth from.  I toyed with every idea from a donkey to the stable itself.

Then, while singing the familiar hymn Joy to the World at the nursing home today, my mind got stuck on the third verse which reads:
No more let sins and sorrows grow,
Nor thorns infest the ground;
He comes to make His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found,
Far as the curse is found,
Far as, far as, the curse is found.

That refrain.  His blessings will flow as far as the curse is found.  As far back as the curse is found.  All the way back when Eve reached out her hand and altered the course of humanity for ever.

What would Eve have been thinking when Christ was born?   How wonderful and strange that Salvation was brought into the world via the pain womankind was cursed with after she ate of the fruit.  And of all the people in the history of humanity, it seems she and Adam might have rejoiced at Christ’s birth with a sincerity no one else could match.

So, I’ve written about Christ’s birth from Eve’s prospective.  I worry I took too many liberties with this perspective…I do hope I am theologically sound. But, regardless, writing it allowed me to marvel at another aspect of humanity’s Salvation.

As we continue in the season of Advent, this season of waiting, may we all be gifted with moments that help us to marvel anew at the story we’ve heard so many times before.

Eve Recounts the Birth of Christ

Under the curse
I ushered in, she cried out in agony, startling
the animals who stood awkwardly
around her.  Under the curse
I ushered in, she bit down hard
on the scrap of cloth
Joseph tore from his garment, the drops of sweat
on her brow glinting
in the oil lamp’s faint light. Desperate
to be out from under
the curse I ushered in, she clawed
at the dirt floor, raking bits of broken straw
and hay between her pale fingers. Muscle
and sinew bearing down.  Heart reverberating
in her chest.  The curse I ushered in
relentlessly devouring her strength.
All into the night, it sought to ruin
the one who would usher in
the Blessing.

When she finally collapsed
back into the pillow of linen
and straw, I wept.  And at the sound
of His shrill cry, we danced, Adam & I.
Like two children, wild
and finally, finally free.

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Advent Poem: Week One

In celebration and observation of Advent, which is upon us, I am writing one poem per week that recounts the birth of Christ from an unusual perspective.  I am a bit behind–the first week of Advent is nearly over!  I am finding it difficult to have intelligent thoughts these days.  Characterized by diapers and midnight feedings, my profound thoughts come slowly and sporadically!  But, I managed to eek this one out with one day to spare.

A note to the reader: Bethlehem, in Hebrew, is Bet Lehem, [bet ˈleχem], “House of Bread”

Common as Bread: Bethlehem Recounts the Birth of Christ

My streets are narrow, thin
like a beggar’s limbs and dirty as the beasts
children lead.  Donkey and sheep, dust
and dung.  My women
wear tunics sewn of the plainest
weave, chaff of wheat clinging
like a sad embroidery to the hem.
All day long their daughters
sweep and sigh–a dirt floor’s never
clean.  And my men, hands full
of callouses, not coins.  Once, I was
great. City of David, fortified
and strong.  Now I am a city common
as bread.  Least among the least.
Imagine, then, how I rejoiced
the night I heard His cry.
Common as bread, a baby’s cry.
But not His. His was a song.  The stars
recognized it as the lullaby
they’d been made to.  I knew it
as the psalms my king sang, his harp
like a prophet’s tongue.  In fodder
gathered from my fields lay He
whose new-found breath
gave life to Adam’s lungs.
Born here, a baby, common as bread
broken to feed the hunger of every man.

Perhaps it was only the evening’s moonlight
that made my streets, still narrow
and trod by beasts, glow as if paved
by finest gold.  Perhaps, though,
it was not.

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Of the Yet Unnamed

For those of you who have not heard, our baby has arrived.  Born on October 10th at 12:03pm.  I will disclose more details in the later days (I am still, as Mary, pondering it all in my heart.  His birth was quite miraculous and beautiful and feels deserving of contemplation and time).

And, as many may have noticed, we have not released any public pictures of him.  Not because we are trying to be sneaky or stingy or rude. (Quite the opposite! We are so excited to share his life with you!) We have not shared a photo because, even as I write this, he has no name.  Much to the surprise of my beloved and I, we are completely stumped and so are choosing to wait (quite impatiently) for the appropriate name to find its way to him.

It seems strange to post pictures of an unnamed child.  So, we (and subsequently, you) are waiting.  Sorry about that.

But, I wanted to share a little thing I wrote this afternoon during a gifted moment of quiet. Writing this poem put me at peace with waiting for a name.  Writing this poem made me realize why we don’t have a name yet and why it’s okay that we don’t.  So, until then, let this poem be a foretaste of who this new little creature is.  I promise, there will be pictures eventually.

for our son

All fall, we waited.  Watched ditch
flowers brown, burst.  Tiny seed heads scattered
each time the dog barreled through, nose
to the ground. Finches came, packed
their purple bellies with thistle and left, leaving
the feeders to juncos and jays who possess
no concern for the sanctity of song.  And still,
we waited.  Slipping further from the sun, falling
into patterns of early sleep and late waking, dusk
like dust on curtains and panes.
Dawn’s white puff of deer breath, hoar frost christening
the pine’s sap blisters, smoke slithering slowly
from stovepipes.  All of these things
and still, we waited.
We dreamt no more
of tomatoes ripened on tangle vines or of potatoes
pulled like brilliant thoughts from dark minds.
Aspen relented to gold, maple to azure, then both to rot.
Branches, relieved of weight, scratched sky
in search of something. And when it finally came,
those late October rains,
everything seemed too strange
to speak of, too sacred to even name.





Posted in life, love, Truth | 3 Comments

A Prayer for Blindness

Oh, my little one.

Look there, stretched out in front of you: a world filled with kindness & goodness & startling beauty.   So much light.  So much that, at times, you’ll feel like you can’t breathe.


And yet.  There is a darkness.  And in this darkness, there is so much sadness & injustice & cruelty & hatred.  So much so, that you’ll think the light has been swallowed by the darkness.  And sometimes, it will be so dark you’ll feel like you can’t breathe.

What to do, little one?  I can give myself over to what Light there is.  I can pray that you will, too.  But there will still be darkness.  It will seep into the cracks of the house I’ve built to keep you safe. It will blow through the windows I’ve opened to let in Light.

And this darkness, it will hurt you.  And it will hurt me.  And it will hurt our neighbors and our friends and all of the 7 billion people who call this strange world home.

And because we are already hurting, it will be so easy to hurt each other more.  It will become as easy as breathing.

So.  I pray for you every night.  I pray the obvious prayers every mother prays for her child: safety, companionship, opportunity.  I love you and I want these things for you.  But when I really contemplate what it is I want for you, these things, these good and worthy things, fall away and I find myself pleading simply for this: a love that is blind.

Not love that is blind to differences.  Differences are to be noticed.  Because they are beautiful and worth exploring and celebrating and loving for their own sakes.

Not love that is blind to reality.  There is no excuse for a love-struck fool who parades around in an alter-universe where injustice does not exist.  It does exist and love demands that you address it.

Not love that is blind to your own shortcomings.  You have many.  You were born into sin as surely as I was.  As surely as each human is.  Do not be blinded (and therefore, ruined) by self-love.

My prayer for you is to possess a love that is blind to everything that would tempt you to not love. 

A love that is blind to fear.  Refuse to let fear into your line of sight.  Fear is the fuel of darkness and it will consume you like a terrible fire.

A love that is blind to ignorance.  See it only long enough to shun it.  Then learn everything you can about what you don’t understand.  As with fear, darkness thrives on ignorance.

A love that is blind to hatred.  Hatred is a sly and cunning serpent whose lies can sometimes look like truth.  Be blind to these lies and you will never mistake them for truth.

A love that is blind to apathy.  Don’t do nothing.  Be radical in your actions, so long as they are gilded, girded and controlled by that which blinds you in the first place.

A love that is blind as Christ was blind.  Jesus, whose eyes I want you (and me) to have, saw only the Redemptive Promise that shimmered in the farthest corner of the darkness. He kept his eyes fixed on It, even as He was fixed to a cross.  Had He shifted His gaze to anything else, had He let Himself be blinded by anything other than Perfect, Redemptive Love, darkness would have won.

But He didn’t.  And darkness didn’t win .  And it won’t win.  Because there is a Shimmer and it is growing.  And if you fix your eyes on it, if you are blind to everything but this, it will guide you perfectly in the ways of Love.

This, little one, this kind of blindness is my prayer for you and for all 7 billion people who call this strange world home.



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In Praise of the Horizon

I live alongside a mysterious lake.  With volume enough to cover all of North and South American in a foot of water, Lake Superior is staggeringly in size, beauty and inspiration. Her scene changes daily: one day there are waves large enough to crash over the break walls of the harbor, the next day a perfect mirror reflects every cloud that passes overhead.

On this particular day, the day we were driving home from a family wedding in Iowa, the water couldn’t seem to tell itself from the sky.  Out my window was a blur of serene white, with no distinction between lake and atmosphere.  The two, stitched together with an invisible, binding thread, were like an obsessive thought that had no end.

To see the lake this way, undefined and virtually lost, was disorienting.  When my eyes span the vastness that hems in 150 miles of Minnesota, I expect to see the horizon, the edge that tells my brain here is the end of one thing and the beginning of the next.  When I don’t see it, I feel as lost and undefined as the water appears.


Because, as much as I might seem to be a free-spirit (whatever that means!) and as much as I am a person who appreciates days without agenda and home decor whose theme is ‘a lack thereof’, I have a deep and relentless need for boundaries.

I need to know one thing from the other.

I’ve learned that if I don’t know where I end and where my husband (my daughter, my friends, my family, my neighbor, etc.) begins, I lose myself and make poor decisions.  (I could dedicate an entire blog to my personal history’s outlandish examples of this!)

If I don’t know where the tragic news that defines our world’s reality ends and where God’s sovereignty begins, I am easily swallowed up and consumed by fear.

If I don’t know where tomorrow begins (all its demands & expectations) and where today ends, I become hopelessly blind to today’s moments of beauty, every small joy-detail, every fragile leaf that flutters in the ever-present breeze of grace.

If it all becomes a blur, I am lost.

This is a dire matter, as far as I’m concerned.  Because if I’m not careful, if I’m not vigilant about knowing this from that in the small things, I’m confident I won’t be able to tell this from that in the grand scheme.  If I can’t tell today from tomorrow, how can I be trusted to know the difference between truth & lie, immense life & utter death, the heart’s freedom & its enslavement?

This is a dire matter because this broken world is wrought with forces bent on blurring the horizon line between these crucial opposites. And left to its own devices, this heart of mine is bent on permitting this blur to such an extent that when I survey the vastness, no distinction can be made between these critical polars.

I trust the reader to understand the severity of the situation without the writer waxing poetic on the dangers of a heart not recognizing the distinction.


Before compasses, sailors relied on the horizon and a star’s finger-width distance from it to navigate accurately.  No horizon, no latitude measurement, no sure way of knowing which direction to go.  The horizon was also, and still is, a stalwart and unmoving assurance that helped keep the sailor’s stomach from churning right along with the waves. And I can imagine a horizon line was the promise that made them feel safe.  Like the strong arms of a mother around a scared child, the four walls of a house during a storm.

My journey as a human on this earth is akin to that of a sailor on an open-sea voyage. Where there is no horizon line to keep me sane and assured, there is only confusion, sickness and a desperate, fruitless clamoring to not get lost.

Fortunate for all of us on this rolling, watery tide called human existence, there is a Horizon.  And just because there is a force that delights in blurring Its edge, its existence is not negated.   Look for it.  Ask to see it.  Trust that it is there.

Then keep your eye steadily, determinedly on It.  Because where there is no Truth, no blessed assurance of salvation, no Promise Kept, there is only a vastness of lies, dashed hopes & death determined to ruin the vessel and drown the sailor.

The Horizon is the necessary distinction.



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On a Day Like Today

Holding this little chick in her little hand this morning, this little girl said, “When I hold them, I feel so much aliveness.”

IMG_9135On a day that felt brutally like any other, filled simultaneously with the tragic horrors of our current world and the monotonies of cleaning and breakfast/lunch/dinner.  On a day that was gray when I wanted sun.  On a day when I looked outside and realized my yard was actually a rowdy park for overgrown dandelions and Canadian thistle.   On a day when I’m not moving on to a new place when everyone else around me seems to be doing just that.  On a day when I moped around, mop in hand, and felt sorry for myself because who am I and what am I actually doing with my time on this side of eternity? 

On a day like that, I needed to hear those words from my unpretentious 5-year old more than I needed water or air.

Because, on days like today, my habit is to forget everything worth remembering.

Things like the importance of holding this day in my hand and saying “I feel so much aliveness in it!”

When she said those words, she meant: I feel their potential and their possibility and their promise.  I feel the importance of being right here, right now, witnessing this. 

She is so wise.  And for all my attempts to train her “in the way she should go”, I am ever humbled when she comes along side me and redirects my wayward path back to Truth, back to a narrow way filled with Light.

“At that time Jesus declared, ‘I praise You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because You have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was well-pleasing in Your sight.'”  Matthew 11:25-26



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Seagull By Nature

This past week, my beloved in-laws were in town for a visit.  And, please, where I state beloved, read no sarcasm.  They are indeed beloved to me and as amiable a couple as can be found on the wide earth. A visit from them is a delight, an honor and a much anticipated event.

During a rare moment when Sparrow was not vying for Grandma’s undivided attention, my sweet mother-in-law, Linda, and I lingered over coffee at a local shop in town. Fortunate to have caught the otherwise rainy June sky in a state of sun, we sat outside and relished in the sights of the harbor.  Moored sailboats bobbed like apples in the calm water.  People ambled along the narrow path leading to the lighthouse whose paint and vibrance has worn thin by wind and too many tourist snapshots.

We spoke about critical things and nonsensical things; of love and its rewards and subsequent heartaches; of marriage and friendship and childrearing; of regrets and unequivocal grace.

And then we turned our attention to the sky.  Overhead, a seagull was attempting to chase a bald eagle out of its harbor territory.  Likely trying to protect its young, the seagull was relentless, pursuing the eagle so high into the sky’s endlessness that we could barely make out their silhouettes.  The eagle was ambivalent, easily staying just ahead of the seagull until it finally grew bored and exited the scene.

We went back to talking.  Moments later, the eagle returned and the whole desperate escapade resumed.  We watched the same scene at least three different times, each chase ending with the eagle disappearing only long enough for us earth-bound mortals to snag a sip of coffee and give our eyes a break from the sun’s glare.


Likely, I should’ve been disgusted with the eagle.  And in a way, I was.  What despicable behavior to taunt a desperate seagull determined to protect it’s young.  But, it was the birds’ movements that struck me.  For every nonchalant pulse of the eagle’s enormous wings, the poor seagull frantically flapped.  While the eagle effortlessly soared on invisible air currents, the seagull’s wings beat ceaselessly, pounding the air in search of a strength it never seemed to find.  The difference between the two birds was stark and staggering.

I will admit this: I’ve spent most of my life being a graceless seagull.  If you know me well, you will nod in agreement.  My default setting is frantic flapping; I find it virtually impossible to effortlessly soar.

And yet, I’m promised the ability.  I’m not sure how many times I’ve heard, read, written or sung the phrase from Isaiah 40 that assures that those who wait on the Lord will soar on wings like eagles.  But somehow, I’ve missed what this verse actually implies. Maybe it’s because the unfortunate counterpart to the eagle is missing.  If the verse had said “those who wait on the Lord will soar while those who choose to wait on their own strength, ability or gumption will tirelessly flap their wings like a seagull,” then maybe it would have dawned on me.

Or maybe I missed the implication because I just don’t want to admit that there is a better way to move through this life.

Those who wait on the Lord will soar.  They won’t be free of worry or heartache or tragedy or hardship or boredom or discouragement or, to be more concise, free of reality. But they won’t have to work so damn hard to get through whatever life is currently handing out.

He will exchange our inadequate, puny seagull wings with wings that can ride the air currents of His mighty strength.  

I’ve made a bad habit of control; it’s my drug and I’m disgustingly addicted.  I read once that gambling addicts will gamble in their sleep and wake up unaware of their behavior. I’ve been on this earth for 33 years and, looking back with honesty, I can say I’m right up there with my sleep-gambling friends.  Control and desperate attempts to muster through life on the merit of my own strength has defined me.  Just ask my mom.  Just ask my husband.  Just ask the God who sees everything I do.

So when I read this promise I think: Sweet relief.  Yes please. And then I immediately think how can I pull that off?  Oh irony!  Oh helpless human who doesn’t see the obvious error in her ways!  I can’t pull it off.  To pull it off myself would be to rely, as per usual, on my own strength.

But if I can’t do it myself, I’m not exactly sure how to do to it.  Maybe it’s as simple as waking every morning and asking pleading for my strength to fall away so that I will have no choice but to rely on His.

If I do this, I have a hunch He will do it.  My experience is that this prayer, the refine me, Oh Lord prayer is one that He answers almost instantly.  Just utter the words make me reliant on You and, if you have your eyes open, you’ll begin to see evidence of His response.

And, if you’re anything like me, when you start to panic and are tempted to revert toward bad habits of control and frantic flapping , meditate on the few verses previous, when the prophet reminds the reader that “The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.”  

My lack of understanding in His ability doesn’t render it less true or less possible or less wonderful.  Regardless of my opinion on the matter, His current can carry me.

Here’s to shedding my inner seagull.

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Eve, On Desire.

Over here, in the corner of my mind where I try to write poems that matter & poems that aren’t autobiographical (I’m sick of myself!), I’ve been pondering the idea of writing poems from the perspective of Bible characters.

Writing a poem in the perspective of another character allows, even requires, that the character become real to the writer (and hopefully the reader).  I often forget that the characters in the Bible were real and as a result, I usually fail to learn from them.  It seems an awful shame not to learn from the men & women whose lives help to tell the love story of the God I worship.  So, in an effort to make the characters come alive, I’m going to put forth an effort to write their lives in poem form.  Maybe I will learn a thing or two. Maybe you will,  too.  Maybe in studying those who came before us, we’ll learn more about the God who goes before us.  The God who was, is and ever more will be.

What do you think of this idea?  Have any of you done anything like this?  If so, would you be willing to share your character sketches?

Here’s my first, a short poem inspired by a comment my pastor made about desire and Eve’s tragic mismanagement of it.  It strikes me that her desire to see what wasn’t yet hers to see left all of us unable to see at all.  What a grave and horrible reality humankind as endured a result of her desire to know right now.  It leads me to consider where in my life I am guilty of pushing and prodding to see and know more than what God has given me right now. How does this practice hurt me?  How does it hurt those around me?


On its branch, the fruit
was nothing.
In my palm, it was a galaxy

and I needed
to see the stars up close.

Oh, how my retinas burned.

until all the children
went blind.


Artwork by: Denis Nunez Rodriguez


Posted in art, Truth, writing | 3 Comments