Arms of Dawn

Loving you was running from Sunset.
There (in a sense) I could not want you,
as I knew I should.
I sent you to die, raging
against it.
You stood (still) as I ran, as earth
tilted
away.
You let me go.
I saw you grow brighter
in corners of my eyes,
behind my head
I would not turn
(I would not look at you boldly,
you in the death I sent you to.).
I was a solid shadow growing night against
unmoving ember: your face
watching.
I ran through darkness and knew you,
the quiet cinder of full, fall,
dusk.


I am fallen in the arms of Dawn.

(specific question: what is this about? is it too obvious? or is my use of the vocabulary that I grew up in sound natural and not forced or awkward?)

Waiting

Waiting

Introduction: Straight Lines Considered and Explained in Straight Lines
I have spent the summer in certain thought. I have stood on the beach and considered the philosophical grandeur of God. I have eaten good food and argued over fellowship. I have disagreed with many things. I have spent time taking copious, well considered, articulate course notes. I have defended my position and adopted new ones. I have read "Engaging God's World" with every ounce of concentration I had to give. I have browsed through Byron's world of Christian nonfiction. The lines of my thinking were clearly drawn and neatly colored between. I have colored accurately by number. I have thought in straight lines.
I told no stories. I spoke no poems. No words came in the fullness of life, the engagement of my mind, the growing of my arms and legs. I have not thought in color but had some clear lines drawn. I was waiting. I was tired. I am tired so that I am still explaining this to you, my reader, in prose. You are listening as I take you through my thinking, through the lines, through the process. And now it is time for an incarnation of this (I am waving my arms towards you, towards us, towards our invisible friendship). I need to say things in a different way. I need to take these thoughts and remember them in moments, in senses, in details. I need to say The Gospel in a way that is not always clear, but simply exists. Is. Does. And I ask that you wait patiently with me in the stories that bring life.

Before the Fridge
I wonder whether life exists beyond the kitchen. My back slides down the front door of the fridge. I see the grimy edges. I did not sweep well last night. An ant crawls with a crumb in its mouth. The juice sloshed out of the pitcher and down the front door. The sink and dishwasher are running, trying to keep our messes clean. My fingers and mouth are sticky with chocolate and cookies. I am drinking the last of the milk straight from the jug. We talk about brother and sisterhood. Inhabiting time and space as our home, our walls, our roof, our air, rather than feeling incessant movement erode life into hours, into minutes, into seconds. There is glory in our floor sitting.

Hospitality
enough rooms and enough chairs and enough tables and enough food.
Small house. Never getting bigger. But the people
always
fit.

The Guard Box
The box where the guards guard against joy teaches how to fly. Sit very still and look out into the dark. Listen to the sound that is no sound. Taste the taste that is no taste (only in memory). Stretch out arms. Do not close eyes. Wait. Wait till a wave so full of itself and strains at the edges that it rushes under your feet and around your house. Watch as it pulls under you and behind you and toward the shore and the buildings man has built near death. Breath deeply. And it will turn. It will turn though it tries not to. It pulls out under you and you will see the ocean race away from you, and feel as if it carries you in its arms. Know then, that you are flying .No questioning or you break the spell. Know only. Know that you have been carried away through air and salt and water, a living baptism, in the guard box against joy.

And the boundaries of the world hold still.

Audacity (a psalm in response to Moses and mediation)

God, I am sitting here, banging on my steering wheel.
Who will take me to my God? Who will speak for me in His presence?
He is not listening.
(I shout. No words. Just a shout. I hit the steering wheel)
Where are you? Do you not here, Oh God of Justice?
Yes, I feel sarcastic. I am desperate.
What if you tell us no? What if you tell me no?
I ask, I demand.
you must remember us! Are you my God that you forget us?
You must remember. You must remember your promise to
protect
uphold
to be the God of salvation.

Victory... I cannot even say that word.
My God, my God, remember your glory.
My God, My God,
I am yelling. Are you listening?

Silence.

Remember. You have called us your beloved. Your church.
Abraham. Remember him? You promised to uphold and to
save. To save those who remained.
Remember now. Remember the hopeless.
You are the God of the hopeless. Do not abandon now. Remember.

Remind me. Remind me that in the failure I expect that you
alone
are God.
From You
alone
I hear no answer.
From You
alone
I deserve none.

Walk I: Confusion over Clarity
"I don't understand clarity. I don't know what to do."
My voice was thin. It strained in a hot
New Jersey sun off the fading wooden boards.
I answered a question that I didn't have an answer to.
My legs cut angrily at the confinement of the skirt.
My hands swept dramatic circles in visible humidity, ripples and wakes left behind.
They slapped ripples into the ocean sweat
Sweat began to move down my back
in the New Jersey sun off the fading wooden boards.
I tripped over a tourist as I moved salty hair
out of my burning eyes.
My own ocean rain came from my eyes.
I brushed them away and stood straighter
and waved my hands more, swimming for understanding.
I held confusion at arms length, tredding,
and it tired me.
She leant her head forward and back. She looked at me
without expression. She asked questions.
My hands stopped moving.
I stood still.
Nothing solved, but clarified by walking

Walk II: Womanhood
Restlessness is a drink that flows easily in blood.
Nightime and Wakefulness are its makers.
Confusion and Desperation are its sisters.

We took the lit pathway of the boards
(they were slippery with the unnatural
act of the sky, raining. It shouldn't rain
on things such as boardwalks.)
It rained on us. Our backs were wet.
There was not a silence or awareness.
Our bodies strained ahead against wind and rain and disappearing tourists.
Our words marked the walking of a summer.
Our legs went faster strength entered memory
and became story.
Two shadows of a familiar story walked stride to stride.
Two shadows with the same earnest voice,
one of learning, one of wisdom.
Grace given. "We are alike
but you do not have to choose
what I did."
It was closure.

Restlessness is a drink that flows easily in blood.
Walking in dark, driven by sound of shadowed voices
heals.

In Defense of Kent
Light green. Light touch. It folds away and twists away
like palm trees in a hurricane.
Foamy, thick. What a satisfying smack it makes against Kent's head.
I giggle.
I continue thudding its weight on his head
He wimpers, "I had surgery!"
I continue thudding.
Two thin arms, one this face, one shrill voice rush between the swinging
instrument. "Stop, stop! Don't hurt him!"
My insides tighten and burst across my face.
"Don't hurt him! Don't hurt anyone!"
The small arms, stringy brown hair, rush away
and hide behind their mother's distraction.
I lower my weapon. My mouth hangs slightly open.
I bend at the waist because I cannot breath. I am laughing.

Kent considers. He tilts his face.
He squints his eyes and strokes his invisible beard.
He "hmms."
"I think there might be Jesus in this somewhere, Dana Ray."

Another Brokenness (on marriage)

I do not look at my mother.
She is driving.
We are talking.
I hear things.
I hear stories.
I am knowing brokenness.
The light of the green Pennsylvania hills
makes an incongruant beauty, to our honesty.
I see the relationship that gave me breath
ache and bend and break
and fight to stay alive.
This, too, He has redeemed.

There was a letter
This, too, He has redeemed.


I wanted brothers.
I was the oldest of girls.
I did not know familiarity.

This, too, He has redeemed.

Waiting
Wait, I say, on the Lord
Too many things to do today! I need to figure out where I'm living my senior year and then I need to call Maggie and see what is up with the apartment. I need to call Elizabeth and figure out RA training and, woah, I have to do a thesis soon. And then there is cooking tonight. I hope I don't kill Jeremy. I'm thinking too much at work. Will my boss figure that out and fire me? What if I mess up the money again? I have a day off tomorrow. I hope someone hangs out with me. I can't write anymore! What happened? Will my family move? What is going on there? So much brokenness. Hannah comes to Penn State this year. I should try to get her connected before she gets there. I need to go home more. I need to rest more. Pete just called and I couldn't answer. I hope everything is okay for dinner still. What about hanging out with Katie latter... will she harp on me again about letting my identity in Christ be supreme? Oh my gosh! That kid was almost run over on his bike! Chris almost got run over the other day when we were biking. Did I pull the chicken out to thaw? Will we make enough food for everyone at dinner? Oh goodness. Why don't I get paid more? How am I supposed to get a car someday? Will I need a car? What am I going to do when I graduate? I should fix that display over there...

Or...
I could
just
wait.

Jeremy Eschleman
It was the kitchen
over boiling noodles and mishappen
cheesey milk that I began
to panic.
We were covered in our own sweat
from the ovens that would not boil
the cheesey milk.
My stomach was pinched as a mother grips the end of a thread to make it fit the coming needle's eye.
I (helpless) watched
as our dinner began to come undone in goopiness.
(I dislike cooking. I always cut myself).
My eyes effectively threw needle darts into his bristled hair
poised above the pot with a spoon and a careless look.
I whimpered at how my weapons were nonchalantly repelled.
Beneath the counter, I slumped in failure.
I pretended to ignore
the laughter
as my great enemy saw our disaster mounting.
He smirked. My eyes beamed ineffective death wishes.

Tables set. Pots set out. Plates served.
I turn, helpless, into a hug.
"I'm sorry Dana," the great perpetrator said.
"You shouldn't worry so much."
I push him away and throw water on him from what is left in my cup.
He is right.


Conclusion: Sleeping
I am sleeping. I am deep in sleep. I am dreaming. And I hear voices and someone said my name. I didn't quite hear it but I can feel myself shifting. There is this vague awareness of my body attached to the dream physicallity I carry. I shift again. More voices. I start to understand their words and my eyes from the dream are dark and I start to come up. I hear them talking and I know that I will wake very soon. But not quite yet. It is coming. I am reluctant. I know that when I will awake, it will be time to work hard and long and that joy will be required of me. I hesitate. Waking hurts every time and the lethargic weight of my existence sits heavy in my bones. But I will wake. I will move. I will answer the voice that speaks my name and makes my existence. I will follow and push through the rest. And in those days of painful waking, I will return in renewal. I will carry on the redemption. I will push and practice and seek and grow weary and never faint. I will wait in patience, purchased for me. I will be glad to be awake and delight to know.
Waiting for the sleep to ebb hurts.

PS. I told Alex that I would put her and the ice bags in my capstone. And here they are.

From A Lucy Barfield

Once upon a time
I pulled down the set of paper
treasures. Their covers, smooth, light,
box like figures of trees and castles and swords.
I pretended I could read,
telling the stories of the pictures
that headed each chapter.
Beavers spoke (of course!)
and children wielded swords.
The old paper backs, binding torn, pages
marked and missing.

(They smell of aged ink, of story,
when you place your nose between the pages and
breathe).

Mom and Dad read them to each other,
before I came,
when they were first married,
when the sounds of each other’s voices still seemed
new.

I sat on the couch behind Mom, head bent, weight
pressed into her back.
She didn’t like it when I leant over her shoulder so--
but I could hear the pictures better
when I could see the words.
Fauns, snow, trees, lamposts
The Wardrobe and the Witch and The Lion,
with puddles and pictures that took you to
Other Worlds.
I prayed that God would take me there
before I was too old.

I have dusted off your book, Godfather Lewis,
and have grown old enough to be
young again.

April on Pugh Street

I: Morning

Today the rain is coming slowly,
in light, warm sheets.
It feels (almost) warm against my window, while I
pull the taught edges of blankets fast and firm
under my body, crossed through my arms
head turned away from grayish light.
I pretend to continue sleeping.
The rain slows and I know that I
promised to help the garden in the morning.
The wind picks up and assures
unrest.
I imagine the Mountain,
hid in mist and cloud and rain

(oh just one more) day of heat and blue;
starting all over again the descent into fall and winter.
Or is it, rather, that fall and winter are the slow, dreadful
walk into this moment, this waking up,
now?

II: Gardening

I lean into the shovel as a directed,
a tool foreign to my hands.
a new pen to blank paper.
I am ready to live with simple sounds and shapes,
all in order
to make green things come out
of nothing.
We spend two hours on the
Trelice for the pea plants,
Perfectly aligned with its twin.
I hold the iron post while they
hammer it into the wet earth.
It hurts my hands and ears.
We cut wire and hold fast the trelice
to the post.
(I have never cut wire before)
“Isn’t it good do something real?”
we say.

And in the last minute of work,
gloriously covered in mud,
I plant the peas,
pushing them half
an inch
into
the ground.
I sing to them as they disappear.

III: Carrying

They kept their chickens in a chalet coup that
Chris designed himself last summer.
Six chickens. All named.
Their daughter Katie, age 3, collects the eggs
each morning; brown, warm, fitting comfortably
in the palm of your hand until you hold too many--
and then things feel perilous!
He fills both hands with eggs,
five in all. My hands are dry,
crusted with wet dirt, numb,
distantly noticing the feel
of odd life through the shell.
“How shall I carry them?” I ask.
“In your pocket. They will be fine!” he answers.
No oven to cook on, no pan,
no salt, no pepper, no butter.
I step carefully, consciously.
It seems the most wonderful thing in the world
to carry eggs, just laid,
in my coat pocket,
a mile
as I walk.

Seattle (as a poem

We breathed, slowly,
from one space into another, weariness opening eyes on peace.
We ate raspberries and blueberries and baklava
in a forgotten side-street Turkish restaurant.
We took pictures of shapes and faces, watching people
throw fish in the market.
We meandered through pristine book shelves and marveled at fountains,
delighting in strange alleyways, overhung with green vines.
We whispered growth through summer heat, laughing at simple colours
and sun off the glass sky scrapers.
We stood in the doorway of the coffee house and watched the sun begin
to set over Puget Sound.

We saw Seattle.

Sunday Tea at Erskine College

There is no order to the pristine
mugs, lined on the cherry shelves,
keeping time with the silent mobility of drifting dust.
“Would you care to choose a mug?” My host, bowtie,
in humble formality, fixed beneath his chin.
I find a hand-crafted mug that fits with ease within my cupped palms
Slowly, he pours the heated earth, singing, to the lip.

My feet reach toward laziness,
toes curled comfortably in disuse.
I lean my head towards the blue rim;
steam lilts into my nose from the
red earth tea. A German rooibus with vanilla.
I drink it straight: no milk, no sugar.
I breathe down to feel steam form
dragon smoke in my eyes.
My fingers curl, pressed pink and singed along
the curved ceramic handle.

Open space is lost, person by person, filling the
corners and open chairs. We make space,
slowly, focusing on holding our tea still,
unmoved (It burns when it slips over the side,
onto my hand).
It is our Sunday ritual.
Laughter. We will not remember
why later. Just laughter. Just (beautiful)
inconsequence in each word.
The mugs are refilled for each.
The pot of tea is gone.

Communion

I

And he took the cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Matthew 26:27-28

That I should eat my cracker.
That I should drink my plastic thimble full of red juice.
That I should pray earnestly for the forgiveness of sins.
The clear steel of the plates, lined with purple felt,
light and cool to the touch, heavy weight in my hands.
The heavy terror of the cups, circled on the bulky tray.
The frantic grasp of the thimble
just out of my small reach and clumsy fingers,
handed to me by Mother. What if I should spill it
this time?
My dress will stain. I balance it in my lap and
look deeply at the overhead lights
drowned in blood.
It leaves a strange aftertaste in my mouth.
I am (still) hungry.

II

And he took the bread and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” Luke 22:19

So I eat my bread.
So I sip my juice. All of it.
So I let slide into my body the atoms of
another meaning, as I pray earnestly and am forgiven.
The clear touch of plates, (passed from my neighbor
down the row) I hand the cracker to my
little brother. My fingers do not falter.
My arms are strong enough to hold it.
We eat.
The crumbs moving under the crushing of my teeth;
the dusty taste of substance
left along my teeth.
Each by each take and eat
in remembrance.
Atoms through each body, the same.
I am (now) filled.

Finished

After three and a half months, the chronicle of my summer is now completed. There are no more stories to tell. I have remembered all that there were to remember and they are written in a series of four word documents resting on my desktop. Three and a half months of occasional writing and documentation, reliving, laying to rest.

It is now fully at rest. It has been in many ways for a long time. But now the physical remembering can now be laid to rest.

The volume of words astonishes me. I had no idea that I could find that much to say about anything in single spaced pages. I am grateful to have done so though I wonder now why I felt that I had to. 48 pages of remembering. What will I find there in the years to come? I have practiced story telling in those pages. I have practiced describing characters and situations. Even those pages have been very weak representations of the personalities, quirks, jokes, laughter, of those on my team. This it the first time I have ever tried to do something like this... perhaps, someday, the characters will live in other words, in other stories, other than the ones they made themselves. Maybe someday, I'll write a story about the real people who lived with me over nine weeks, even the four I was not there. Because I was in some ways.

But. It is closed.

Springtime Indiana by Sandra McCracken

Springtime Indiana
Sandra Mccracken: Acoustic Guitar, Vocals A lovesong, of course. Written while driving. Six verses about having nothing to say...
Springtime Indiana
You are sleeping by my side
Here across the miles we ramble
Past where the road divides
I wish I could tell you…but I just can’t find the words

I’ve never been good with my thoughts
And even worse with my words
But you read like familiar poetry
That I have never heard…
I wish I could tell you…but I just can’t find the words

So let’s move across the ocean
And pitch the tent stakes wide
You be the one to come after me
And I will be your bride…
I wish I could tell you…but I just can’t find the words

I am all at once courageous
I am all at once afraid
It came over me like nightfall
Like a freight train
I can’t seem to hold it in
But I can’t seem to run away

You came in without notice
And settled all around my heart
Took up residence in all the places
That were vacant and dark…
I wish I could tell you…but I just can’t find the words

Springtime Indiana
You are starting to wake
And I am laden with the thoughts
Of everything I mean to say
I wish I could tell you,
But I just can’t find the words.

Seattle

We saw Seattle. We walked slowly, meandering from one place to another. It was restful and gentle. We ate raspberries and blueberries and watched people throw fish in the market. We walked and walked and took interesting pictures and ate baklava at a Turkish restaurant we came across. We discussed the differences in guys and girls small groups and the differences in leading them; what we had learned and grown through in the summer heat. We laughed at Pegors child like humor and delight in life. Alysia leaned on my shoulder, weak from her sickness and we learned from each other. We meandered through bookstores and marveled at fountains and delighted in strange alleyways and the sun off the glass sky scrapers. We stood in the doorway of the first Starbucks and watched the sun begin to set over Puget Sound.

It was a prayer.