November 30 Advent Day One - Hope

Advent is the time to light candles and wait for the God who comes. Lately, the darkness has swallowed my words and has numbed my fingers as they seek to write the words that cannot escape from my throat. My words have been washed in darkness but now, slowly, tentatively, they will emerge again and keep me company as I wait for the child to come. Today's theme is Hope.


The darkness is thick and
I cannot see my hands clasped in in front of my face
While I pray in and through the darkness
Waiting and looking for the light to break through like the dawn

These same hands outstretched in worship
Waiting for the God who comes

One hand outstretched
   hand balled up in a clenched fist
   fighting against the dark
   striking at things that cannot be seen
   swinging in the darkness
     praying to connect from my position of power
     praying that I don't hit something unseen that will
        smash my outstretched fist into useless bits
     
The other hand outstretched
      waiting with a painkilling pill
         in the center of my palm
           burning a hole in my hand
             daring me to bring the hand to my mouth
                 and swallow the pill that will kill the pain
                 

Two hands outstretched in the darkness
     one fighting because there is hope
        one outstretched waiting for the replacement
          hoping for some relief

Both hands clasped together
in the posture of prayer
Fighting, waiting, and hoping
For the God who will come

finally free

His fingertips understood her alphabet 

and he read the braille that was her skin 

no words were required 

only the healing that comes from a touch

 a touch that knows that it is also receiving

 as well as giving 

a touch that remembers 

the last time 

and anticipates the next 

his fingertips gently pressing 

along her cheekbone 

her tears washing over his fingernails 

his steady hand remained alongside her jaw

 and his other hand pressed gently 

      on her shoulder 

            reassuring her 

                that he was always there 

                         whether physically present 

                              or not 

he could feel the tension in her 

and he knew to wait 

    he knew to wait 

until the tension rolled 

up from her toes 

through her legs 

around her abdomen 

 into her chest and 

finally came out of her mouth 

in heaving racking sobs 

he had not caused the pain 

but with her in his hands 

he felt it 

he felt all of the pain 

that was coursing through her body 

he could not take it away 

nor did he try 

but 

he did the noble thing 

he shared it 

he neither diminished  

nor denied  

he merely stood 

holding her 

her shelter 

   in this particular storm 

he had promised to protect her 

and here he was 

fulfilling his promise 

finally she was able 

to let it all go 

finally she found a way 

to stop carrying it 

by herself 

finally 

she believed that he loved her 

as he had always promised 

and finally 

she was free to love him back 

A stack of letters

I wrote a stack of letters to her. 

She is a tiny girl with three ponytails with the hair woven neatly into braids clipped on the ends with plastic ducks, bears and hearts. They always match her clothes. Her mother puts the clear plastic balls around the base of the ponytails as a cover to the colorful rubber bands  that hold the evenly distributed hair in place. Her scalp is clean and shows only the light glisten of the blue hair pomade from the small rounded pyramid shaped container. It smells kind of sweet. I think it's called bergamot.  I remember the scent and when it hits me now, I feel comforted like I did when I sat in that hard plastic chair while my mother put those parts and braids in my own hair. 

She is slim and wears pants with elastic in the waist because otherwise, they will fall off of her tiny frame. Her thin feet struggle to carry Mary Janes because they are made for wide little girl feet. Hers are narrow and long. She will grow up being reminded that she has big feet; feet too big for her body. They are actually the perfect feet for her frame. She will figure that out eventually. 

She hears that her hair is too nappy and that she should have had hair like her mother instead of like her father. She chose - as if it were scientifically possible - to have her father's slim physique, his hair texture, his smarts and to some extent, his coloring. She did not choose any of her mother's lighter, brighter attributes. She is reminded of it at every opportunity. Each time, the words take a little scrape of her protective skin as if for a strange sort of biopsy. She will develop a thicker skin, but it will take a long time to get there. 

I wrote her a stack of letters.  I wrote a stack of letters in an attempt to thicken that skin. I wrote to her to help her remember herself before she decides that forgetting herself is the most viable option.  It is not easy to repair what is not yet broken but hindsight is a valuable gift. 

I wrote her a stack of letters on handmade paper. Pink paper. The pink paper with the visible fibers. The pink paper which I put in a drawer with a cotton ball soaked in my signature scent. That way, she will know what  I smell like. She will know that the scent is not merely perfume but it is part of her older self. She will be able to taste the scent on the back of her tongue where the scent leaves her nose and travels toward her throat. She will remember me though she has not met me. She will see glimpses of her future self and become something even better! She will hear and read and smell and experience that love that she longs for. She will be swaddled in it. 

I included audio clips for her ears to take in the sound of my voice. I drew pictures and included photos so that she might find herself in her future self.  She will see, taste, smell, hear and touch the future. She will find herself inextricably tied to the love of her older self. She needs that love. That will resolve many of her issues. She will find that there is a kind of love that supersedes everything else in life. she will learn how to experience love and also to give love. She will teach others how to love as well. She will become the model for loving and for love itself. That's what the world needs and she will be equipped to give it. I love her already. She is here and she is becoming and she is loved. She is loved in ways that cannot be described just yet. She is already being perfected in love. Love of self. Love of others. Love of life!!

I love her enough to tell her about herself so that she can become more of herself. That’s love.