They kept telling us the rapture was coming. They said we needed to be saved, to join their church, to evangelize to all our non-believer friends. They called us non-believers and never took the time to listen to what we do believe, after all everybody believes something.
Then they had their “last chance” worship service. They said everyone was invited but fifteen minutes after the service started a dozen or more non-church members came back out of the church. They reported that the church members had told them if they weren't ready to join the church and testify their belief in the imminent rapture they were beyond saving and no longer needed to be there.
Perhaps it was morbid curiosity, or just an excuse to party, but while the church members prayed their way to rapture the rest of us ate, drank, talked and laughed. It was ironic the way the tension of disagreement and arguing about beliefs dispelled that night. Everyone who knew they were going to be raptured was in church busy praying, and the rest of us were willing to accept each other as we were.
Some of us kept looking over at the door to the church to see if and when they were going to come out thumping their Bibles, but they never did. In fact some of us were out all night and nobody ever left the church. And nobody went in looking for them. They might have been right but it was much more peaceful without them.
This post was written for Flash Fiction Friday.
I walk a path unknown,
but really more familiar,
bare foot in the grass,
cold beneath my feet,
sneakers crunching over gravel,
in the heat of summer,
weathered paths,
pulling me,
away from the world,
and closer to God,
to holiness and wholeness.
Prompt: These are the things I saved.
Bits and projects,
stones and shells,
a stack of tee shirts,
I won't ever wear again,
a million papers,
my best artwork,
middle school essays,
my high school portfolio,
“important stuff”
that means nothing to me
- tax forms and pay stubs
from old jobs
snips of writing,
quotes from random places
- most I've forgotten why I saved,
but still make me smile,
relics of childhood,
and teenage years,
stuff in itself unimportant,
yet glued to precious memories.
Waiting...
Waiting...
is it done yet?
If only saying,
I is hungry,
put something yummy,
on the table,
right now.
The poem below is written in honor of April begin sexual assault awareness month. Most people never talk about these things, but you probably know at least one person who has lived this. Women and men, young and old, all demographic of people are both directly and indirectly effected by sexual assault, but many will never tell their stories. Would you be willing to listen if they did?
trigger warning: this poem talks about sexual assault.
One touch
He wanted her
led to another
his hands across her skin
she didn't like it
he'd get what he wanted
pushing away
he liked her feisty
only encouraged him
he'd take what he wanted
to get what he wanted
despite her tears.
despite her pain.
Mirror mirror,
on the wall,
tell me why,
my looks are yours?
Does it matter if I'm pretty,
if my face is perfect?
Don't look at me like that.
Close your eyes,
take a step back,
don't look so close,
and you'll see more.
Are you listening,
in the night,
as I whisper,
secret fears?
This is when,
I should be sleeping.
I can tell,
because I cry,
when I catch you,
closing eyes,
and drifting off,
to that elusive,
land of sleep.
Falling spring flower petals,
blanket the ground with white,
soft reminds of sparkling snow,
cool and delicate in the warmth,
of spring times gentle breeze,
when ice has melted away.
Isaiah 54:1* Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song and shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are your children than the children of her who has given birth.
When this scripture was read at my prayer writing group I couldn't help seeing a little of myself and where I'm at in life in it.
I have no children of my own. While to describe a woman as barren would generally indicate a more permanent and less voluntary state than I would presume or wish for myself (or anyone), the fact remains that I've never given birth. I've never experienced labor or held a baby in my arms knowing it came from me.
I don't have a family of my own to raise (though I hope to someday), yet I spend my days raising children. I've cared for enough families I've lost track of how many. I've had countless kids capture pieces of my heart, and to myself I call them my kids. Especially recently, now that I'm working for a single family instead of a preschool with dozens of kids, I've caught myself saying “my __ year old” and adding “that I watch” or “that I babysit” before telling something they did, to prevent confussion over why I talk about “my” kids but never have them with me. And so I have both many kids and no kids.
*I adapted from the New International Version
I finally decided to write something for the flash fiction prompt a writing group I'm in sent out a few weeks ago: "That's when I realized I could control time and space"
Hide and Seek
I was only six. My brother had yelled at me for the millionth time that I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends. He said I wasn't old enough and I would cry when I wasn't any good at what they were playing. He'd only reluctantly agreed to let me join them when Max told him to just let me play so I wouldn't go crying to our mom.
I saw Max whisper something to him and him nodding before he told me “We're playing hide and go seek. You get to hunt first, but you have to find everyone in ten minutes or you're out of the game.”
One of his friends snickered “She'll never find us all.”
“Close your eyes for one minute so we can hide, and then you get ten minutes to hunt.” My brother issued his final instructions to me then turned to his friends “Come on.”
I closed my eyes and started counting silently before remembering the new watch I'd gotten for my birthday had a second hand on it, so instead of counting I quickly pulled my head and arms into my coat and stared at my watch. I willed the second hand to move faster as I waited for the big kids to hide, and it seemed to work. I burst my head and arms back out of my coat yelling “ready or not here I come!”
Silently I prayed for ten minutes to be long enough to find them. That minute had seemed to move so fast, I willed time to slow down. I knew the territory for our game spanned the space of six yards, but I tried to convince myself that wasn't half as big as it seemed. Looking up the houses seemed closer together, and even smaller then usual.
That's when I realized I could control time and space, and my brother and his friends didn't have a chance.
Last night* I slept on a queen size bed in my own room for the first time in my life. I've always had a twin size bed and was never interested in trading it for a larger bed when I've been offered other beds in the past.
There's been a whole list of practical reasons for my attachment to my twin bed:
I already have twin size sheets and blankets I like and have to find new ones if I got a larger bed.
It takes up less space in my room.
It's what I'm used to.
Switching beds would take more work than keeping the one I had.
The bigger beds I've been offered have been water beds, which I'm not a big fan of.
Those practical reasons haven't changed and still kind of annoy me a little, but there's something else, and that has changed.
There's a song by Death Cab for Cutie (see lyrics below) that puts into words better than I could why I didn't want a queen size bed in my room until I “needed” it. I wasn't exactly afraid, but almost. I didn't want that much extra space to feel lonely going to bed by myself at night. I didn't want to make room in my bed for someone else only to have them never come, or to end up sharing it with the wrong person. I didn't want to wait forever for the right person to come fill that space beside me.
But now there's a different feel to all that. I'm not trapped waiting for someone, and I'm not trying to fill a space beside me with guys who aren't worth it. I've actually met someone I want to wake up next to because it feels so right being with him. I'm not adding an empty space beside me (even though it's physically still empty most nights), and I'm not adding space for someone just because having anyone beside me sounds better than another night alone.
I don't want to jump ahead of myself, but I can't help thinking that sharing space and my life with this man will continue to feel right for a very long time, and I hope that's true, cause this is a good feeling.
Your New Twin Sized Bed
You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed
with a single pillow underneath your single head
I guess you decided that that old queen was more space than you would need
and now it's in the allay behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free
and that I hope you have more luck with this than me
you used to think that someone would come along and lay beside you in the space that they belonged
but the other side of the mattress stayed like new...
*actually two nights ago cause I rarely get things posted the day I write them.
If you've ever tried to write I'm sure you've experienced writer's block at some point. It happens to all of us, and about the only way to completely avoid it is to just not write. Obviously just not writing isn't a satisfactory solution for me, so I've been thinking lately about what causes writer's block.
For about a month and a half I was spending fifteen minutes to an hour or more writing at least four days a week, then suddenly for the past week I couldn't really focus on writing any of those times. It's not that I suddenly stopped having anything important to say, or that my time available to write changed at all, I just hit a vague lack of focus and found myself unable to concentrate at any of the times I had been writing.
I'm realizing the biggest reason why – stress. The last time I stopped regularly writing for myself I was highly stressed over my school and work situation. Now I've spent the past week worrying over my finances. I realized my current income to expenses is not sustainable, so naturally I've been worrying. I've been hyper aware of how much money I'm spending, and thinking twice before putting anything I might some day want in the give away pile (I've been working on cleaning my room, but that a whole other subject) just because it might be more expensive than I can replace later, even if I don't need it now.
And my writing suffers. When I'm stressed or worried about something I can't fall into my writing like I do at other times. The stress holds me at the surface and ties me to reality when I would rather get lost in words. At best I do this, and ramble on paper about whatever is bothering me. At worst I can't focus, can't sit still, and find myself pacing the room, fidgeting anxiously, or sinking into depression. In any case I lose my creativity, and I hate that. If I don't have creative outlets I don't feel like myself.
Since January I've been nannying for a Jewish family four afternoons a week. I'm also on a less regular schedule watching the kids in another family where the mom is Jewish. I'm spending large chunks of my week helping to raise jewish kids. But I'm not Jewish.
Outside of how it has been retold into Christian traditions I know very little about Jewish culture, traditions, and history. I don't know where the lines are between Jewish beliefs that have been morphed into Christian faith and the beliefs that are “new” with Christianity. I don't know what traditions stem from Judaism, what traditions have their roots in the early Christian church, and what traditions come from other religions.
I don't know the Jewish language or words for talking about God and faith. If I tell someone a friend of mine is probably at synagogue on Friday night I catch myself having to make a conscientious effort not to say “church” instead of “synagogue.” I've never really believed in the very Jesus centered language of some churches – I believe in worshiping God above the son of God – but I do consider myself Christian and Christianity is the faith I'm most familiar with.
When I worked in a Christian daycare I knew there were certain things I had to be careful how I talked about. I tend to be more liberal than many of my coworkers and the families we cared for there, but I knew it would be ok if the kids heard me singing a Christian song or saw me wearing a shirt from church camp and asked what it said. It wouldn't create a conflict or leave me needing to explain something I didn't know how the parents would want addressed if I mentioned Jesus or a New Testament Bible story. It probably wouldn't even evoke questions from the kids I watched.
Now I wonder how much the kids I watch know about Christianity, and how much their parents would want them to know if they ever asked me questions. I've thought about wearing a church camp shirt to work and changed my mind because I wasn't sure what I should say if the three year old asked what my shirt said. If and when the kids ask me questions about God, faith, or holidays I want to answer honestly, but I also want to answer in a way that is consistent with what they already know and aligns with what their parents want them to be learning.
I feel like I should know a lot more about Judaism than I do, just so I could know what the kids I watch are being taught about God, and what they are talking about when they mention something related to a holiday or their faith.
Pale silver moon,
in a purple sky,
like a money plant seed pod,
turned into a spotlight,
on clear rich blue sky.
written 10/22/10
