Psalm 34:5

Those who look on him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame. 

Shame
Is all I can think of
And yet to know I used to see only my pride
Without realizing why.
But now I know why:
I judge the fat girl because I don't think I'm skinny enough.
I judge the skinny girl because I don't think I'm strong enough.
I judge the lazy kid because I don't think I work hard enough.
I judge the girls who date because I don't have a boyfriend.
I judge the arrogant person because I judge too much!
What a despicable creature I am.
My pride is born out of my own shame.
Is it really such a shock that I'm insecure?
We all must know that word isn't just reserved for the girls raised
In crumbling homes with name-brand shirts that cover
Skin damaged by poor diets--
It's a parasite in every suburban neighborhood, certainly
Latched onto the front door of this pastor's house.

What is my greatest fear then?
Not appearing put together?
Not being accepted by God?
Not having friends?
I'm already convinced of the answer to these questions--No.
That's obvious. What really scares me is
Not having intimacy of any kind
Or being capable of love.
They say, if I do not love myself, I cannot love others.
So here I am, needing to be loved and needing to love.

God, the shame runs deep
And drives my sour thoughts.
Relieve the pit in my stomach
That blocks the self-ignorant unity
You command I have with my family.
I'm afraid of myself--please step in front of me
So I can digest your charis this time,
Not just when my dad finishes his sermon.
Hold my pharisaic legs in place even though
I squirm to meet the standard
Two thousand years away from my rituals.
They are as useless as an inexperienced fact and
As chilling as the suicide of a man whose life had been
Preserved by his martyred friend.

So if my checklist nails you back onto that cross,
Then shred the impulse in me.
Burn this addiction to productivity
Since I can't think of a greater crime
Than mine.

The Wind

you lift the weight beneath
my sweaty t-shirt,
easing quads of lumber as
dirt bounces with some orange
chips about the wood

a rumble behind my back
dodges left and right like
the flock of sparrows who
wrestle with the sky
in futile air strikes

but you blow my body
forward toward the campus
where I sleep,
away from the crumbly
lakeside of your pond

My Love, My Glory

You're shivering in a pile 
Of people, sick from a toasted neck 
While you hit each clot on the chalky ground
And your tightened pupils wince.
Are you wearing a shirt? You've forgotten but
It doesn't matter to the infected, seething stripe,
The soldier’s decoration for your lonely spine
That folds over like the moon,
Its best hope for company. 

Your neighbor leans on you, dropping one of many
Heads that tumble into your space but you don't 
Care. Memory's in replay as you see your brothers and
Children slammed onto a cart, 
Metal, splinters, rust and all.
Couldn't they have led us quietly? 
Quietly to the moon? 
No, forgive them, forgive them. 
I don't think they know what they’re doing. 

A neighbor’s ribs land in your forehead
With every jerk of this monster, this truck as
You dream of a boy, alone and symmetrical.
Are his eyes begging for another candy 
Or to sleep without another seething stripe?
He's beaten at three years and snaps to planks below.
You open your eyes. You cannot watch. 
But now imagine this isn't you nor your brother nor
Your children but the soldier who bruised your body. 

I help you piece together the crumbs of 
My heart as that soldier thrashes before you.
You see him within my gift to you, a prism of hope,
Look at him, and lead him to your execution line. 
A church of brothers and children 
Reach for your hand that has dried up like
A raisin in the sun before 
The guns that stain your blood 
And mine.

An anchor that holds you here, 
Tearing at my core.
I weep for your seething stripe, your charred neck,
The carving of your skull, 
And the murder of your family.
I weep for the boy, the soldier that was beaten in 
A burning land that pierced my feet. 
You just don't see that my body is 
Bruised and nailed beyond a holy veil. 

An Arboreal Healing

I watch the surgery you perform

On my skinny Maple tree,
The only one in a full canopy over
Oak Street that droops its branches far enough
To reach the Mercedes cruising toward town;
The only one that gulps and gorges but
Snaps its limbs for fear of overeating as
Juice slides up and down her roots
And cautiously sprays from her throat;
The only one who ages an inch
Under the weight of two flirting squirrels,
Acrobats in that wealthy town's air,
And burps from their every landing punch.
The car’s driver, that debased dog,
Lets his fumes flare up into her lungs
Of innocence while the money slopped on
Clothes of five-year old children
Gives her the stomach of a first time sailor.
The anesthesia wears off and I look
Up to her arms traced in streetlight
As newborn leaves still float to my sidewalk
And I yell at you in your goofy blue socks—
You didn't make her better! But you watch
Me as I see her sigh out oxygen of shame

And then I learn no doctor’s tools release the

Tightened skin of a bulimic—

At least until she sees him face to face.   

50 Shades of Grey : Response

I'm a Christian and can avoid certain culturally mocked viewpoints with very little difficulty at all. After all, I wouldn't want to be labeled as a pompous idiot trying to enforce my ideas on the whole world. But there comes a point where 'culture' becomes so unhinged from rational, moral sanity, that something must be done. 50 Shades of Grey is a massively drooled over novel about a young, innocent, and apparently intellectual girl who becomes involved in a sexual and violent relationship with an older man. It is now being made into a major motion picture on Valentines Day, of course, when we celebrate sex and the most uncomfortably alluring desires of the flesh. Not. Valentines Day is a day to celebrate love, a feeling only higher beings can possess that has solely to do with sacrifice not obsession and self-gratification.

If you've found yourself to be one among many people who are engrossed in this book or merely have heard of it and feel unsure of how to respond, I'd ask you to take time to dwell on some of these questions.

• Does anything in you feel like you're doing something wrong when you read this book or watch this movie? If so, don't avoid it -- let it fester.

• Do you want to be treated like an individual with a thinking, respectable mind and character? If so, don't watch this film. You're advocating the development of a certain way of thinking.

• Would you want your daughter to be? Mother? Sister? Cousin? Friend?

• Do you think that sexual abuse is okay? There may be consent in certain abuse situations (although that's another topic and could be debated as brainwashing) but even the participating in a movie like this encourages the exploitation of human beings. Don't forget that human trafficking is real globally and in the States.

• Do you think that eating disorders are okay? Many of these come from struggling with body image which relates directly (even if subconsciously) to the media. A film or book like 50 Shades of Grey tells women that their worth is in their sex appeal -- their body -- their image. 

• Do you think you are not mentally affected by watching excessive promiscuity? 

• Even if this film is not damaging, how is it a positive use of preciously God-given time?

• How would you feel watching this film with Jesus?

• How else but in practical ways are the servants of Christ to separate themselves from culture?

• Do you take Scripture at its word in your life or only when it feels good to follow?

• Love is sacrifice: God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8).

• Think on what is pure: Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8).

• The role of men is to lead and provide for their families as opposed to taking from women physically: But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever (1 Timothy 5:8).

Christ came to cleanse us from sin, to heal us from impurity, and to help us flee from lust. He has given us himself, his Spirit, and I beg you to hold tight to him for the limited span of your life and to pray for one another that we may be aware of our desperate need for Christ.

The Road to Awe

Warmly lit pea pods split and
Glaze the mushroom cap in your hand as
You try. You mix and mash to the plucking of the harp
On your sphere of copper moonless nights
In time but not in motion,
A compass off the globe that spins
Again, again, again,
But won’t land because of the
Mixing and mashing of your hands.

You beat the harvest
To wrench apart your crispy arms
Into lines of churning ink and blood,
Their stains circle you
You, a body in a slinky,
Bound to the harp ticking your head
Ears stuffed, sound gone, you continue
To serve the charred black on your ring finger,
Master mark of all.

Her gown has wilted among your garden of weeds,
Her body was not yours
To cling to the soil beneath her bruised and
Beauty feet
That lingered in the snow for far too long
As you would say.
Her body, mostly bone, in yours,
Your orange arms flex but still those bones
Drain her flesh to rest with earth.

You mix and mash, pluck and beat
Exasperated souls until mercy climbs perched
Into your focused lap and says,
‘It’s time’
To drop your sword and microscope
I hope you let your shoulders sag and be
Carried on.

Quotes from David Copperfield

During the absurd amount of down-time I found myself in before summer work began, I purposed to develop my Renaissance womanliness through physical exercise, horse riding, engaging in artistic projects, meditation and prayer, writing, and reading. Unhinged by the prospects before me of which book(s) to choose for the summer, I collected a grand total of five, the first of which I have now completed: the lengthy eight hundred paged David Copperfield. Below, I've recorded some of Dickens' most entertaining as well as thought-provoking quotes!

1. Betsy Trotwood
   (With the Murdstones) 'You'll excuse my saying, sir,' returned my aunt, 'that I think it would have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor child alone.'
    'I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,' observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, 'that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mere child.'
    'It is a comfort to you and me, ma'am,' said my aunt, 'who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.'

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring, that, on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life (476). 

(To Uriah Heep) 'I am not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses! 

2. Mr. Micawber

    I cannot say - I really cannot say - that I was glad to see Mr. Micawber there; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands with him, heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

    'Thank you,' said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and settling his chin in his shirt-collar. 'She is tolerably convalescent. The twins no longer derive their sustenance from Nature's founts - in short,' said Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence, 'they are weaned - and Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one who has proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at the sacred altar of friendship.'

Now I am convinced, myself, that things cannot be expected to turn up of themselves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. (387)

3. Steerforth
Why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There’s fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.

Oh, of course! It's no fun, unless we take them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their aboriginal condition! (281)

4. Miss Mowcher
(To David) Try not to associate bodily defects with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason (430).

5. Agnes
(To David) Perhaps it would be better only to consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.

6. Mr. Chillip
'Strong phrenological development of the organ of firmness, in Mr. Murdstone and his sister, sir' (776).

7. Miss Mills
(To David and Dora) 'Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, can not be renewed... The gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, musst not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis of the desert of Sahara, must not be plucked up idly' (448).

8. Dora's aunt (Lavinia) and David
    'We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.' 
    'Think, ma'am,' I rapturously began, 'oh!--'
    But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as requestion that I would not interrupt the oracle, begged pardon. 
    'Affection,' said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every clause, 'mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripening in the shade' (554).

9. Descriptions
Of Mr. Peggoty: It was a warm, dusty evening, just he time when, in the great main thoroughfare out of which that by-way turned, there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavement, and a strong red sunshine (437).

Of Mr. Dick: I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery (465). 

10. David's Reflections
(About Steerforth) In the keen distress of the discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all that was brilliant in him, I softened more towards all that was good in him, I did more justice to the qualities that might have made him a man of a noble nature and a great name, than ever I had done in the height of my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt my own unconcious part in his pollution of an honest home, I believed that if I had been brought face to face with him, I could not have uttered one reproach. I should have loved him so well still--thought he fascinated me no longer (421).

I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and would have been one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavored to convert what might have been between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying, more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors (762).

Freshman Year

Freshman year. Freshman year! It doesn't matter how you say it -- you know the connotations. Freshman year is lonely, freeing, uncontrollable, and most of all, a time when you decide how you're going to react to adulthood.

In Massachusetts the impermeable clouds would somehow end up in my daily footsteps. Snow came on Monday and again on Tuesday but on Wednesday, a far heavier weight fell in the persistent cage of clouds. It's April and everyone says it's going to snow again. But I'd believe them if it were July. I'd rather brace for the splinters, the knives, tearing at me than expect them to give up only to be left with sickly knees and palms mixing gravel and blood.

I binge on carrots and taste hummus. The Oreos don't tempt me but the home-baked cupcakes seem to be closer and closer to me each time I reach for another carrot. Why can't I just forget the voice that rides along with me? Being five pounds overweight and mentally free would be so very much better than wearing a thin, sleek body and hearing this voice. I hate the voice. But I need the voice.

The scale tells me "115". I don't think it's correct. I'm not that girl who loses twenty pounds in three months.

But maybe I am. The voice plays its cards well until I start speaking first. I start reading before it can bring me to the mirror. Those who look on him are radiant; their faces shall never be covered with shame (Psalm 34:5). Comfort me, Lord. Bring me joy.

But the clouds are winning. What has it been, 179 to the clouds and 1 to the sun? Maybe not quite. 120 to 60? But even on those 60, I still didn't have any friends. Still, I thank you God, For you equipped me with strength for the battle. (Psalm 18:39).

My counselor asked me, "Emily, what do you want?"

"I want to be happy. I want to laugh."

 I work to find something funny about the sour, ironic clouds: they make me need you, God. I work to find something funny about my social life: I suppose I'm actually far ahead of most other kids. I work to find something funny about the ice cream I just had to buy: it is tasty.

These days, they punch me harder than I've ever felt. But I am safe. We are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37-39).

I've come home now and just realized that the summer heat I've greatly anticipated makes me sweat. It makes my face as red as a tomato. 40 hours a week doesn't seem so great anymore either. BUT I'm going to seek joy as "the lives of believers are in the great drama at the focal point of universal history" (Grudem)

Your Village

Orange kicks in the musky dirt
Charred dogs grow
Into your winter home;
Home:
Belonging to the stubbed toes
Of your kid,
Balding men and women
Praying in the village that spins
Before a train divides you from
The fickle roads outside,
Lit by neon, not the breath of
Your backyard.
Don’t forget,
The glaze of sugar on your
Forehead
And the turning boys and girls,
Balloons of your city’s streets.

Wasted

Eat that February sky, why can’t you?

Its clouds bake under the sun

you’ve chosen to forget.

Why can't you

just swallow the cough medicine

you hate?

The pasteurizing fluid swims

in a single glass on the counter-top

alone

and green like a protein drink

or the brussels sprouts from last night’s dinner.

But you're downstairs because

if your nostrils caught a whiff

you might gag.

See the moth balls on the windowsill;

if only you’d pick up those hands,

clutch a dustpan,

and tell your retirement to remove them!

But I watch you lie downstairs,

burning less calories than when you sleep,

with peeling skin atop those thighs

as milky as over easy eggs.

I hear the snow in April and

see that medicine of vomit, still,

my eyes itch from the moth balls.

Did you even hear your alarm?

The Artist

The Artist’s yellow page

turned blind

and skewered the lullaby.

There he awakens the chambers and

merry slaves prostrate

but dismayed,

their white-collar competitors,

addicts of the sinner’s page,

lose their giggle at the taste of quicksand.

Their condition—their end—will cement

while the slaves play a lyre for

the Artist.

Suffering Brothers

You feed me lies

My pockets emptied by a meter where

Coins curdle down my esophagus,

Brother you watch me

Placid but parched

Liquid rises up to your chin

Like the yeast in grandma's kitchen

But she tripped, remember?

Sighing in the hail, you hold

Your knobby brain that

Chuckles on phlegm and pain

I take an eraser to your face and

Mark that smirk away

Honey, remember grandma’s bitten lip?

Old age and purple knees beat

Sweat into eight cozy cousins

I thought you drew 
My poison—the change
In my wallet—for your experiment but
You needed cash, raw cash,
Or so the president had said

I'm 19

An hour and a half ago, I turned 19. My idyllic teenage youth is gone but I never lived the dreamy life of Bella Swan or a Nicholas Sparks character.

In light of this, I'd like to find for myself as much as I can to be thankful for (certain words new this year in bold):

1. the money to spend a year at Gordon
2. the best family and extended family
3. the opportunity to have Snickers
4. Charles
5. nature, hiking the Adirondacks
6. color and art
7. new jobs and stretching experiences
8. joy not being dependent on happiness
9. Lord of the Rings, Jane Eyre
10. the warmth of the sun
11. the car accident
12. "I See Fire," Needtobreathe, Lifehouse
13. Indian food, Chipotle, spices, mangoes, chocolate, stir fry
14. Katie, Stephanie, Julia, Rachel
15. Camp K-9 dogs and staff relationships
16. friends who teach me about myself and who I want to be
17. the chance to ride Quinn
18. God seeing me as flawless despite my sin and pride
19. hope continually increasing toward death

God has given me such gifts but my life is not mine to do with as I please. The true measure of my life is looking on him for then I am "radiant and my face will never be covered with shame" (Psalm 34:5).