Poem In My Pocket

It's Poem In Your Pocket Day -- apparently the 8th annual, but last year was my first. No time to scribble one down today so it's in snapshots on my phone, which is in my pocket, and I guess that's the next best thing. And here 'tis:

The Invitation
George Herbert

Come ye hither all, whose taste
                             Is your waste;
Save your cost, and mend your fare.
God is here prepar’d and drest,
                             And the feast,
God, in whom all dainties are.

Come ye hither all, whom wine
                             Doth define,
Naming you not to your good:
Weep what ye have drunk amisse,
                             And drink this,
Which before ye drink is bloud.

Come ye hither all, whom pain
                             Doth arraigne,
Bringing all your sinnes to sight:
Taste and fear not: God is here
                             In this cheer,
And on sinne doth cast the fright.

Come ye hither all, whom joy
                             Doth destroy,
While ye graze without your bounds:
Here is joy that drowneth quite
                             Your delight,
As a floud the lower grounds.

Come ye hither all, whose love
                             Is your dove,
And exalts you to the skie:
Here is love, which having breath
                             Ev’n in death,
After death can never die.

Lord I have invited all,
                             And I shall
Still invite, still call to thee:
For it seems but just and right
                             In my sight,
Where is all, there all should be

I'm not all about transubstantiation, by the way -- or alternative spelling, for that matter -- but I am all about God being all, for all. Thanks, George.

Resurrection

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of a mourning dove outside my open window and the news that my friends in Sudan were safe.

This morning, celebrating the Resurrection was all the more meaningful after the darkness of that good Friday. As I listened to the familiar story of the prodigal, I wanted to raise my hands and say "That's me!" I was dead, but I'm alive again; I was lost, but now I'm found.

Then this afternoon: more bad news, as a dear friend who's become my little sister shared the troubling report of her fiance's health concerns. For some reason I thought that after Friday there would be no more blood tests or frightening unknowns, no more wars or rumors of wars.

He's alive, and because of him so are we, but this world isn't our home; it's groaning for redemption. I won't bother trying to explain what I mean, since we sang about it this morning:

Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me,
I cannot proclaim it well.
O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Then clothed in blood-washed linen,
How I'll sing Thy sovereign grace!
- Robert Robinson, "Come Thou Fount"

He's risen indeed. Come, Lord Jesus!

That Darn Thing with Feathers

"Hope is the thing with feathers," chirped Emily Dickinson, "that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all."

There are days, good days, sunshiney spring-is-here-at-last days, when I sing hope's praises alongside Emily, as well I should.

There are days, grey days, drizzley winter-may-stay-forever days, when I want to strangle the thing with feathers to silence its incessant song.

You irritate me, little bird. You tantalize me with your promises and frighten me with your risk. You're unabashed, Emily says, by the sorest of storms or the chilliest of lands, but I'm not interested in storms or chill; I'd rather stick cynical thumbs in my ears than be lured out to sea by your sweet song. Emily insists you've never asked a crumb of her. From me you demand my final meal. You're not safe, you unassuming feathered thing, and if I sing along, I may be disappointed.

But sing I must, like it or not, because I've read the Book and I know the outcome and I see that I am called to join the chorus because I'm loved by a God who doesn't just offer a hopeful option or wistful thinking or blind optimism but is Hope, my only hope. To run from hope is to hope in myself, and that's a chilling thought if ever there was one.

He does promise, after all, that those who hope in him are never disappointed, and of course it's true --how could he ever disappoint? It's the "in him" that makes the difference, since he's the one, the only one, who never fails.

That's the pitch I'll tune my heart to.

All Growed Up

I was a strong-willed toddler who insisted on being called "The Babe." Not sure how well that would go over now, but I enjoyed two years and nine months of being The Babe until Sally came along.

I'm the one on the left, trying to get everyone to look at me. Sally's on the right, drooling and sporting boy hair. Becky, in the middle, is taking it all in stride. She'd already been dethroned three babies ago.

When my new little sister came home from the hospital, I noted forlornly, "I used to be the baby, but now I growed up." The adjustment was difficult for me, and no wonder - twenty-something years later I still don't like being nudged out of the center of attention. I just hide it better.

Growing up hasn't grown on me. I still think of myself as a kid, and most days I have no desire for that to change. I don't suppose there's any getting around it - although this poem nearly had me fooled:

When I was One, I had just begun.
When I was Two, I was nearly new.
When I was Three I was hardly me.
When I was Four, I was not much more.
When I was Five, I was just alive.
But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.
- A. A. Milne

Maybe six is the golden age, the narrow window of opportunity in which, if you set your mind to it, you can stay the same age forever and ever. I missed my chance. No doubt I was so relieved to make it to six (having been informed all my life that five-year-old girls are for eating) that I completely forgot and focused my energies on making it to seven.

Some days I'd just as soon be six, confident in my cleverness. (I'm far more clever now but unblissfully aware that there's a lot more cleverness to be attained.) Or I could be three and my mom could style my hair in looped-up braids to keep me from sticking it in my nose. (Sometimes it's nice having no other option than to do the right thing.) Or I could be ten and when I say the wrong thing people would laugh and think I'm cute instead of getting mad and thinking I'm insensitive.

All that to say, being a grown-up is not all it's cracked up to be.

Poem In My Pocket

Written on a napkin in my pocket:

My Lord, I find that nothing else will do,
But follow where thou goest, sit at thy feet,
And where I have thee not, still run to meet.
Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns,
Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns,
If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true:
Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.

-George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

Batter My Heart

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne, Holy Sonnet XIV