The Sea of Galilee

So much has happened in the last week or so. Seems like the entire world has changed. Everything I thought was certain isn't. Even death. I mean, if what happened Sunday doesn't shake up a man's world, nothing will!

There was too much noise. I needed to get away from the Passover crowds, away from the guys, away from the noise in my own mind. So I told Andrew I was going to the sea. He knew better than to go with me. A few of the others tagged along, though. We sat there for a while. I sat in silence a little bit apart from them. I still couldn't even meet their eyes like a man.

Finally, I just couldn't take it anymore. I announced to no one in particular that I was going fishing. I figured that would at least keep me busy. Fishing is in my bones. It's second nature. Even better, fish don't chatter and I don't feel like a coward and traitor around them. But the others followed me again. For once in my life I kept my big mouth shut and let them.

We were out all night. It was a great night. Clear skies, light breeze, not like that storm-tossed night when he calmed the waves. Not like the other storm-tossed night when I walked... No. This night was perfect, except we didn't catch a darned thing.

A little before dawn we were heading back in, and this voice came from the shore.

Catch anything?

Nothing at all, we answered.

Try the other side of the boat.

We looked at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. What a bozo. As though the fish are all hiding to the right of the boat, knowing the net's on the left. We tried it, though. I mean, what did we have to lose?

Ok, so we caught fish. Huge catch. Big fish, too. And the crazy thing is, with all that weight, it didn't damage the net or sink the boat. Turns out he wasn't such a nutcase after all. In fact, the way things had played out, we all knew without a doubt who it was.

He had a fire going when we landed. He had fish and bread, and we brought a few of the fish we'd caught. It was a good time, really. Just a bunch of us guys watching the sunrise by the sea, eating fish. Almost like it used to be, when we'd try to get a jump on the crowds. Except... there was that tension.

I know they all felt it too. His words to Mary still pierced me. Go tell the disciples and Peter... Yes, I know I deserved it. I know what I did. But to be counted out like that, by him, as though I hadn't been with him all that time. As though I had never told him You are the Lord. As though... It stung, like salt water in a cut, or worse, like a knife in my flesh. But it was true. It was my words, my denial, that did that. I removed myself from their number that terrible night. He spoke truth, as always.

Again I was silent while the others talked. I listened. I wished I could undo what I'd done. I wished, I was desperate for forgiveness. I dared not ask, nor did I speak at all, and no one spoke to me.

By the end of breakfast, the guilt was too much, the silence too painful. Tears began to stream down my face.

Simon...

I groaned. His first word to me was my old name. Not Peter, the rock. Not Peter, the name he'd called me since we met, but Simon, the name of the common fisherman who didn't belong there. But it was his voice. Something in his tone told me it wasn't over yet. I looked up.

Simon, do you love me like you used to say you did? You said you would follow me to the death. Do you really love me like that?

Yes, Lord, I said, cringing. I was reminded again of my failure. We all were. We've been through so much. You're my brother. You know I love you. And I heard in my mind the echo of my denial.

Feed my sheep, he answered. I almost chuckled. You don't have any sheep, I thought. But then I remembered that day a while back- the one when he called himself the Good Shepherd. I pondered. I am the good shepherd who gives his life for his sheep... Wow. That makes so much more sense now. All his talk about laying down his life. Crazy talk, I had always thought.

Simon, do you love me? Would you follow even if it cost your life?

Why is he asking this again?

Yes, my friend and my brother, you know I love you. My mind burned with the memory of those words I don't know him, and the tears continued.

Take care of my sheep.

I wondered. Lord, what are you doing? I am so confused. I don't understand this sheep thing, and I don't understand why we just had the same conversation twice. In fact, I don't even know why you're talking to me, since I am clearly and rightly on the outs. I don't deserve to be called your disciple, your brother, or your friend. I -

Simon.

His voice was different now. More... I'm not sure what. Maybe more compassionate. The sun was up. He had to have seen my posture, how tear-stained my face was.

Simon, can I count you as one of my friends? Do you love me?

I heard the difference in the question. I felt the difference in the tone. But it was the third time. I sighed. I couldn't hold it in another second.

Lord, you know everything. You've probably been hearing my thoughts these last few minutes. You know I'm drowning in guilt like I was drowning in the waves that one day. Yes, I love you. If you call me your friend, it is more than I deserve.

Feed my sheep. And with that, the echoed crowing of a rooster split my consciousness. Where there had been tears of guilt now came weeping. I was not entirely sure where I stood, and he was talking about me stretching out my hands and, well, I was confused. Then he whispered Follow me and I knew he had taken me back.


christina douglas

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What's Going On Here?

I still haven't actually slept. Oh, sure, I dozed in the garden, and I think I dropped off for a little bit when I got to the house after the burial. I may have slept last night too, but it was the sleep of a tortured man.

I was half asleep when the noise came. Pounding. Like hammer on nails... nails through flesh and bone... Oh, will the nightmare never fade? It was Mary. She was jabbering about the tomb and heaven knows what. I was still groggy; I wasn't quite following her. But when she said "The body's gone," well, I understood that well enough.


I took off running. One of the others did too. We got there, and sure enough, that tomb was empty. The huge stone, all those crazy precautions for nothing. None of us knew what to make of it. The stone was there so we wouldn't move him. The guard was there to protect the tomb from us. Yet we had done nothing and he was still gone.

Back at the house, we argued again. We're trying to figure out what happened, but nothing we come up with makes sense. I mean, the Romans wouldn't... and the teachers of the Law wouldn't... certainly not the Sanhedrin... we've been hiding here... Lazarus. It's the only explanation that makes any sense at all. But could he? I mean, sure, he raised Lazarus, but could he raise himself? Impossible! I want it to be true...

What if it is true? How can I face him after what I've done? He knew. He warned me. Of course he would know. He always knows things like this.

I can't take much more of this tearing at my brain. Something is going to have to give, and soon.

Peace be with you.

I would know that voice anywhere. Am I hearing things? He's dead. John saw it.

He's here.

christina douglas

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From the Dark of Saturday

I have this sinking feeling that what happened in the last few days will be imprinted on my mind, my memory, and my spirit for the rest of my life.

It started so well. We held the seder right here in this room. It was the thirteen of us, as usual, though the evening was far from usual, even for us. I know he's said some strange things over the years, but that night... Wow, I was sure he was sick. Maybe just exhausted. Whatever it was, he made no sense- talking about his broken body and his blood poured out. What??? Then he wanted to wash my feet. What was that? He's the Rabbi. It's my job to serve him! He wouldn't hear of it.


*sigh*

Then there was that comment about me denying him. Oh, how I wish I had been listening. How I wish I had been stronger, less fearful, less... me. I keep doing that. Telling him, "No, Lord, you are IT. Nothing is gonna take you down. Nothing is going to make you less than what you are, and if they try, I will fight." I thought that was how I was supposed to be. I'm the strong one. I'm the one who wants to bring about this change he's always talking about. But when I talk like that, he tells me I'm wrong. He says it's about serving. He says it's not about kingdoms on earth... I don't get it.

Here's what I know. The twelve of us gave the last three years of our lives to follow this man. We were so sure he was the one. And now he's dead.

So here we are again, in this room where it started two days ago. Thirteen then, eleven now. One is buried in a tomb not far from here. The other? No one has seen him since that horrible moment in the garden. One of my finest moments, I thought. Twelve of us. One traitor. Ten ran off into the night. Only I stood. I fought. I even cut off a guard's ear! No matter. He told me, again, to cut it out. He put the ear back on. And he went with them.

I'm not sure how I got here. I remember following- at a safe distance. I remember the noises, the smells, the crazy mob wanting to kill him. I remember the rooster, then his words flooded back into my mind. I had told him I'd die for him. I'd never deny him! And I meant it, too. I just wasn't thinking about dying the very next day. But after that rooster... I bolted, just like the others. I spent the rest of the night wandering the streets, afraid of my own shadow. Somehow I found my way here.

We compared notes a while ago. Turns out John was there when he died. Figures. I guess if any of us was going to be there, it would have been John. He's the only one of us who isn't overthrown with guilt right now. All of us are scared and confused. We've spent this day huddled in this room. The doors are barred. We've lit no lamps. Every noise outside makes us jump. Three years. He's gone. It's so... final. Devastating.

No, I haven't thought past today. I sure as anything have no idea about what I'll do now. I guess Andrew and I will go back to fishing. It's what we know. Don't make me think about that right now, though.

It's so quiet in here. Every few minutes there's the sound of a man crying. The others are in their little groups. There was yelling earlier. John was the sane one, of course. "We're all scared. We're all confused. Let's not take it out on each other." Even John can't answer our questions, though. I can't even look at the others. I was the one yelling, I think, though I don't know why. They shouldn't have run. Why weren't they there? Well what was I supposed to do- let the mob in the courtyard kill me too, just because I knew him? I need to get out of here. Away from them. But I have nowhere to go, so I stay inside.

May this day, this pain, end soon.

christina douglas

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I Knew - A monologue based on Isaiah from Isaiah 25

I knew-
From the pattern of history
And the stories we tell
Of Eden, of Enoch and Elijah.
I could see it in the widow’s tears,
In the desperation of kings,-
In God’s promises.

I knew-
For his promises are true-
That against his mighty hand
Someday, some way,
Death itself would fall
Swallowed up in his mercy
Forever.

I knew-
Though I never saw
As he walked among you-
Even as he died-
In the silence that followed
As though all the universe waited
As though eternity was held in that time
And history hung in the balance
The stars themselves
Dared not breathe in that silence

I knew-
Not how or when
Only that on that day
The LORD would rise up in power
His holy arm outstretched
And with a voice like thunder
Shake the foundations of the earth
Until even the grave could not stand
Against our Sovereign God.

I knew-
Though I did not see
The stone- removed, the empty tomb
No angelic messengers proclaimed the news
Yet I knew the mystery of the ages
Unfolded in that moment
I did not touch the nail scars
Nor follow the spear that pierced him, still
I know
In this moment
The Lord has spoken

-christina douglas

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Love

The wind in my ear pointed your way
But the breeze was just a lie
The look in your eye was beautiful
But what is love?
Nothing worth a try.
If I were your lover,
I’d wade through the clover.
Over the fields before
The pathway that leads to your door.
Over the meadows,
To wait mid the shadows,
The shadows that circle your door,
For the heart of my heart and more.

How beautiful, a love without sighs,
Of laughter-full eyes,
And watch,
In the twinkle of stars
That sprinkle
The paradise over her door,
For the soul of my soul and more.


Layne-Michael Alten

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Katanusso (Column)

by
Sharon Norris Elliott





“Katanusso” (kat-an-oos’-so), the Greek word for “pricked”, means to pierce thoroughly, to agitate violently, sting to the quick. It is taken from Acts 2:37 where the crowd, after hearing Peter preach, was moved to ask, “What shall we do?” This column is written with the prayer that women are moved to ask what shall they do – how should they respond to God?


“Mom, can I have $10.00 to go to the movies tomorrow with my friends?”

“You have to earn it.”

“Dad, can I have my own car? With school, rehearsals, team practices and games to go to, you and Mom wouldn’t have to chauffer me everywhere.”

“Good argument, but you’ve got to earn it.”

We often require our children to demonstrate some sort of proof that they have earned privileges. We watch closely and keep a record. How many times did they have to be reminded to turn off the TV, finish their homework, pick up their dirty socks, feed the dog, or turn off the lights? Were they home by curfew?

When we keep this mental log, we expect our kids to accept our corresponding reactions. If they’ve been good, we offer up smiles and respond favorably to requests. If they’ve behaved poorly, our faces, body language, and words definitely express our disapproval. And we consider our reactions not only natural, but our right as parents. After all, isn’t it our job to teach them that they get what they deserve?

Why then is it so hard for us to understand that sometimes our kids don’t dole out honor for us because, frankly, we haven’t deserved it? Has it ever occurred to us that our kids’ dishonorable responses may result from our acting dishonorably?

“But,” we argue, “the Commandment clearly states, ‘Honor your father and your mother’ (Ex. 20:12). The burden of responsibility is on the child to obey, right?”

So true. Just remember, the very first Commandment tells us to honor God. And face it, we honor Him not only because of who He is, but because His actions always elicit such a response. He loved us first and has exhibited proof that we can honor Him at all times. It is our duty to love our children in this same way.

Honor means to esteem and respect. The Biblical word carries with it the idea of prizing something or someone by fixing a high value on it, him, or her. Do our actions cause our kids to esteem and respect us? Do our kids prize our words, responses, and reactions and consider them something to be highly valued?

Although the word itself was not mentioned, we recently had an “honor” conversation in our home. After being a single parent for a while, God blessed me with a wonderful Christian man in my life. Through my dating and engagement to him, my two adolescent sons called him by his first name, so after James and I married and we all moved under one roof, the boys continued addressing him the same way.

About six months into our marriage, James called a family meeting and related to us that he had begun to feel uncomfortable with the boys’ use of such a casual title for him. He affirmed his love for the boys and explained that love expresses itself in action. James had taken to heart the charge to care for his family on every level – financially, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. That is the definition of a dad. He explained that by seeing his actions and understanding his role, the boys should acknowledge that he had earned the honor of the title of Dad, Pop, or at least Poppa James.

We are still working through the adjustment to our new family, and as the boys become more and more comfortable with James, they are exercising obedience to the Commandment to honor their father and they are working on using a new title for him.

God’s nature makes it easy for us to honor Him. Let’s be sure we are living as deserving parents our kids can honor effortlessly and honestly. Here are some practical principles I’ve found helpful as I strive to be an “honorable” parent. An “honorable” parent is:

H – Honest: Honorable parents tell their children the truth.
O – Objective: Honorable parents are careful to steer clear of favoritism.
N – Natural: Honorable parents admit their own shortcomings.
O – On Guard: It is the job of honorable parents to protect their children
physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
R – Regenerated: Honorable parents follow after God, living out the change that Christ
has made in their lives.
A – Accessible: Honorable parents keep the lines of communication between
themselves and their children open.
B – Behaved: Honorable parents live by the Golden Rule and are mindful of how they act in public so as never to be an embarrassment to their children.
L – Loving: Honorable parents exhibit the two characteristics of thoughtfulness and discretion.
E – Edifying: Honorable parents are their children’s biggest cheerleaders.

Parenting by these nine principles has laid the groundwork for honor between our sons and us, their parents. Begin to give them a try at your house.

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Friends

Friends are always there for you,
They care for you
They watch out for you.

Friends are always there for you,
When you’re feeling bad or down.
A smile?—Upside down they’ll make your frown.

Friends will keep your secrets,
What’s yours is theirs, what’s theirs is yours.
Friends will keep your secrets.

Friends are honorable, enough to achieve your trust
Enough to achieve your thanks,
Enough to achieve your blessings.
Honorable friends achieve your brotherhood.

Layne-Michael Alten

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Letters From Michigan

Chapter Four
Afterward

By Steve-O

To My California Friends:
After the miscarriage, we took some time off to heal. Laura and I went back to Michigan to recluse ourselves in the woods and small towns for a while. In the process, both of us were fortunate enough to find our path back to each other as old friends and lovers.

The return to your emotional home is not always an easy thing for couples to do after such a deeply personal, yet individual loss. But in time, the simplicity of routine proved to be healing enough, and even allowed us to grow a bit.

You have to do that, my friends—get back to where you were in spirit before tragedy snuffed out the flame. Otherwise, you’re still running from the loss that wounded you in the first place, you’re constantly too exhausted to begin again, and therefore you never do.

I can see now why so many couples fall apart after a miscarriage or a death in the family or some other type of tragedy. Instinctively Laura and I both knew that the answer for our suffering was not to immediately try to get pregnant again, but rather to quickly return to the hope of being pregnant again in order to restore a shared vision and identity. What we needed was to have a common ground on which to agree.

So we started in Michigan where she grew up, a place we’ve both grown to love for it’s slower pace and natural simplicity. Doesn’t matter where you start though, it just matters that you do. Even a partial retreat from life can have purpose and intention.

Now of course, there’s some fear in wanting again. I’m not saying that there isn’t a degree of caution about trying to have another baby; there is… that’s natural after a miscarriage. But what are we taught to do with that fear? Are we taught anything at all, or are we fed (maybe seek out) simpleton nonsense that leads us nowhere like; “it wasn’t meant to be” and “cheer up.” If only life were as simplistic as the bounty of empty euphemisms, thrown around during times of loss. What exactly is meant to be in this life by the way? Any takers?

I’ll tell you a bit of what I’ve learned so far; that there is much more to us beyond the basic needs of desire, and trust, and faith in what you are as a couple. Those things are just starting points. Above all of that, there is always the need for God.

Disagree? That’s okay, sit down a while, the God Squad’s not coming to get you just because I said that. I didn’t say “there is always the need for God” just to throw it out there and make the Bible thumpers happy. I said it because I want to, because He’s a part of this thing. It is what it is.

What specifically is a miscarriage anyway? For many of us, it is death to a dream, literally and spiritually. Death came to Laura and me, I don’t know why. However, a community of godly people who surrounded us and helped us heal immediately followed it.

Some of those folks we hardly even knew, they were just “those people” who sat over on that side of the church. Nice looking couple, cute kids, I may have even given the husband the “dude nod” a few times coming in and out of the bathroom, that was about it. But suddenly they were sharing in a part of our loss, and even if it was a bit awkward it still seemed completely appropriate and comforting. Maybe one of the ways that we find out who we are is by the people who are willing to surround us.

With healing comes laughter sometimes (or is it in the reverse order?) …and with laughter, hope— almost always. As funny as it sounds, we learned the first part of that lesson just a few days after the miscarriage, from “those people” that we didn’t really know.

The wife of one of my dude nodders at church (Anne) had heard about our loss, and she was kind enough to bring dinner over to the house for us. Many people did that for us actually, and it was wonderful to have that simple kind of old fashioned “I brought you a nice casserole” kind of people connection in the middle of our busy lives. There’s just something about the comfort of food that brings us all a sense of common ground, I suppose. But out of all the church community’s reaching out, particularly by way of the hand delivered dinners, there came one special situation that stood out— simply because it was fantastic.

It wasn’t the loving words of encouragement Anne brought to us.
It wasn’t the warm hugs.
It wasn’t even the prayers.
It was the Pasta.
And the Italian Sausages.
The kind with the fennel seeds in them.
And the Rolls.
And the Butter.
And the Green Salad with the Italian dressing that you make and then shake up in the little glass thingy.
And finally, the Brownies.

After Anne left, we took the home delivery and sat it down before us on the bed, where it seemed that we had been living and crying.

Laura and I looked at each other and at these shiny aluminum trays and realized that, yes, we were shattered, and yes, we were trying to understand, and yes, we had lost our dream, but in all practicality, we were also HUNGRY. That last revelation came in an instant, without words, like a bolt of electricity once we cracked the lid on the Pasta dish and the incredible smell came pouring out to greet us.

Food.
Food Good.
Eat Good Food.
Eat Now.

There was no guilt. We mowed it down. To the uninitiated, it may have seemed a little scary to witness these two previously shattered and wayward souls, disheveled, un-showered, heads down, leaning forward, fully con-su-ming. I imagine the sounds were unearthly.

In the middle of the feeding frenzy, Laura and I sort of began to regain our sense of awareness. What was that strange sound? It was us. As survivors sometimes have a tendency to do, we looked at each other with unspoken acceptance (still chewing, mind you) as it was quite obvious to both of us that this was a darn good dinner and then, of course, I blurted out what anyone in my situation would have said: "I’m in mourning."

And the levy broke, and the laughter came and just poured out of both of us. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed till the laughter poured tears down our cheeks and washed us down.

I don’t know why I said “I’m in mourning,” it just seemed reasonable at the moment, but with that simple humor came the greatest understanding between us. From total devastation to a simple realization, I was with my best friend. Whatever was going on, we were going through it together, and we’d finish it together no matter what, and together we’d heal.

So, we moved on to the brownies knowing full well that God was good, and He was and He is.

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Letters From Michigan

Chapter 3
The Beginning

By Steve-O

To My California Friends:

It’s 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning as I made preparations to drive out to the valley. I read an ad in the Recycler the night before; someone would give me all of their kitchen cabinets for free if I would just tear them out myself. Hauling them was also my responsibility. That should save me a few grand I don’t have, I thought.

As I stumbled down the hall into consciousness I mumbled to myself. I was wiped out from another hellish long work-week but I did think that this would be a great opportunity to finally make some good progress on the house. Our cute little domicile had begun to look like a cute little bomb had gone off in it.

Now it turns out, while remodeling, you should never really start a bunch of different projects all at once; everything gets torn apart, nothing actually gets done, and certain mysterious piles of mixed “stuff” such as receipts, power tools, and bags of plaster begin to appear everywhere. It’s sort of like living in the junk drawer. But for the first time homeowner, who knows all of that? What had become abundantly clear by this Saturday morning, was that the Missus was now less than comfy in her nest, which, shall we say, added a little strain to everyday living, and I needed to get something done like soon.

Man, I needed a breakfast burrito. What did the magic wallet reveal? Thirteen bucks, and most of that had to go into the gas tank. Coffee it was, and so as reality once again rudely asserted herself I dragged a toothbrush across my gums and grabbed my tool belt on the way out the door.

It was strangely quiet once I hit the freeway and kind of cold, at least cold for Southern California standards. Reminding myself that I like change, I made peace with it as I sipped an overcooked cup of gas-station coffee and headed out thru the hills. It smelled clean outside, like rain.

In the hour or so it took to drive to this guy’s house I was already busy in my head, formulating my plans on how to get those cabinets out, loaded up in my little service truck for the trip back home, and rebuilt into my kitchen in the shortest time possible.

Let me think…."Lisa went to church somewhere out here didn’t she?” I could call her on the cell phone and then maybe convince her to meet me at this place with her truck and help me with the load-up and haul so that I could get it all with one trip. If I did well I might even get back in time for lunch.

As I pulled up to the construction site, I could see it was an old house in obvious stages of demolition and a re-model. It was a big place, somewhat quirky, and a bit musty in some familiar way—a smell you would vaguely remember from childhood. I peeked through the kitchen windows. The cabinets were not in any shape I had hoped for them to be, in terms of both style and size. This was definitely going to be a much bigger challenge than I had originally thought.

But the baby was coming…I knew that every moment of every day now, and so I didn’t feel quite as tired or overwhelmed as I might have on any other generic project. In fact, everything I did had to equal BABY. Ultimately, all things done were intentional with very little time to allow for any reasonable considerations that it might be impossible. Baby, baby, baby. That too, was a new feeling for me.

The owner of the house had pulled up in his Mercedes a couple of minutes after I arrived to let me in. We talked shop for a brief moment and then he told me, "Call me before you leave so I can lock up – and don’t leave a big mess – you ever done this before kid?" I hadn’t, of course.

The first cabinet I wrecked while getting it off the wall. Maybe a little glue and wood putty and she’d be good as new, I reasoned. The next cabinet I only half ruined. I felt a little taller. After about two hours I found my rhythm, the cabinets were coming out easier with relatively little damage and were forming a neat pile in the middle of the living room, and I was starting to whistle.

Then my phone rang.

I don’t get too many calls on the weekends. Sometimes, when a job I’m running has some issues to work out, I do. When Laura needs me to stop at the store she usually calls too. Nonetheless, it was still very early in the morning and I could tell this was going to be different. It almost rang different, shocking me out of my focus.

Through the receiver, I heard Laura crying. She was desperately hoarse. I had only heard this kind of crying a few times in our many years together. She was in shock. My tools hit the floor as fear reached through her voice into the receiver and flowed into me. In a millisecond, I knew what was happening. My mind quickly ascertained that I was two hours away. This was going to be a bad conversation. She was out of my reach and I was nowhere near to protect her.

"Steve, I think I’m losing the baby," she sobbed…

"No your not, Honey," I said. "What’s wrong, what’s going on?"

She began to tell me. Just the facts, something Laura rarely does. She woke up feeling strange…and a sort of “pulling” inside her…and she was bleeding very heavy.

Debbie (her best friend) was already at the house and was taking her to the hospital as we spoke. I felt like throwing up. I told her not to worry (silently questioning the lucidity of the statement I’d just made) and that I’d be there right away. Then I ran straight out the door.

A few hours later it would occur to me that not only had I simply turned and run out of the house with no explanation, but I’d also left behind a huge pile of rubble, cabinets, and tools in the middle of this guy’s living room. Over time I lost his number, and I always meant to call him back and apologize, he was a nice guy. But what do you say? "Sorry Mister, I thought we were losing the baby."

To be honest I just wasn’t ready to say it yet, to speak into reality something much bigger than me. I sometimes wonder what he thinks of me now—a guy who showed up and destroyed his kitchen and then left. “Kids today…”

Question to you, dear reader; Do you pray? Strange enough question I guess, but sometimes I like asking anyway. I’m convinced that all of us do in some form or another at least a few times in life.

Usually, for the uninitiated, prayer is kind of like this: God how could you do this to me? It’s a type of higher power recognition. For whatever reason, it seems that tragedy suddenly becomes the appropriate time to recognize the Creator. Nonetheless, we do it with a complete selfish intention of creating a Divine Personal Torturer because we’re so important in the grand scheme of the universe. Of course, once the crisis has ended “God” is then conveniently put back on the shelf till the need once again arises for a tragic author to judge. But hey, I’m guilty of this too, plenty of times.

In the truck, flying down the freeway, I prayed. They were hollow prayers. I’m a Christian, the “practicing” type, and I pray all the time. But on this Saturday….I was quickly going blank. “Please don’t let this be…she wants this so bad…..help her hold on Lord…..” was about as much as I could muster. I didn’t quite believe the words out of my own mouth—talk about irony.

As happy and excited as I’d been the few weeks after learning Laura was pregnant, I was now equally scared and therefore lonely with that fear. In that loneliness, my prayers felt completely hollow.

Yet, maybe because of God I didn’t get a ticket, or blow up the truck’s engine with a zillion miles on it, or get in an accident. I arrived at the hospital in 25 minutes instead of an hour and a half. It wasn’t a pretty commute, but then again I was far from my usual calm Jedi warrior demeanor.

When you hit the emergency room, you see a plethora of changing lives and altered states unfold right before you. Everyone in the emergency room on any given day is sure to be forever something different. Sometimes, to a slight degree, their circumstance will result in a dinner party story. To a much greater degree, their lives become what others talk about in whispers at the same dinner parties. I suppose it’s the severity of the episode that determines who will be the future narrator. All of us in the emergency room, because some twist of fate drove us in there, can look at each other’s faces and play the silent guessing game as to who has it worse and who should get first priority in the cold indifference of this medicinal layover.

In the corner was Laura. We lost the baby. We—strange word sometimes. You say it, do you feel it? All I knew was that I wished I could have crawled into her skin and made it just “me.” Only Laura would know intimately, that deeper sense of loss. On this day, I was merely a witness to what we have now become (no longer a family to be).

The doctor said, “We call this a blighted ovum.”

"A Blighted Ovum?"

That’s “Doc Talk.” Colorful, clinical verbiage cloaked in insinuated parabolas designed to “sort of” discuss and yet not really discuss what’s happening on this Saturday morning in the emergency room. Blighted Ovum. Just the facts please…

It was very simple, the question that Laura was (we were) asking; “Am I losing the baby?” And here was the answer, in typical clinical fashion; "Well….you technically were pregnant but now you’re not. The level of growth hormone indicates your body is now shedding the tissue, but don’t worry, we’ll set up an appointment for a D&C and everything will be back to normal. There’s no reason to worry why you can’t be pregnant again soon…"

I had no response for him, there was no decision for me to make, no place for which I was to lead us as a family. I remember having to go with her for a urine sample prior to the final diagnosis and in doing so I saw for myself the tremendous amount of blood she was losing, I knew, and she knew. Nevertheless, that’s just the way it is, death. I picked her up, and held her in my arms while I carried her down the long hallway while she cried and waited for the diagnosis. I waited for my turn to cry, for a safer hour to do the same— outside of her ability to hear me. That’s the way it is sometimes, we did our grieving in shifts.

As I carried her down the hall I remembered a time when Laura was struggling with severe depression and a family related type of anxiety. I quickly discovered how powerless I really was. It had snuck up on us, the anxiety attacks, though we had never experienced it before. They were devastating and by far beyond any of my capacity to protect her.

I thought that even back then, and now in the emergency room while being told about a blighted ovum, that all of our enemies should at least have a face to go with the name. Give me someone who will stand in front of me, a place to hang my hatred. Crush me if you will but give me the name of my enemy.

Instead, in the midst of just another day in the emergency room, we became a number. Amongst everyone else’s crisis, everything in our world was completely different than it had been a few hours earlier when I first got up in search of new cabinets.

While I listened to the meaningless words of Doctor Death (can’t recall his name), I sat stunned and again found my mind wandering as his words faded into white noise.

I reflected on the days before that dreadful Saturday. It was 6 a.m. I was at the supermarket on a quest for womanly necessities and I stopped for a moment to notice an early morning Dad. He was unshaven, in basketball shorts and giving the colorful myriad of Gerber baby food bottles a good hard look. It was quite obvious to me, that to this new dad, kid strapped to his chest, these continuous rows of tiny colorful jars were in effect some new kind of science he was determined to conquer. I felt a twinge of pride and hope realizing that soon enough I would be in the same place. Interestingly, I found that rather exciting and awe inspiring. You Go Dad, was what I was thinking and tried to beam my mental energy into his subconscious.

It seems so long ago now as I remember the Saturday in the Hospital with a brand new destiny. It’s a shame really, how we would rather call death anything other than what it is (Blighted Ovum), as if it lessens the blow.

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Vacation of Solitude, Day Two:

Camping along the Russian River near Duncan’s Mill


4 o’clock Walk

I’m mesmerized as I memorize
Nuances of greens
Shapes of leaves
Sway of trees
Clouds descending with the sun
A gentle chirping just begun

I’m mesmerized as I memorize
The diamond dance of rippling
light
On rivers where the bird alights
And of those remained in flight

I’m mesmerized as I memorize
Mountains of trees
Caress of breeze
The way he always cares for me

I’m mesmerized as I memorize
Underwater agriculture—luminescent lime
Product of sun’s radiance plus a little time

My eyes: they feast
My soul gets drunk
My feet … don’t want … to move
(I can not seem to move)
I’m mesmerized as I memorize …

6 o’clock: Private Beach

i.
Wine and cheese

Hair blown by the breeze

Fog settling on trees:

Gift of the sea

Oh mercy me!

ii.
Blue heron stalking

Black birds
talking

Small birds
flocking


Cormorants drying their
wings:

This is the way of all
living things

Later Reflections

The River becomes a mirror

Of all that surrounds it:

Birds, sky, and trees;

What does it reflect of me?

Time to slow down and

Keep pace between time and

Eternity

by Diann Enderby

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Israel

is this my inheritance
that you promised?
always running
hunted, haunted
never quite home
never done wrestling
grasping for peace
begging for blessing
not quite what i
expected or
signed up for
this waiting
always waiting
struggling with you
and a wrenched hip
to prove it
again i ask
for blessing
you call me
israel

by christina douglas

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You're Blessed When...

It seems like I should feel
A tingle in my soul
Flying freely
Stepping lightly

If I could feel it
I imagine it would be
An airy exuberance
A Peaceful wave

I would dance
on marshmallow roads -
sit lightly on
a swing of cottontails

And I would feel blessed.

I feel blessed when the baby
Sleeps through the night
Or when the budget isn’t tight

I feel blessed when I look
Into my sons sparkling eyes
When no one’s crying

God says I am blessed
When I am at the end of my rope
When I have lost what is most
Dear to me

I want to cry out to him
“How can this be?”

I wonder about my sister
My niece and nephew
Left by their father

I wonder about my aunt –
Murdered, and our family –
Shackled in unforgiveness

Where is God in this?
Where is the blessing in this?
How can I see the other side of it?

Cliché’s and empty dreams
Silly illusions and nonsensical schemes
They mean absolutely nothing
I am realizing….

Unless God is at the core -
Unless God is at the root -
If we dig down deep enough
If we step inside and stretch far enough

He says we can see Him in
The outside world –
His presence in our pain –
That is our blessing.

Somehow I am blessed
When the baby is up all night
The kids are crying
And money is tight.

Somehow I am blessed
When I can turn my cheek
And walk confidently
Into a world of broken dreams

Without my Father
Beside me
I would crumble at my core
And I would snap in defeat.

I am beginning to understand,
He is my blessing.

by Stacy Dover

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My Mountain Top Experience

Frustrated, near tears
I crush the dirt under
My feet.
Smashing my thoughts
Into dust.

It doesn’t have to matter
What God wants!
My heart says I want
Peace.
It doesn’t have to matter
What I want…
He says,
Trust in ME

I shrug in defiance
And push my Father away
Life’s pressures burn
Through my throat

My chest tightens
Tears pool up and
Runneth over my eyes
into my empty, cupped hands

A breeze caresses the birds’ melodic
Tones of joy
They sing because
They are
They cheer because
He is

I dwell in a corner
Under a pine tree
And I DECLARE
the needles too prickly

I DECLARE Him
Too d i s t a n t
For me

Now close by
I hear a snake rattling
In its midst the weeds
Sway innocently, dancing
A hush calms deep
within me

I watch in awe and slowly
My frustration turns
To grief.

I fear because I am
H e l p l e s s
I run because I want
S t r e n g t h
I cry because I
G i v e u p
On myself
And I hope in

E t e r n a l g r a c e.

by Stacy Dover

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My Roadside Savior

Through stone roads I walk
Feet strapped tightly in heavy,
dirty leather boots
I trudge through

What is born of compromising?
Small pebbles
Turn to stones
Twisting and harboring in
The soft arches of
My feet

Sores open
As hard edges rub
Into each thin piece of flesh

Whom have I lived for?
Numbing pebbles
Turn to ignorance
Slowly burrowing in
The outer memory of
My heart

Scabs coat
As the blood runs
Outside each raw
wound

Who is my Savior?
He casts aside pebbles
I turn to grace
Seeping and soaking
The inner crevice of
My soul

Feet loose
As water flows
Through his hands as
He rubs my feet

Where is my Peace?
My boots are loose again
Free inside
Soft leather soles contort to my
Wounded arch

Protection from the rough road
I trudge on
With him
My Savior!
Watching from behind
Guarding me, guiding me
Forward

by Stacy Dover

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