Grandma’s Touch

(Excerpt from this year's NANOWRIMO, inspired by Bethany)

Grandma always had a way with her hands. She touched everything. Her hands were always sensitive to textures, patterns, variations.

When Matt was younger and kept his hair close-cut, she would run her fingers against the grain of his hair to feel the tension of hair strands going counterculture. This caused her to giggle.

“Going on a treasure hunt, x marks the spot. Three lines down and a question mark. A pinch, a squeeze, a tropical breeze. An egg that spills and gives you the chills.” This childhood ditty was followed by fingers drawn on the back to mark the treasure hunt, an “x” drawn to mark the spot where some treasure was inevitably hiding. I never figured out what that prize was all about, but I typically imagined some pirate’s bounty. The three lines drew straight down one’s back and the pinch was a slight irritation, the squeeze, a firm grip on a chunk of flesh. The tropical breeze was a puff of breath into one’s ear. The egg started with a cracking of a shell on top of one’s head and then fingers cascading down one’s head and shoulders and back to create a spilling of the yoke effect. It was sure to bring chills and shivers down even the most determined straight-faced bloke. We loved it.

Grandma taught us the bad habit of molding our fingers in the wax from melting candles. While they were lit, she plunged her hand into melted and softened wax pools, cradling the flame, and squeezed them into shapes and patterns.

She also dared to discover to us the “soft blanket” feeling of running your finger through a candle flame. She would gently swing her finger back and forth through a burning flame as we gathered around the table on a holiday meal. She claimed it felt soft, like a blanket. We cautiously and incompletely believed her and began our own test of this to prove or disprove her credibility. She was right. There was some sort of softness to the burning orange flame. Mom wasn’t crazy about this discovery and our infatuation with it. 

All I Want to Do Is Go to the Bathroom (from the head of a teacher)

All I want to do is go to the bathroom.

Chapel just ended and I am flung

Between throngs of 9^th, 10^th, 11^th, and 12^th graders,

And I wind around the snack shop, past the soccer field,

Past the old tree,

And up the high school stairs to deposit

My trusty Bible, attendance sheet, and

Contigo travel mug before

Whisking into the bathroom

For a quick pee,

So that I’m not distracted by a full bladder

When my discipleship girls show up.

As I turn the corner to enter the second stall,

I see the glow of a screen lighting up a

10^th grader’s face as she quickly turns so

As not to be seen by her teacher.

All I want to do is go to the bathroom.

In a moment of tension,

I actually have to force myself to turn around

To approach her about the phone,

Confiscate it,

Walk back to my classroom to place it on my desk,

And then return on my mission to finish the task,

Because all I want to do is go to the bathroom,

But I am interrupted by my on-call duties as a teacher.

Is It Any Wonder?

Is it any wonder?

Is it any wonder that we can look

At the same thing

And draw different responses?

Is it any surprise that one day I might see

The sky and marvel at its graceful décor,

Illuminating the landscape with sparkling diamonds

That will never get lost between sofa cushions

Or disappear on the subway.

Yet on a different day of the week,

Maybe even tomorrow,

I will gaze at the papers in my hands that

Are crying out to be graded

And I will answer their desperate pleas

And swoop in like a mother bird

To redeem the abandonment—

And in doing so I will attend to

An item on my list of ever-growing items to

Attend to,

And I might never even lift my head above

My desk, my path home,

My hands,

And I might never make eye contact with the clouds?

The half-moon?

The life pulsing all around—and

I might just plain forget that

“all creation groans and waits”

For the return of the God-man who will

Descend from His throne in the Heavenly realms

And sweep down to draw me near.

(NANOWRIMO Entry)

Sweet Sweat

Someone else’s sweat against my cheek. Not the sweet sweat of a lover or the sticky inevitability of a child, but the sun-beaten-down-on perspiration of a woman I greet as she passes me. Jacqueline. She is a machann who sells her wares in between the school and my house, so I see her each afternoon as I return to my abode. Angrily, she passed today. She was up on Delmas Swasant-Kenz—arguing with another machann about something, for when she storms down the street I inquire,

“Poukisa ou fache” (why are you angry)?

Her words returned void. Some disagreement between her and one of the other women who faithfully sits along the street, waiting for passersby to run their hands over a ripe zaboca or fig: to purchase.

Somehow sweat is sweet sometimes. In the middle of my workday, over my lunch break, is when our cheeks brushed—mine was fairly dry from being incubated in air conditioning all morning and hers was dripping moisture from standing under the orb in the sky all maten (morning).

(NANOWRIMO Entry) 

In the Middle

Mid-twenties. You are a funny bunch of years.

I’ve always liked the middle.

When I was younger, living in a suburban neighborhood—

Positioned across from a small patch of rolling

Cornfields,

I fought for the middle in my trio of friends’’

Biking entourage.

I wanted to be second in the line-up,

With one neighborhood friend in front of my 5-speed,

And one neighborhood friend behind.

My mood turned foul if this didn’t happen just “so”…

I am the second middle child,

In a collection of four.

I’m third;

I’m in the middle.

I didn’t have to do things first,

But I still ended up paving “the way” somehow

With a rebellious streak yearning for boundary-pushes.

I often wanted to stand out—not for outlandish opinions

But for music taste, outfit choice, sarcastic jests.

I wasn’t the firstborn and I wasn’t the baby of the flock.

I had to make my mark somehow, huh?

I never liked being the one to rock the boat,

I straddled the middle,

Fought for the center,

Disdained the thought of being a killjoy

Or unpopular.

I wanted favor and to know I was appreciated.

I wanted to stand up for the leftovers

And looked-down-upons.

I didn’t want to be an extreme on any side of

The spectrum, ever.

Well, rarely, I suppose.

The middle.

It’s safe, but it’s dangerously so.

Reaching out toward one side or the other

Leaves a vulnerability—the fear of man

Begins to kick in,

And I grasp for air because this is the ultimate

Choke factor for me.

But Jesus never stayed in the middle,

And if He’s my role model, then what am I doing

Drifting to the center of the situation

Trying to hold fast to some middle ground?

He frequently entered into polarized discussions,

Opinions,

Made frighteningly strong appeals

That left no middle ground to be clung to.

I need a get-out-of-the-middle lesson.

There is one grande middle in which I

Struggle to remain.

And that is a sort of equilibrium,

An anchored peace and state of dwelling,

Where I struggle to exist in full.

This is one middle, that Jesus did promote,

That I struggle the most to embrace.

The anchored center,

“Come and take Your place, in the center of

Our hearts/Come and take Your place, Jesus.”

To find rest in the anchor for my soul,

I am often on a search and rescue mission.

This is “middle” that I have never gravitated towards

But that I deeply need.

I need my Dad’s perfect peace

And solid direction for my life.

I need His ultimate view on every issue and situation

I encounter.

I need to find rest in a balanced kingdom:

His kingdom’s floor plans.

I need to find my middle in Jesus. 

A Day.

 7 alarms set on 2 devices;

2 snooze buttons pressed.

One coffee with milk & sugar,

My teeth are brushed,

And I’m quiet.

This was the fourth night in a row that

I had a vivid dream, so I wrote it in my

Journal.

“Father, what does it mean?”

Bethel ministers to my spirit as I read

Of Josiah’s faithfulness to the Lord and

Follow-through with the commands of the Lord

When Deuteronomy is read-aloud to him for the first time.

He disregards the patterns of his father

And sanctifies the land.

My messy mind loves reading the Bible chronologically.

One more alarm later signifies the end of my

Set apart time and I get dressed and ready for the day.

My coffee is reheated, my bag packed, and my shoes are on!

I walk out the side door, through the gate,

And call out, Bonjour Nouryann to my neighbor

Who fries goodies that school students purchase fresh

on their walk to school for the day.

Shiny cars, tinted windows, tap-taps, motos, beat-up vehicles,

Students from other schools, parents of other students, employees,

wanderers, goats,

Pass me on my 5 minute commute from home to school.

I enter the gate, greeting the guard,

Greeting students on the path alongside the soccer field,

As I move towards my classroom.

Today is Tuesday, so I don’t have a staff meeting.

I write comments on a 2^nd draft of a 9^th grade student’s

Autobiographical narrative and deposit it in her classroom mailbox.

Several students come in to ask questions before

First Period begins.

I read several parent emails and respond.

The nurse asks me about my health as I descend the high

School stairs in search of staples:

They ran out.

I catch the principal by the lockers for a conversation about

An assignment and my next class arrives as I break away during

The climax of the discussion.

Middle school typing. Students type up assignments

Using the correct fingers we’ve learned

Or continue on their typing lessons.

I have to chase two students out of class at the end

Because they are determined to finish the lessons they

Are working on!

*Sigh* (Good sigh)

High school break before next class.

Three 9^th grade girls linger in my doorway

And one says, “we appreciate you, Miss.”

The lot of the 9^th graders hustle in

For English class.

I now lock my door when class begins

Because tardiness was becoming an issue.

Word of the day, writing prompt about your favorite room

In the house, mini-lessons on writing traits, etc.

Class is over.  

Lunch.

Picnic table conversations with coworkers

A glutton-free friend

Eats glutton by mistake.

Discussions about church messages, adoption,

Students with lots of energy, etc. ensue.

Upon leaving the lunch table, I tell a coworker

That I want to tap her brain later for input

On an assignment I am giving students.

1:30pm, we agree.

I rush out the gate to say my daily, Bonswa

To my friends on Delmas 75 before returning to my

Classroom. My best friend, Venise, is not there.

M’ap vini, pita (I’ll come back later)

I promise as I wave goodbye to Natasha.

Natasha is probably only a year or two older

Than my students.

She is not fortunate enough to go to school.

Back in my classroom, I conference

With students—asking them questions

About the books they read this month.

One after the other…minus the students who

Blew off the meetings.

I quickly check my email and find one from a parent

That I’ll need to respond to soon.

Another message calls for a brief staff meeting after school.

12:45 and I head down to middle school to join

My coworker and friend during her writer’s workshop:

7^th grade writing!

It’s school picture day

And this class period is interrupted to take the photos.

As students return they continue poems, essays, memoirs,

Short stories, among other brilliant escapades on paper.

After students leave, we briefly discuss some of life’s

Challenges, disappointments, frustrations,

And hope for some more insight as we pursue

Our separate directions for the next hour.

It’s 1:30pm.

I walk up to my other friend/coworker’s classroom,

Where much brainstorming, advice, insight has occurred

Over the past 2 years.

We collaborate well.

She helps me get unstuck as I sort through frustrations

With an assignment I have given to my students.

Mesi Jezi!

It’s 2pm.

Classes are switching.

I walk diagonally across the hall

Back to my classroom and turn the AC on

As students show up for Study Skills.

They work independently on assignments from other classes.

I conference with…it was going to be three students…

But two weren’t prepared.

So, one.

We talk about the book he read this month.

I give the “evil eye” once or twice as

Under-the-radar whispering begins.

Mozart plays softly in the background as students

Read, work on Geometry problems,

Peer edit papers, prepare Socratic Seminar notes…

“We have four minutes left. Please fill out your work logs

And then feel free to have a quiet conversation with people

Around you.”

I have students signed-up back-to-back

From 3-4pm.

The first one is a no-show, so I pop into the staff meeting,

Leaving a “Back in 2” note on my door.

The annual staff retreat is being postponed this weekend

Due to unrest on the main road leading to the beach. L

Back to my classroom to finish out student conferences.

In between no-shows, I respond to the necessary emails

And prepare my whiteboard for tomorrow.

The last book conference adds sparkle to my day.

She read The Giver this month.

After answering questions about the book,

She explains that she thought about how the

Dystopian world in the book is almost like

What life would be like without the Fall.

There is no pain, but there is also no freedom. There

Is no room to make mistakes. You try to deviate from

The “norm” and you are automatically “released” AKA: killed.

She was intrigued by what Lois Lowry did with twins in the book—

The babies are both weighed and the smallest one is “released.”

My 9^th grader decided to apply this to her life—what would this mean

For her family? She asked her mother the birth weights

Of her and her sisters. My student discovered that her oldest sister

Was the smallest birth weight: what would life be like without her?

It would be really sad because she is the sister who both of the

Other girls get along with the most.

(Disclaimer: It was better when she explained it)

The power gets turned off at 4:30ish.

I open a window and finish grading an assignment

and stick it in the 9^th grader’s class mailboxes.

I pack my bag.

It’s just after 5pm.

I walk across campus saying “goodnight” to

Students who are still hanging out.

I see a security guard who I haven’t seen in a long time.

I switch to Creole.

We talk, he asks about my father’s health.

I pass through the gate and find my friend Venise.

She is tired today.

My friends Linda and Patricia are also working today—

I don’t always see them!

Patricia has been caring for her baby and hasn’t

Been working on Delmas 75 much lately.

Yornell chides me for not saying “hi” to him.

I apologize profusely. :P

Some of the other ladies selling fruit beckon me over…

We talk about not having seen each other for a long time;

We talk about hair; we joke around.

One of my friends says she will stop by later on tonight,

And I tell her that I have some things I need to finish up

My walk on the way home from school.

And that tonight isn’t a good night.

Because I then have somewhere to be at 7:30.

I walk home.

I greet Manushka

And the next door neighbors

On my way into my gate I hear one of the friends

Of these neighbors call out in English,

“Hey what did you bring me.”

I turn around and call out to the rest of his friends,

Li fou paske li te mande m’ kisa m’ gen pou li, men

Li pa gen bagay pou m’! (He’s crazy because he asked

What I have for him but he doesn’t have anything for me!).

They laugh…perhaps at my ridiculousness in responding

Or maybe my joke is a tiny bit…funny? At least

The overkill jesting I used to illustrate my point, perhaps.

Here I am…I burned some leftover pizza as I heated it up on

The stove, unobserved.

And here, I write.

Thinking of how I must shower and then call Mark

To bring his moto to take me to worship tonight!

Thank You, Father, for the day You have provided.

May all I have said and done bring glory to You! 

Caught Up

An old piece I stumbled upon this morning (my last day in PA before flying back to Haiti for the upcoming school year). This is from October 2013 which was my first school year. :)

I’m caught up in the flow of the grace that

Takes me captive against my calloused will

And tough-skinned lip.

My love is steeped in distant shores,

Where I am buckling at the seams and

Drenched in day-old perspiration, prayers,

Invading Heaven and touching down into my

Soul, where all things are nurtured. And

Your grace gives purpose to my mottled

Days,

And I will not dance away from the touch that

Comes to fill my soul with destiny-spattered

Hopes and dreams and

In my eyes I will find the ripples of songs long forgotten

And tunes that wear themselves thin in the recesses of my

Design.

I was made for declarations made firm, confident, laced with

Right intentions and just motives;

I was made for purity: provocatively challenging

World-instated norms;

I was intricately coiled into the age-old plans

That knit my love with Your love,

And made them into one: Your Son.

I am drawn by momentary tousles and

My eyes peer past befuddled musings,

Because they limit the heart, mind;

You are the anchor; I am anchored.

I sway not with the billowing clouds and

Restless emotions of the atmosphere.

I have come to stand firm in the midst of shadows shifting,

And lightening illuminating undressed minds,

I have come, not from my own plans, but from those

Brainstormed intuitively by the Mastermind Himself.

Since He is the anchor, I am anchored still,

And I am illuminated on the mast

For the Restorer restored me,

And I am free to reinstate the masses through

The love that abides in me,

And I will see what He sees,

When I look at You

Because I know you are more than

Tangled tendons and embittered

Photographs etched rigidly, flirtatiously

In your skull and inside your chest.

I see you not because of my 20-20

But because He gave me the eyes

That don’t see you as the world sees you,

Though temptations have seized me;

I choose to see you as the Life-Giver sees you,

And that is the image I will breathe into.

Shine!

Blink!

Beat!

Arise!

Wake-up!

Enough!

You. Are. Alive!

You.

Are.

ALIVE!

Tackle the darkness that dipped your brow low,

For the dawn is coming and has already come,

And One who was found worthy

Sits on the throne,

Pronouncing your name:

Over, and over, and over again.

There is no shame,

There is no distance,

There is no confusion,

There is resolution,

There is reconciliation,

There is light beam invading aorta, vein, limb, muscle.

There is delivery of promises that never grows moldy,

There is love requited because it doesn’t grow for its own pleasure alone.

There is a life after death; your death is not subsidiary—it is necessary and purposeful.

Eat, be full, for the table is prepared.

Today we die;

Today we live.

Today we hunger;

Today we dine.

Extend the tankard that runs empty by the hour,

For no longer will withered limbs be revived

By temporary fill,

Today we dine with the Wonder of the World.

Today we die to truly be made alive.

Wake up, my friend, for the sleeper knows not the

Fruit of love,

Wake up to taste the True Vine!

Wake up to leave distorted eyelids behind,

Wake up to dance for revival of aching souls is resting in the palm of your heart!

Wake up!

Your Deliverer has come!

What Did Naaman Think?

What did Naaman think

When he traveled from afar—

Six thousand pieces of gold

And 10 changes from his wardrobe—

To arrive in a foreign land before

A foreign king and ask for healing?

What did Naaman feel when

The king tore off his clothes in

A rage, appalled at the great

Assumption that he would have

Super-God powers to restore

A leper’s flesh?

Was he afraid?

Was he in fear for his life?

Did he think a political war might

Break out when Israel’s king

Began questioning if Naaman’s

Purpose of coming was to start a quarrel?

He was only seeking healing.

What did Naaman think when

He showed up at Elisha’s door

(once saved from political war by Elisha’s

Message to the court),

Only to be greeted by the prophet’s servant

And given orders to take a bath in the

River to receive the healing

His body-eating disease sought to cheat

Him from.

Ludicrous.

To come so far,

To seek God’s healing.

To be promised he would find

What his heart longed for,

To be given hope and for it to be wrenched away.

Is this some joke?

A game?

Naaman, favored by the King of Syria,

Led into a false promise of a whole life,

A life where the fear of losing a finger or toe,

Being outcast from all of society,

Might be as far from him as the floor bottom of

The ocean.

What did Naaman think when his treatment for leprosy

Was delivered as a dip in the waters?

A bath? A bath?!

No audience with the prophet?

No display of calling on the God

Of Israel to send down healing,

No waving his hand over the sickly man,

No dramatic show of God’s

Power?

No thunder or lightening or angels

Or shouts…no lights no action,

No display? No demonstration?

A bath? A dip in the water?!

To prescribe such a simple

Solution for his diagnosis:

Ridiculous!

What did Naaman think when the servants

Challenged his disdain?

Their prodding led him to the waters,

And into his flesh restoration.

What did Naaman think when the

Prophet of God

Refused his gifts of jubilee?

When Elisha stood before him

And proclaimed, “’I will receive none’” (5:16)?

How could Naaman break even,

Repay the debt of a life restored,

It didn’t feel right to be given

Something for free,

To be brought back to life and

To not be allowed to in some way

Fulfill the debt of being given

Something that could never be repaid,

To not even be allowed to try?!

It seemed so wrong!

What did I think when I looked for my

Healing,

When I was told to “confess with your mouth that Jesus

is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised

Him from the dead, you will be saved” (Romans 10:9)?

That this heart belief and mouth confession,

Would be the answer, the healing

My being longed for,

Heading for the flames, fading second by second,

What a simple procedure.

Almost ridiculous, quite preposterous

To simply believe and confess

And a single commandment:

"'Love the Lord your God with all your heart

and with all your soul and with all your mind…'

And the second is like it:

 'Love your neighbor as yourself’” (Mt 22:37-38).

What did I think when I heard the complicated

simplicity of eternity?

What can I give, what can

I sacrifice, how do I even begin

To fulfill the debt of being given

Something that could never be repaid,

To not even be allowed to try?!

How often have I tried to break even,

To earn my own healing,

To deserve it, to be perfect so I

Could feel somehow…

Worthy?

What have I thought when I’ve been told

 that all of my “righteous acts are like filthy rags” (Isaiah 64:6)

before God?

And that I can’t do anything.

It is counter-nature,

How can I be justified:

“For by grace you have been saved through faith” (Eph 2:8).

ACK!!!

I am humbled, again.

I accept, I accept, I accept.

Sometimes I will forget

That I cannot pay for it, that it will look

Different than what I expect,

“’I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!’" (Mark 9:24)

This gift that I sought to find,

Its simplicity that I’ve often over-complicated,

And the unavoidable price that you covered for me at the door:

I accept, I accept, I accept!

(Based on 2 Kings 5 & 6)