Journey (2000)

for my teachers, who have given me so much.

You used to frighten me.

You laugh now, and so do I--

But it really is the truth.

The sign in your window,

The age-old rumors of your method of waking sleeping giants--

And I was such a little fish.

But I was good at what you love.

Perhaps you knew of me

From teachers' table stories

I know she used to tell

You knew of my ode to a basketball game through your neighbor

And you lunched with half my heredity.

But you never said a word.

You just showed me an ancient path,

Trod by countless feet before

And influenced my journey by your joy.

And when I got your jokes first you would laugh with me at the rest

And when I got Woolf and Wordsworth last,

You didn't laugh--

You just pointed to the footprints.

They led me to wonder.

And when I finally, finally found

My own path, with no footprints,

You smiled again and turned me in the right direction--

And when the footprints were my own,

You were more excited than even I

Because I loved the journey

And you knew all along.

Midnight

I can’t keep holding myself together

For the sake of the way people see me

While the seams are falling apart.

So many days I feel fat

Or ugly

Slow

Stupid

Worthless

Fake

I can’t do this.

I’m so afraid of mediocrity that I’m stuck in it.

I’m so afraid of the success that I think I’ll never have.

Everyone—everyone—all around me sees this image

This hologram

Of a bright, strong, able woman:

“She can do anything.”

It’s a projection.  It’s a fake.

I don’t have it all together,

And I envy all of you who do.

I lie in bed awake, with tears running down my cheeks,

And I cycle through this list of friends and family,

Wondering who is strong enough to bear my pain,

When mine are the shoulders which have borne the pain of many.

I can’t. 

I can’t go on bearing it.

I’ll break.

I’ll break, because I am not one who bends.

Meaning

“…beauty for ashes…”

There is, after all, the problem of pain,
The problem of suffering.
The “How could this happen?”
And the “Why me?”

I have never thought that pain was necessary.
I have never thought that everything has a reason.
I see suffering everywhere I turn,
And I can’t begin to explain it away.

I don’t pretend to know the answers,
And I don’t have any claim to truth.
But I do believe there is meaning here,
In our brokenness:

For we are all broken.
We are heavy with brokenness.

But there is no healing without hurt,
There is no forgiveness without sin,
No reconciliation without wrong,
And no grace without brokenness.

This state is not a matter of will, or choice.
We all of us are flawed.
There is beauty in the splinters, though;
Restoration in the ruin, and it is this:

That our God does not ask us to be broken
Before we approach the throne,
But meets us, wrecked or spotless
Where we are, loves us, and makes us whole.

Are You My Mother?

in honor of motherers of all kinds everywhere

Teacher who made the new girl feel welcome

Who convinced me I was good enough

Who stayed late, sometimes, just to talk

Who is still a part of my life, after so many years:

Are you my mother?

Friend who watched me grow up

Who helped teach me right from wrong

Who applauded me from the front row

Who loved me into your own family:

Are you my mother?

Cousin, uncle, sister, granddad, aunt

Who taught me to fish

Who treated me like a princess

Who helped me understand who I am and where I come from:

Are you my mother?

Woman who delivered me

Who comforts me when I cry

Who fought with me and defended me

Who showed me what kindness looks like:

Are you my mother?

I cannot, looking back, remember a life

When the only person who mothered me

Was my mom.

Thank you Mom, family, friends

Thank you pastors, teachers, coaches

Thank you volunteers and church ladies

You are my mother.