"What is love? [God] don't hurt me. Don't hurt me...No more"

Currently, I don't know if God loves me.

This is not because I feel too ashamed or "sinful" (and i'm definitely NOT looking for pity) but because I actually do not know what I believe about if or how God loves human beings. This has been quite a distressful doubting experience, to say the least. Sometimes I just want to be indifferent, and for the first time in my life, I have little hiccups of apathy.
Yesterday afternoon my spiritual director suggested that I "re-imagine" God (yeah yeah another one of those Emerging Church words & suggestions). But, I think there's merit to it--At least I hope so...I'm kinda "at the end of my rope", as the saying goes. She suggested I start with a "clean slate," a non-image of God. She suggested I ask God to show me who God is--and to be open to these "showings" through any and all mediums I happen upon--including experiences, Scripture, dreams, and conversations. She suggested I continually, throughout the day, ask myself, "Who is God to me?"
Last night, Andy confronted me about how much it hurt him when I lied to him a couple weeks ago. It was not a shaming confrontation. His purpose was to reconcile with me, to tell me how much he loved me--to restore our distance. He closed his eyes and as tears started streaming down his face, I saw who God is...and who I need God to be for me. With his eyes closed, Andy told me how much it hurts him when I do not tell him the truth; how much it hurts him to have feelings of his own inadequacy as a partner to me; how much it hurts him when all he wants is to love me deeply, and I won't love him back by being truthful. I saw who God is.
I saw a God not disappointed but understanding. I saw a God not enraged but wanting relationship. I saw a God not looking away because of sin but moving toward me longing real intimacy. I saw a God who loved me. A God who loved ME. Who LOVED me. Me.

If this man sitting here with me is created in the Image of God, then right now he must somehow, even if just a little bit, reflect who God is.

~A-M, 2/11/09

Linda Momma

I wanted to call her 'Mom.'
I always had the urge to
But felt I should wait.
I wanted to call her 'Momma.'
Wish we could have talked
About all the cute memories she had
Of Andy when he was young.
I wanted to hear the classics--
His first words, the ways she made him laugh...
And vice versa.
But now I can't;
And I hate it.
We were going to be good friends.
I was going to call her 'Mom.'
We were going to dance at the wedding,
And give God thanks for her healing...
But there was none.

So goodbye, Momma.
We miss you.

~A-M, 2/2/09

April 1991

Maybe if there had been (more) color in my life,
I wouldn’t hate love so much.
All I remember is green.
The green of the visitor deck where the duck family lived.
I liked those ducks—
Liked watching them grow from infant to toddler
(Like) a premonition of the prayer in my mother’s womb.
None of it made sense—
It still doesn’t.
Maybe there’s some red in there too;
Red in the thin little tubes covering her face and body.
Red on his hands.
Oh yes, and black…
Maybe dark brown?
I remember her hair—
Her dark brown hair.
Seventeen years later it still touches the top of her shoulders.
I am at the same instant repulsed and drawn to her.
She’s both my heart’s magnet and finger nails on a school chalk board.
She’s like the sun and the rain—whenever I have one, I want the other instead.
She’s like chocolate and poached eggs.

And so I ask myself,

Why do five year olds not play dead?
And how can this answered prayer support a head?
I ended up wanting to be the one being fed…

I wish someone had told me I was necessary.

~A-M, 11/30/08

August 25, 2008

White flowers bloomed today in the August rain.

I thought the petals might fall off--

Might not withstand the pelting.

Frost knows what I was thinking.

I guess flowers can take a beating...

And bloom brighter because of it.

-A-M

My Current Sentiment

The red sunrise at dawn
Satisfies the lustful eyes and is gone—
Only to be followed by a storm.
And the eyes knew this end all along.

A-M

An Ode on Unattained Contentment

I looked at Your tree,
And was about to deem it dead--
For it was bare and leaf-less.
I was thinking about Your redemption
As I saw birds resting in its barren branches.
But then, I remembered
It's not dead at all--
I caught sight of its stable, mighty trunk,
Planted firmly in the green grass.
And I remembered,
That even plant life goes through their own seasons.
Even though it looks dead to my eye,
It is far from being so.
It is as alive as ever;
Resting within itself,
Content within itself--
Not concerned with providing beauty for humans to marvel at.
But only concerned with resting for now with its Creator--
Knowing, with full assurance,
That it will once again sprout beautiful leaves...
All in God's time.
It does not envy the Evergreen
Who stays clothed all year long.
It delights in its vulnerability--
It's inability to hide behind its coverings.
Oh the joy it finds
When the green buds appear in the spring!
Oh the joy and sorrow it feels at the same moment
When its leaves begin to turn,
Shades of orange, red, and yellow!
For it knows they are about to fall and die.
But the colors bring the tree such delight!--
Even while it mourns their loss.
And God sustains the tree through the winter.
And comforts the tree.
Multitudes of birds
Spend their mornings resting in its branches.
Within it, hosts of sparrows bathe their loved ones
And sing songs of love and life,
Amidst the barren branches.
And so, the tree is filled with companions.
The tree is not left alone.

I'm sitting in my math professor's front room. This chair's pretty damn comfortable. I bet she grades my 15 hours of proofs sitting here.

There are books and cds and records all around me--on the floor, in piles, on shelves. The aroma of cabbage and cornbeef lingers after a hearty St. Patrick's Day celebration last eve. mmm, now that's some good irish cookin'.

The sun is is shining in through her window facing south. I can see the dust on her bookshelf, on her odd lamp, on her dead plant. Yes, this is a math professor's humble abode. The lack of decoration and conservative amount of furniture reminds me of me. I'm all about drapes from Goodwill. I eat that shit up.

I'm here kidsitting three 12 year olds--2 boys and a girl. One of the boys, David, started crying earlier over a bowl of fruitloops because his rat will probably be dead by time he gets home today. Schema is her name. She's lived a good, long life, he said. He's going to miss her. They had a real bond.

His tears reminded me how fragile we human beings are--and how most of us spend our lives trying to convince ourselves and others that we are not.