Faceless

My friend was two days shy of the end of her first trimester.

I have no idea what to say to her or her husband.
It hurt to hear and
          I feel completely helpless.

The list of married couples I know who haven’t experienced a miscarriage may actually be smaller than those who have. It’s at least bordering on even.

But every time hurts
     because each child
                    was already loved.

Having to experience this must be impossibly hard in itself, but having to explain it to others afterward seems like such a cruel double blow – especially when it follows someone innocently asking how Mom is doing or when the due date is.

I grieve for my friends
     because their loss
          is so much
                    heavier
               than those few small pounds.

Some have already named their kids,
                           bought new cars
                           or painted rooms.
               Now those empty rooms
                                          scream
                                   at them with silence,
                        and those names feel somehow
                                         misplaced.

I don’t understand God in this. (Not that I ever do.) But regardless of what you may believe about science or God, or how they intertwine, science does not offer comfort here. Biology is cold; it teaches that these parents aren’t even parents yet, and their children aren’t even children.

But God saw us
     before we were formed.
He created us
     and wove each of us together (Psalm 139:15-16).

It may not help with the why, but I think it does help (a little)
          knowing who these children are –
                             because they matter.
               Until we can see them someday, after our life here,
                     they remain faceless to us,
                               but they will never be faceless
                                          to Him.

Apricots

We have been trying, in various ways for the three-and-a-half years we have lived here, to meet our neighbors.

Both Jeff and I have a low number of pegs, and quickly reach our maximum capacity for focusing individually on the people in our lives, but we have always wanted to know our neighbors – even if they don’t become our best friends.

Most of them keep to themselves, and we rarely spot them except when they drive away or are pulling into their garages. It’s often hard to even catch their eyes as we wave.

Even though it is not a strength for either of us, we try to initiate contact as much as we can.

We invited everyone to an open house when we moved in, we do our own yard work, take walks around the neighborhood, and wave to everyone we see. Most of them have at least started waving back, but that is pretty much the extent of the exchanges.

The day we moved in, the family next door saw us moving boxes and offered to help. They were awesome neighbors with two great little kids who rode their Power Wheels around and around the cul-de-sac until the batteries ran out; at some point, we found out we all even attended the same church. And then they moved to Florida.

A couple months after we moved in, we planted a semi-dwarf apricot tree in our backyard, because apricots are my favorite fruit. Last year, we had around 25-30 apricots. The year before we had three. This year we didn’t bother to count. I’m bad at estimating numbers, but it was easily over 200. We gave some away to family and brought a ton to work, but we still had way more than we could possibly eat. If we kept them around, they would just go bad.

Not knowing how it would go, or how awkward we would be, we decided to walk around to our neighbors and give them some apricots.

The house with the amazing family that moved away? Another family lives there now. Their kids play in the cul-de-sac sometimes, but my guess is they have been taught – very well – not to talk to strangers. We do get waves and hi’s from the family, but that’s pretty much the extent of it. We rang the doorbell twice, and were about to give up, but they finally answered, so we gave them a bunch of apricots. The dad seemed very receptive, thanked us for them and said he didn’t even know we had an apricot tree. The daughter peeked out from behind him, smiled and waved at us. We still don’t know their names. :/

The guy next to us lives alone. He looks a little intimidating at first, but is really a giant teddy bear. He didn’t answer the door, so we’ll have to try again.

The family across the cul-de-sac has three kids, two who drive in and out more times a day than I can count. They are the furthest distance from us in the cul-de-sac, but we have had more interaction with them than any of the other neighbors. They go to a church near here and have pool parties in their backyard almost every Sunday afternoon during the summer. When the dad answered, he had a line of winter boots next to the door and he said he was getting ready to do an enactment during Vacation Bible School at his church – boots, jackets and all. I mentioned the 101-degree heat this week and he just said the kids were worth it, and thanked us for the apricots. As we walked away, I felt like I should re-learn CPR and offer to go to the VBS and stand in the back, just in case.

The woman on the other side of us is an interesting character. She rarely leaves the house, her TV is almost always on and very loud, and she feeds pretty much every stray cat in our neighborhood – while cooing at them. She also has a sign on her front door that says, “We don’t answer the door, so please leave.”

We gave it a shot anyway and rang the doorbell. No answer. Not wanting to entirely ignore her wishes, and figuring our only shot was to leave the apricots on her doorstep, that’s what we did. Our tree is right next to the fence we share, so she would probably know they were from us. If she never knew, that was okay too.

Almost exactly 24 hours later, our doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw her.

When I opened it, she asked if the apricots were from us and I said yes. She thanked us for them, said she loved apricots and these were wonderful, and gave us our Tupperware back, along with a package of store-bought brownies. They were probably something she had in her freezer. I felt bad accepting them, but figured it was her way of saying thank you, and I didn’t want to pass up any kind of exchange between us.

Hopefully we can find more ways to interact with our neighbors. We may never have block parties or barbecues, and we may never know all of them. But we are actively trying, and slowly making progress – thanks to our apricot tree.

Do

It’s one thing for me to ask God for help.
     I do that
          all.the.time.

I know He hears my cries
                            requests
                            pleas.

But I don’t know how
           to expect Him to actually
                             do
                        anything.

I tend to view it as a pleasant surprise
                   if
             He does.
Hoping and
     expecting
          just leads to discouragement
                          frustration.
I don’t want to be constantly
                  disappointed if
                                   when He doesn’t help.

Can He?
     Yes.

Will He?
     I have no idea.

For Him to help would take no effort whatsoever.
          He doesn’t even have to blink.

It’s harder for me to ask for something
               from someone else
                    because it means a sacrifice of some sort from them.
     It’s not a futile request
          because they might actually
                            probably will
                                     help.

Does that mean I actually have more faith
     that a person will do what I need
                   than God will?

Drop

The scent mesmerizes me
     before I see any sign of it.

From a strong wind
          raging storm
          or whispered breeze
                          that tickles my arms,
                  I breathe in
                           a calm
                                   incomparable
                                      to anything else.

Expectantly,
              I wait
          for that first small drop
                    from the dark grey sky.

Recently it seems
                       every
                  part of me
                         has been a desert.

It has been so long
          since I have felt
                         refreshment,
              I don’t even care
                             if it covers over
                                  drenches
                                  or drowns me.

I will soak up every drop
                         He provides.

Nice*

I can’t stand how she’s just so nice to everyone.

At first I thought I was special to her. She paid attention to me, was interested in what I had to say and spent time with me. But I slowly started to notice she treated everyone that way.

If she were faking it, I could hate her. But her sickening sweetness is actually real.

Even when we're in a hurry, she opens the door for random strangers. She asks the checkout girl at the grocery store how her dog is doing. She knows the FedEx guy by name. And she smiles at everyone.

At times, it seems like I am her pseudo-boyfriend. I hang out with her, spend time with her friends, and listen to her girly ramblings.

I even paid the extra dollar for her movie ticket because she didn’t have enough. She just thanked me and said she would pay me back. Then she gave me a pat on my shoulder. That was all I got in return.

I don't want her money. What I hate is that I could be anyone to her – and not the one.

I am sick of her cruelty. I keep waiting for her to see me differently – for her bright green eyes to look at me the same way I look at her.

But what pisses me off more than anything is that I still can’t stop thinking about her.

If she would just be mean to me, blow me off, be a jerk to me, and give me an actual reason to hate her, I could feel better. Being her friend isn’t good enough. She’s a tease. Love me or hate me. But quit all this in-between crap.

She isn’t as nice as she thinks.

 

*Fiction

Coordinates

I just want to do
        what He designed me to do
                       and follow
                                  Him.

But I don’t know what that is
        (or if I even get to have that)
                       and He seems to hide from me.

I have no direction.

When I try to figure out
     where to go,
               a current timeline
                    is required
                              for my coordinates to be accurate.

But what if I am missing something?

Or what if I screwed up
     so bad
           somewhere
                     that I am now in an alternate 1985*
                          and my decisions
                                 only branch
                             off
      from a made-up reality?

I am without a compass
                     course
                     aim
                         and I have no guidance.

I am
        m
           e
         a
        n
          d
            e
               r
              i
               n
                  g
                     trying to follow
                                  an invisible God
            and His even more invisible
                                       plan.

 

*Back to the Future Trilogy ©1985, 1989, 1990

Failure

This is why I don’t make goals.

When I do –
     if I don’t do it exactly right,
                         or it's incomplete,
                                  it means failure.

It may not be that way from anyone else’s perspective (maybe),
     but the pressure to meet those goals
               is not something I take lightly.

It’s almost as if
                         a goal equates to a promise.

If I promise I will do something,
          I have to follow through
                         or I am a liar.

That may not be what a goal is intended to be,
          but I don’t know how to allow myself the difference.

                         Giving myself a break = failure.

I get (overly) frustrated
     critical
     pissed off – at myself
                    if when I don’t hit the mark.

Jeff tells me
     it does not come from anyone else.

     It comes from me.

Other people would probably see
     my disaster
          as no big deal
          not notice at all
          or give me a reprieve
                         and let it go.

But I can’t get past the knowledge
     that I didn’t live up to expectations –
               even if I was the one who set them.

The world will not end
                          implode
                          fall apart
                              if I don’t meet the goal(s) I set.
     And my place in it
          is so small.

So why does the failure
                    feel so big?

Beginnings

I once pushed myself to write a poem for every day of the year.

Many were forced, obviously. Sometimes I had to write a few at once to make up for the days I wasn’t able to write. But I did it anyway.

Most of them weren’t good.

Some might have a hidden potential. (Maybe.)

I also have notebooks and computer files full of short stories and half-finished longer ones – although I think most of those are even worse than the poems.

Some (most) pieces are better left unread – by anyone.
Some (maybe a few) aren’t so bad.
     They might actually be good beginnings –
                                           or middles… (I think.)

Some could be bigger
     if I had the time
          and didn’t have to think about trivial things
                                                    like sleep
                                                         work
                                                         lunch
                                                         laundry.

Maybe I am bound to poems or short stories.

And maybe that’s okay.

Even if no one reads,
     I am writing –
       actively working
                  refining
                  improving (hopefully).

        And definitely learning.

Stolen

I could only ever take
          gleanings
               from your reserve –
          clippings
               from the growth
                         you threw away.

You had it in excess
     and
          I
          was
          drowning.

So I stole a piece of me
     from you.

It tried to evade my grasp
          sneak through
               my fingered grip,
                    as if the knowledge was clear
                              that I did not
                              belong
                              to it.

It was so defined in you:
              abundant
              solid –
     but in my hands,
          became transparent,
          cracked into fine powder
               until
               invisibility
                    overtook it.

I held the missing piece of me
     before it ceased to be –
               the deep yearning inside
                    for
                    everything
                    I need.

But realization
     only pushed me deeper.
Regardless of need
     or impending defeat,
               I am not to have it –
                         because
                         it
                         would not take me.

Monkeys*

The room seemed to be waiting too.

Walls were painted, pictures of swinging monkeys were hung. Dresser, changing table and an empty crib – they waited.

She stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes.

Once they had made their decision, they breezed through every step: agency, classes, proofing the entire house – every outlet, every cupboard – the home study, letters, their book they would show.

And then there was silence.

Were they too strict with their requirements? Did they have too many? No, her husband told her. No, the social worker reminded her.

Probably not even born yet, he – or she – was out there somewhere.

She wondered if that could actually be true, but quickly forced those thoughts out of her head and flicked that single tear out of her eyelash.

No matter how hard she tried to not let her heart go too far, get her hopes up too high, she had to admit they both loved this baby they had never even met already. So this not happening was not an option.

She felt like she prayed the same short prayer every time. Please.

When she tried to read her Bible, she would lose concentration. Until she came across Hannah. Hannah asked – and God heard. Then Elizabeth. Elizabeth lost hope – but God heard.

They had not been able to conceive, but God would hear them anyway. She knew, even if she couldn’t fully believe it. And God would hear that baby who needed a home. That was easier to believe.

As she stared into the room, she could hear the rocking chair on the wood floor, with the small creaks and shifting wood. Through the slats in the crib, there was a small cry, like a distant echo in a foggy dream.

She caught herself smiling for a second when she felt the cat rub against her leg as he trotted into the room. He sniffed the rocking chair and the diaper bag on the floor next to it, then curled up on the rug in front of the changing table.

She breathed in loudly, and quietly laughed through her nose as she walked toward him, scooted him out of the room and shut the door.

 

For Sara, Jason and Baby.

 

*Fiction