In which there is Poetic Justice, for God is a Poet, but there is also Mercy

I am honored to open up space today for the words of Anita Mathias. Anita and I first connected in the comments section of a piece I wrote for SheLoves. A few months later she asked me to write a guest post over at her place. Clearly, we share an admiration for each other's words. Please join me in welcoming Anita to 

A Lifetime of Days.

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Even while Esau was out hunting his father’s favourite wild game, Jacob and Rebecca slaughtered and cooked two choice young goats-- which Jacob served to Isaac, pretending to be Esau, stealing his blessing.

A cruel deception.

And, uncannily, years later, in his own old age, Jacob’s sons sold his favourite son into slavery, dipping Joseph’s precious robe in the blood of a slaughtered goat, claiming he had been killed by a wild beast.

Tricked with a goat, just as he had tricked his own father with a goat.

* * *

The seeds we sow, we reap, measure for measure. They lie dormant in the earth, sometimes for years, then yield their harvest.

The good we have done yields blessing, and the evil we’ve done conjures shadowy forces against us.

And that’s scary if we have sown bad seeds, have said and done less than luminous things, things we are now ashamed of.

* * *

But we do not live in a mechanical universe. We live in a just universe, shot through by mercy like a golden cord.

The law of sowing and reaping is the deep magic from the dawn of time, in C. S. Lewis’s phrase.

However there is a more powerful force still: the force of mercy, unleashed by the willing victim who bore in his body the punishment for all the bad seeds we have ever sown.

And so mercy triumphs over justice. The deep magic from before the dawn of time.

Jacob recovers Joseph; Esau was, in fact, blessed.

* * *

For myself, I want to sow good seed for the rest of my life.

But the bad seed I have sown? The things I am ashamed of? The things I did because of my small, bewildered, wounded heart?

I confess them.

I ask God’s forgiveness. I ask Christ’s blood to cover them.

And I step into the waterfall of mercy, the mercy that triumphs over justice because the One who loves the world is good.

I ask him to let all the bad seeds I’ve sown, which are still dormant, die.

And I ask him for grace to overplant much good seed to crowd out the bad seed.

And I ask him, the ultimate genetic engineer, to somehow, even now, change the DNA of the bad seed I’ve planted, and bring good from them.

And I place my life and future in His hands.

(Photo credit: Jenny Downing)

_____________________________

Anita Mathias is the author of Wandering Between Two Worlds

(Benediction Classics, 2007). She has won a writing fellowship from The National Endowment for the Arts, and her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The London Magazine,  Commonweal,  America, The Christian Century, and The Best Spiritual Writing anthologies.

Anita lives in Oxford, England with her husband and daughters. She blogs at Dreaming Beneath the Spires. You can find her on Twitter @anitamathias1 or on Facebook at Dreaming Beneath the Spires.

The Great Weaving

I remember the very moment I first lay eyes upon my second son, wet and bright-eyed and so fresh from God.

In that instant, when new life breathes fire into tired bones, I saw her in his face. 

Grandma Phyllis. 

Although she had left this world to join God and all the saints six years before that moment, she graced us with her presence in that holy moment. Her nose sloped across my son’s face and that little chin of his? It was all her.

Just like that, she was there, among us, smiling beams of glory right into that holy space.

How can one not laugh, like Sarah, at the mystery of it all, captured in such a moment?

That in the twisting and the stretching, in the pushing and the pulling, in the rising and the falling of every day, strung one upon the other, God is weaving legacy into us. 

When we burst forth this side of heaven, we come wrapped in mystery. Our very skin and bone is pieced with story from those who have lived before us.

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You can read the rest of this post over here at SheLoves Magazine.

I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

You Can't Always Get What You Want...

In all respects, I should have been a spoiled child.

I was a surprise baby (child number five), with ten years separating me and my next oldest sibling. And if you’ve ever listened to the worn out tales of babies born into such circumstances you know the expected end-product: snotty nosed brats who lug around heavy doses of entitlement.

But God chose to place me in a family that doled out love by bushels and pecks and hugs around the neck and so the only things that came to be spoiled around our house were forgotten cartons of cottage cheese shoved to the back of the refrigerator.

Because, you see, love has never spoiled anything. Ever.

But I was a child once and, as such, I certainly had my moments--moments of selfish desire and impudent behavior, of unmet longings and unrequited wishes. And, being a child, I naturally looked to the givers of good things—my parents—for the delivery of said hopes.

So, as a child nurtured by way of arms flung wide and hearts burst open, the phrase “You can’t always get what you want” was a tad bewildering, at first. Not because I was spoiled or bratty or entitled but because, for so long, my parents’ love had been enough. Love and acceptance had been the standard upon which I grew and thrived and so, I had never really felt a lack.

And then I entered junior high and everything kind of flipped upside down...

Continue reading over at Mama Monk with Micha Boyett? Join me here.

Turning Pages

I haven't made much time for writing lately.

It's a new reality that I am simultaneously hating and embracing. Hating, because I am always thinking, musing, lining up words and ideas, wanting desperately to pen them down, keep them fast and that is just not happening. But I am also embracing this new way because I am really here, in this moment and that last one and that other one last week where I gazed upon orange colored skies wrapped in a wide open rainbow. Yeah, that one.

But I had to stop today and remember a few things. Because some things you just don't ever want to forget.

I am growing a life inside of me for the third time but the hugeness of that still catches me by surprise some days. Such as the tiredness that encroaches upon every square inch of skin and bone and muscle and demands that I stop.right.now and rest. And so I do. I stop and stretch out upon my bed and I let myself sink into cushion and blanket and holy rest. And that baby hidden deep? He tickles me from the inside, thanking me for that little bit of extra room that lying on my side provides him. It is then that I realize that I am so very human and what is happening inside of me is so very God and I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Then there are the moments when I realize that conversations with my two boys have started to include subjects and topics that stretch beyond Legos and Iron Man and Hank the Cowdog. They are asking bigger questions now, questions about relationships and current events and sex. And every time we close out those talks, its as if I'm turning pages of their childhood at a faster pace and I can see how the paper is curling and yellowing, as if we are coming dangerously close to the end of a chapter.

Surprisingly, I realize that I am okay with that. I'm excited for new chapters and story lines and plot twists.

But then the aforementioned tiredness will, again, wash over me and I am reminded of the return to babyhood that is imminent. And I sigh. Will I remember how to do all of this? When I slow to the pace that mothering an infant requires, will I end up sputtering to a tragic end, like my old Nissan? How will I manage to stay connected to the boys that are growing taller by the day and reaching further into the future than I can see when I am totally consumed with free flowing breastmilk and piles of laundry? What does bridging that huge gap even look like?

And then there will be a moment. The ones I have by the handful now.

Yesterday, as I sat in my chair, the baby deep within was alive and kicking and I called Aidan over to place his hand on my belly. I've tried this before but we always managed to miss the opportunity. But we tried again.

And there was a kick. I quickly looked at Aidan and he jumped in place and hollered that "HE HAD FELT IT!" and his smile--his smile that would soften the hardest heart--it shone glory and his eyes danced with pure joy. And in that moment, we were all connected and alive and in love.

It was then that I realized that there is no gap too wide that love can't bridge and that, sometimes, what brings the world to its softest place, the place where heart fires are kindled and hope is born, most often, is a baby.

Linking today with Emily at Imperfect Prose.

Brave Words: I Believe

The years, they begin to stretch a little thinner with each turn of the calendar. There is always a slight pause at the realization, an imperceptible shake of the head, a quick tightening along the jaw bone.

And then the resignation and the practiced patience. The deep breath and the tight smile. Perhaps it is habit or even a feigned fortitude. Whatever it is, it pushes forward.

It must.

But this year’s turning almost undid me. It swelled loud and frightening and red and there was a hemorrhaging of questions and unknowns. There was fear. The cinch of my belt was acute and there was an ache deep within my belly.

And I found myself asking, no, begging, the question:

On how thin a line can one continue to balance?

But hidden within the possible answer was where my biggest fear actually lurked.

What if the answer was hidden in the hard truth of

giving up

and

giving over

and

giving into?

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I'm sharing my story of unbelief over at Kelli Woodford's place today. Kelli has been hosting a series on Brave Words and here are her words on this series:

"Writers see more clearly when they can cover an experience with words. Not to hide from it, but so that what is truest and perhaps most important about the experience is made manifest to eyes blind in all other directions.  This is my reason for writing this series. 
In it I hope to allow the courage God places in our hearts access to our tongue. That in looking at the many syllables of Truth, and how they differ for each of us, we can also learn to speak them bold when surrounded by the cacophonic glare of lies.  That we can recognize how God is speaking His courage through us more often than we know.  Oh, so much more often than we know."

A Moveable Feast

Six sets of hands circled round me

the day that I entered that very fine house

and I was petted and loved on

my head was ringed with kisses and toasts were made to bless me

and I suppose that it was there that my story began

Mine was a childhood gilded

I know

for days stretched long and full and calm

and I sailed my boat upon placid waters

but, somehow, there was always a knowing

and I longed to string those days

on ribbons of silk

one upon the other

and tie them around the necks of the lonely ones

who hid in corners

so that they might know what home smelled like ...

I am writing over at SheLoves Magazine today and I would love for you to follow me there to keep reading my poem on this month's theme of Home.

Join me? Yes? Then follow me here.

pieces of me

The ordinary glow of common dust in ancient sunlight

stops me short

this morning

The flecks that have fallen

from the daily

walking scratching cutting caressing

shaking still shouting silence 

Caught for a moment

in light that has been

falling for

ever

And in the seeing

I begin the embrace

the giving up

of all the days

the fears

the utter unknown

the that which is coming

and the what that has gone before

the Holy Ghost fire

and the blackened embers

all of it

shed across surface and air and time

pieces of me

settling

drifting

floating

awash in the morning air

hung and revolving through stillness and quiet knowing

the Ancient of Days

mixing with the leftovers of my own days

falling like manna

across and over and in

my

today

Glory

 

In which I visit my sixteen year old self

I see her there, sitting in the car, looking at the sky. She is sixteen, hair forced in a dozen directions, left ear lobe studded with silver, looking sulky. Really, she just has that kind of resting face. Among other things, she inherited her grandmother's jowls and sometimes they can weigh a face down. 

The tape in the cassette deck plays The Church. M gave her that tape. He made it for her during their very brief going out experience. She never understood why he liked her but he made her mix tapes from his monstrous CD collection and she kept those tapes infinitely longer than their fling ever lasted. He wasn't the only one that made her mix tapes. She had a box full of them, all crafted by boys who had liked her. The tapes were still there. The boys were not. Music has a tendency to do that. Last.

She gets out of the powder blue station wagon, the car she learned to drive in, the one that she could parallel park like a boss. Her mom taught her how to do that fifteen minutes before the driving test and, to this day, it is the one driving skill at which she truly excels. She's proud of that. She should be embarrassed to drive this family truckster around but she isn't. It's her family's car, their only car, and she is thrilled at the moments of freedom it buys her. Driving that car, windows down, music playing...she is catapulted forward in time. She feels wizened. Mature. In control.

She won't smoke inside the car, though. She doesn't want to risk getting found out. But even more, she fears the disappoint it would bring if her parents ever found out. She doesn't want them to think she was one of those kind of girls. The ones that spend the five minutes between classes in the school courtyard with all of the other burnouts. No. She wasn't like that at all. She wasn't a real smoker. She only smoked in secret. Or when walking around The Central West End. Or at Denny's. Until her neighbor happened to come in and see her. She always hoped that maybe he didn't recognize her. And she really hoped, more than anything, that he didn't tell her parents about it.

She pulls out a Camel Light and her Bic lighter. They are hidden in that zippered pocket in purses that are made to conceal feminine products. She keeps cigarettes and a lighter alongside her tampons. Her mom would never look there, right? 

She never meant to actually like smoking, it kind of just happened, and her favorite part is the smell of a cigarette when it is first lit. This smoking alone makes her feel older, too. She is very deliberate in the way she inhales and exhales and it becomes a calming ritual, a breathing in and out. I want to tap her on the shoulder and remind her that she is smoking, not doing asanas. 

As she inhales she thinks back to the days when she dated W. He smoked Marlboro Lights, like his mother, and so they shared packs of cigarettes. The freedom with which he lit up in his bedroom always felt both exhilarating and monstrous. Did his mom know what else they were doing behind that closed door? Did she care? How could she not care? That removed distance between mother and son never ever sat right with her. And even though there were a dozen other girls with spiked hair and trench coats and Doc Martens in the world, the fact that the bad boy with a mohawk and tattoo picked her never ceased to amaze and frighten her. It caused her to make decisions before she really knew what she was getting herself into. It meant that she sometimes confused who she was with who she really wanted to be. And it ultimately meant that she would break it off with the bad boy who somehow managed to make her feel beautiful and cheap, all in the same kiss.

I wonder if I would like hanging out with her. Would she afford me the same grace she seems to grant absolutely everyone else? She's incredibly open to everyone. Too much, sometimes. She reveals her vulnerability and transparency in ways that make people feel understood, which is admirable. She is a good friend.

But she has also been capricious. At one too many parties she has marinated her tender spots with Boone's and there was one who saw her weakness, every time. Why did she always take his hand and walk into the darkness? Again and again, she knew what was behind that door, yet still, she followed. I wouldn't have much patience for that if I were to hang out with her today. I would tell her that she was made for so much more than following.

Would she be nice and polite because she didn't want to hurt my feelings but secretly wish that I would go away? Probably. I think she would know that I represent truths she's been burying beneath hair spray and a wardrobe of black. She would probably decide that she wasn't ready to talk to me yet. 

But if she would listen, I would tell her that she is already enough. Yes, she is a work in progress but who isn't? I would tell her that all of the things that tug at her soul, that move her, are good and beautiful and worthy of being loved and that if she embraces that she will find that she is weaving beauty right round her. That we are all the sum of our parts, not defined by one or two events or decisions, but by a diligent stringing of day upon day. I would give her permission to redefine herself whenever she feels led because I know, now, that following your heart looks different depending on the day. The roots of one's heart plunge deep and its life source is not like quicksilver.

And I would tell her to not be afraid of what she thinks. She needs to know that her mind is a beautiful place and that it doesn't matter if everything isn't all sorted out first. It's okay to be figuring it out as you go. Being all things to all people doesn't guarantee squat. She just needs to be.

Oh, and I would tell her she needs to start writing. Now.

And, oh yeah, she needs to stop smoking. Yesterday.

Yes, I think I would like hanging out with her.