An Open Letter to Rev. Franklin Graham from a “Small Church” Pastor

I was raised Catholic. After decades of soul-searching, my religious beliefs have come to fall in the category of atheist. However, I do believe fervently in treating all living creatures with courtesy and respect. Treat others as you would wish yourself to be treated. I often fall short of that, but I keep trying.

What terrifies me more than the ridiculous buffoon we have as the leader of this country, is where the country is headed morally and in the name of “Christianity.” I’m sharing this today because this guy, Peter, says it so much better than I ever could. It’s long, but definitely worth the read. If you can’t read the entire piece, than this section sums it up nicely:

“So let me see if I have this figured out correctly: God doesn’t give a flying fruitcake if we deprive twenty-million people, most of them poor, of access to health care. Nor is God particularly concerned about how men treat women in the workplace, how people of color are treated in the real estate market, how the hungry and homeless are cared for (or not), but God flips out if we bake a cake for a same sex couple to celebrate their wedding? I have to be honest with you, Frank. I’m just not seeing it. Not in the Bible, not in the realm of rational common sense.”

 

Source: An Open Letter to Rev. Franklin Graham from a “Small Church” Pastor

Strange Tableau

Original photo by Barbara Johansen Newman. Futzed with by me.

The stage was set, the performance about to begin. Cupid aimed his arrow at Véronique. She was not a willing participant in this grand guignol. Alas, poor Yorick,  wearing a wretched grin — his was not a speaking role, stuck as he was between la dame and the ridiculous Louis, whose eyes rolled relentlessly heavenward. The bit players barely noticeable at the back. All of them waiting for the houselights to dim. As they did every day, except for Sunday when the public attended church to confess the sin of misplaced curiosity.

At the front of the stage, there was no mask to represent comedy. Tragedy was the only play held here.

 

n.b. My friend Barbara is currently on a Viking River Cruise. She’s been generous in sharing her photos with those of us who are stuck at home. One of the places she visited was Český Krumlov in the Czech Republic.   There were a couple of museum-y kinds of places with large collections of puppets and marionettes.  This evolved from one of the photos she posted. My imagination ran a little wild. I am thinking of making my own strange tableau.

The beach even in winter

is still the beach,
still the sand,
and the gulls gliding low,
while a piper darts
along the curled edge of water —
too cold for wading,
too cold for swimming,
but for the stalwart few
enrobed in rubber
who persist in their passion
for riding waves.

After days of rain-slashed sodden skies
the sun lures people like me
desperate for a glimpse
of impending spring.
Mostly we sit in our cars
to avoid the brittle wind
leaving it to the dogs in their
fur coats with the owners
who love them enough
to walk with them, hunch-shouldered,
burrowing into their store-bought coats,
all of us looking ahead,
to warmer days.

 

Cause to Celebrate

mouth full of frosting = bliss

mouth full of frosting = bliss

 

Today is momentous for many reasons, not the least of which is that the Boy was born  on this day twenty-eight years ago. The ensuing years have been filled with magic, joy, an occasional fit of exasperation, and a dollop of mystifying mayhem to keep us on our toes. This is how we learn and grow stronger and better.*

As parents we keep trying to teach our children what we think they need to know to navigate their future. Our children keep learning about these people who claim to be their parents. They keep looking for answers to the questions we couldn’t or didn’t know how to answer. The point is we all hope for more. We strive for better. For safer. For ever more children willing to keep moving the world ahead in a way that safeguards humanity and our planet.

Tomorrow I am taking my commitment to that pig-tailed Boy in the picture (pretending to be his favorite literary character of the moment) to the streets of Boston. So that I can raise my voice with others who wish that tolerance, love, and kindness may one day be the true law of the land.

Reason enough to celebrate, I think. Let’s make some noise.

 

*Or not. Not all humans feel compelled to heed the lessons inherent in life.

 

 

Say His Name

For Shannon, always. And for his parents whose loss I grieve.

A Wilderness of Words

shannon adams 2

I never met Shannon Lewis Adams, but I woke up this morning thinking about him.  I said his name out loud.

On September 11, 2001, he was twenty-five, about the age that my son is now.  A baby, still, his real life just beginning — the one his parents had spent years preparing him for. Nurturing him; encouraging him.  Loving him.

Fly, little bird, they may have thought then.  Go out into the world and see what there is to see.

And Shannon flew.  To a lofty building far from home.

I knew his father.  We grew up in the same small area in the Adirondack mountains of northern New York.  A place where most people are content to spend the whole of their lives.  Lewis Adams had a shy sweet smile that traveled  his face and was reflected in his eyes.  I’ll bet his son Shannon did, too.

I picture a space in the universe where all…

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In Praise of the Quiet Dads

Bob with Jordan shadow

Gazing at your infant son as he locks eyes on you, both of you as yet unused to such amazement.  The reverence of such a moment.  This is what you signed up for.   This is what sustains you through long nights of wakefulness and days of wondering whether you’re doing it right–this parenting business–so necessary to keep the world chugging forward into a brighter future for us all.

What a hefty weight a parent bears.

Here.  Let me remind you of the connection you made, long ago as it was.

Let me show you how you have loved.

 

p.s.  Sorry about the coffee.

 

Breath

Breath

Years ago I sighed suddenly.
A quick, unexpected breath that snagged in my throat
like a small bird tangled in a net.
It kept happening after that.
Occasionally, and out of nowhere.
The sighs audible, gasping; a short stuttering note of surprise.

I have searched for a reason
this should happen.  Wondering
what I had done to annoy
my own breath that it would sound
so exasperated with me?
I recently discovered that I hold my breath

when I am concentrating
on some inconsequential task.
While someone is drawing their last
breath I unconsciously hold mine.
A child is born and gulps a first breath
then wails from the surprise of it.

Isn’t that the way breath
is meant to be?
Rolling in and out endlessly
like ocean waves taking us ever further out
until at last, we lose sight
of the distant shore.

It’s Spring: A Poem and a Light-hearted Lament

A pretty yellow flower that says heralds spring.

Photo of a pretty yellow flower to herald spring.

Spring has well and truly sprung where I live.  The sun beams beatifically while a bellicose wind is determined to huff and puff the few remaining days of March.  In the background, my husband’s chainsaw gnaws through a pile of downed tree limbs — winter’s detritus.

Today is my husband’s birthday.  (Happy birthday, Bob.)

In a couple of days it will be April, which is National Poetry Month.  I love poetry as much as I love spring.  On spring mornings rife with sun, I often think of Wordsworth. Specifically the following:

My Heart Leaps Up

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

I learned this poem many years ago when I was still the Child.  A few years ago, while thinking on Wordsworth, I jotted down a response to My Heart Leaps Up.

My heart despaired when I beheld
A codger in the dell:
So was it that my life began;
Yet here I am without a plan,
Fast closing in on next-to-dead.
Oh, bugger hell!
And I could wish my days to crawl
Before I have to chuck it all.

I must have been in a funky mood when I wrote that ditty.  In my defense, the too swift passing of time has been an obsession with me since I was about eight, and the only way around it is to poke fun of myself, which is what I am doing here.  (Plus, I do love the word codger.)

So, welcome to another spring; to young men’s (and women’s) fancy; to love and poetry.  Welcome, welcome, welcome all!

Vernal Blossom

vernal blossom

Yesterday was the first day of spring.  I found this lone flower blooming in a pot of greenery by my kitchen window.  Isn’t it lovely?  Oh, harbinger of new and reawakening life.  Oh, beacon of joy.  This is the stuff that stirs poets to pen.

Except that this is my Thanksgiving cactus which ordinarily produces its pink-tinged blossoms and white translucent wings in November, and it did not disappoint four months ago when it was awash with blooms.  In all the years that I have had it, it has never flowered in spring.  Nor has it ever only presented a single bloom.

This morning there was snow.  By the afternoon it was gone.  Harbinger of doom?  Who knows?  I do think we should all hang on to our hats; come summer we may be in for a hot, bumpy ride.

 

Curtains Made of Lace

Grant_DeVolson_Wood_-_American_Gothic

American Gothic by Grant Wood  1930

She didn’t ask for much.  A smile, a touch–a little love and tenderness to shift the close of a dirt and scrabble day.

First year married drifted by on a breeze of hope and expectation.  There was work to be done.  Hard work, but worth the blisters raised as they dug a life out of rough earth; grew the wheat to make the bread they hoped would sustain them.

Second and third years married passed in a flurry of motion building on the first.  More earth to till, more grain, more sweat.  An arch of eyebrow, a sigh.  No babies planted, but years stretched out ahead of them.  There was time yet for that.

The farm grew in acres.  Middling trees marked the borders of all they owned.  She made curtains from her bridal veil and hung them in the window of the room where a child would one day sleep.

Four years swept by, then five, six, seven.  They bought a tractor when she wanted a crib.

The tenth year saw a drought.

It rained through much of the eleventh year.  The silo was replaced.

Year fifteen a barren womb dried up and was removed.  Hope shriveled to a useless thing.

The seventeenth year she set a potted plant out on the front porch and tried to put her  faith in that.

Disappointment etched lines between her brows. She left the curtains hanging in the upstairs room.  The lace had come all the way from France.

It would make a fine shroud–all she wished for now.

 

n.b.  Writing prompt by Visual Verse.  While my friends were dancing, I sat in a corner and came up with this.  Don’t ask me why.  Muses don’t have to have a reason.