Dad

My dad turns 50 today. I could not ask for a more wonderful father! When I started writing more, I began to realize, in a new way, how much his life and love have shaped the person that I am (even though our personalities are quite opposite haha). I am most thankful for the way my dad has demonstrated to me the "father's heart" of God and the power of the gospel.

My youngest brother Joseph wrote in the birthday card that he gave him yesterday, "Even though I have only known you for twelve years, I have still seen you grow in God" (Joseph's 12 :D). I can say the same thing (though I've known him for 21 years)! What a deep respect I have for my dad who has walked through many hardships and many joys and has loved, served, and trusted God wholeheartedly through it all, allowing everything to be used by God to mold him into a man more like Jesus. I love him so much and am inspired by his life!

Here are just a couple writings to honor him and give a sense of how much my relationship with him has meant to me!

A poem:

Father

Through the glass, he sees his girl—
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch.
He closes his book for her words, unstudied.
He listens well while the world is fresh and golden.

PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch,
promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love.
He listens well while her world is fresh and golden.
He learns how to father.

Promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love
from the mouth of a child.
He learns how to father
in his failure and her failure.

From the mouth of a child,
from daughter, his watcher:
“In her failure, don’t fail her.”
He instructs her with his heart and life.

From daughter, his watcher—
questions about everything.
He entrusts her with his heart and life
when he answers.

Questions about everything
over two decades of girl-become-woman.
When he answers,
his words are chosen, inspected, sound.

Over two decades of girl-become-woman,
sitting next to father—still. Here
his words are chosen, inspected, sound;
wisdom from wearing days on the human frame.

Sitting next to father—still “hero”—
she closes her book for his words, unstudied
wisdom for the wearing days on the human frame.
Through his glasses, he sees his girl.

A piece of prose (excerpt from "Close"):

His book never deterred me, or his closed eyes. I was sure that as soon as my dad felt the mattress rise under him as I climbed onto the green comforter with small blue flowers, nuzzling next to his warm body, that he would set the book face down on his chest and tilt his head until he was gazing at the top of mine. His chin would graze my red hair, but I’d wait a moment before leaning back to meet his gaze, my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat in the silence of the sleeping house (it was “quiet time,” Sunday afternoon). We’d laugh and for a moment the heartbeat would disappear. Then it was back, steady, reminding me that he was there and I was next to him and sleep would come after counting the light thump until it was hooves on a country road, a turning jump rope, a boat bumping against some dock….
All of my life, I’ve put my ear against the door in an attempt to hear the turn of a page like the sound of a piece of paper slipping out of my notebook, like a light wind, an invocation for me to come listen and dream beside my dad; I’ve knocked and jiggled the locked door handle, called out “Dad?”, and seen his face emerge as he cracks the door open; I’ve barged into the bedroom to find him asleep with his “good ear” towards the pillow, a closed book in his hand. He rests—head propped by a few pillows, a book held upright on his chest, legs extended and crossed, his socked feet rubbing against one another. That image has changed very little over the years though his hair has gone from dark brown to “salt and pepper” to grey and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has deepened and now reading glasses perch on his large, but handsome, nose. His cheeks still look like they hide 25-cent gumballs when he smiles; his skin is still ruddy and smooth as leather.
Sometimes he would read to me from the book he had chosen that day from the five or six that are always stacked on the night stand. His voice—the voice of an army medic, then a preacher, able to send “Yes, sir!” rumbling through an open field and “Praise God!” through a high-ceilinged sanctuary—was, to me, deep enough to engender respect but soft enough to soothe and still. I tried to retain in my maturing mind the theology or biographies or science fiction or scripture that reached me just a few inches below with slight puffs of breath that tickled my forehead. He must have known that words like omnipresent and Pelandria wouldn’t mean anything to me, but he also must have known how much sharing his world would mean to me. He would listen to my interrupting questions and answer with a precision that astounded me. Words gushed from me, but he wasted none. As I grew up, joining him less often while he read, I started to resent the frequent periods of silence between us if I didn’t monologue or ask him questions when we were together—I wanted him to start the conversation, ask me about my life. I thought only then could he ever understand me. He proved me wrong, in seventh grade, the first time I experienced heart-break [...]
(let me know if you would like to read more of the story!)

Newborn Baby

Newborn Baby

Psalm 139: 13-16

Baby’s skin: transparent;
tears if touched

Baby fat: none

Baby doll face: nose and mouth malformed;
eyelids unformed

Baby’s breath: under a rigid mask,
between compressions of the fragile chest

fearful, wonderful
twenty-four-week masterpiece

Ask/See

Ask/See

A/C unit in a brick high rise:
a box backed into the window
blocks--like a beam in the eye--sight
of the wild, open sky
that, subdued, is allowed to enter the room
through a slit in its side;
the softened wind rustles that contraption's pleats
and sails across the sheets. Easy
to bring the cold air to the cheeks.

Who leads the breath into the sleeping,
cools the life-blood,
calms the body's seas?
A college student finally sleeps
as the thing hums and heaves,
forgets sweat, heat, fatigue.

Makes life bearable not to burn
with questions of the unseen
for eight hours
out of eternity.

Struggle to Speak

Being ready to give a reason for the hope that is within me is something that the Lord daily challenges me on--no more so then when I am in class and feel the Holy Spirit's prompting to ask a probing question or acknowledge God or defend Biblical truth. I have seen that the Lord is giving me a greater passion and boldness (and desire!) to share him one-on-one with others, but I still am often hesitant to speak to someone about Jesus.
As I read about the evil that men are capable of in memoirs from the Holocaust, about the guilt and shame that haunts hedonist Romantic poets, or about the broken families and relationships of my writer friends, God is deepening my conviction in the power of the gospel alone to transform hearts and save the world. Yet, the struggle to know when to speak and when not to continues in my heart.
Walking home today, the opening line of the poem below came to me and I wrote "Struggle to Speak." The work is definitely fresh, and so I know I will probably rework and sharpen it, but I thought I would post it and invite any thoughts. May God fill you with His love and give you more opportunities to share it with others wherever He has placed you!

Struggle to Speak

The moment before question or comment:
I hold onto the thought
like the hand of my younger brother
who wants to run across the road
and pet the dog on a leash with a sparkling collar
who tugs his owner towards us.

I wonder what impulse--
Spirit within--pushes or stirs
or restrains the words
that when let go
could brave the distance and touch
or, racing forward,
cause you to do the same
into speeding impact
before they reach
and save you.

When no one's looking

Spring break was nothing like I planned (thanks to a week-long sickness) but was still full of unexpected blessings. I am eager to write about these. However, because the thought "Will I ever catch up on school work?" runs through my head about every five minutes, along with a prayer for grace (more like cry for help! ha) not to be anxious, I think I should touch on the break's "blessings amidst bummers" next week.

So in the meantime, in an attempt to keep my re-commitment to posting, I thought I would post some poetry that I wrote last year. Enjoy!

I'll start with something lighter on this dreary day :) It's a "ekphrastic poem." Ekphrastic poetry comments on another art form. The poem below was inspired by Cezanne's Girl at the Piano, the picture accompanying the post (take a close look at it).

When no one’s looking

Girl does not play something
studied, practiced, perfected.
Woman’s feet appear,
and she drops the shroud of a hand
to grasp real hands of Man,
who left his chair alone
to enter on her left.
Watch her chestnut eyes lift
and brighten to find his.
They dance against the stripes on the floor,
with the red and white shapes,
around the room, along the wall.

The sound of other steps join theirs—

Girl’s dress catches on the piano.
She stifles a laugh.
Woman resumes sewing
without a needle.
Man darts out of view,
forgets to rearrange the pillow
he moved.

This Trial

I'd love to hear any thoughts or criticism on the poem below. It's the first one I wrote in the new year and is definitely still "in revision." I hope it encourages you as you seek to have a godly perspective amidst suffering, small or great.

Also (this is slightly off topic) the other day, I was searching for verses that talked about joy and was struck by Job 6:10. It says that Job's joy in unrelenting pain (now that's suffering) was that he did not deny the words of the Holy One. This is a different way of thinking about joy than I normally do--joy did not come after the removal of pain, or even from the hope of its removal, but in resisting the temptation to sin (here, deny God) in the midst of intense suffering.

No matter what I go through as a Christian, I want to have true joy from knowing that my life proclaims to others (and does not deny) that "God is who He reveals himself to be in His Word (both through the Bible and His son Jesus) and every word (every promise) will prove true even if my situation shows no evidence (that I can see) of it." I know that this is only possible through AMAZING grace.

Here's the poem:

This Trial

Isaiah 53:4 "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows..."

As wind comes to snow on branches
and brushes off a place for leaves,
come to this with faith--
this: the barrenness before green.

As silence comes to a woman
and the timid man she loves,
come to this with faith--
this: the quietness before speech.

As song comes to the invalid
after the fever's left his head,
come to this with faith--
this: the restlessness before peace.

As a pioneer comes to water,
stripped of his dirty clothes and shoes,
come to this with faith--
this: the nakedness before clean.

Why this? Jesus, why this?
Come to this with faith in me--
this: the brokenness before free!

After a while

Tonight was a gift from the Lord to me: I leave a "joke-about-it" dinner of mustard sauce and desserts in shot glasses at P.F. Changs, a local (though part of a chain) Chinese restaurant; neither of my friends Brad and Emily are hungry, nor am I, so David, our waiter, brings us coffee and tea. He's our friend too, evident when he doesn't charge us anything and then sits down at the table after he's clocked out (and when I forget to thank him later or leave a tip but only laugh and give a quick goodbye). We catch up for a while as the last few customers finish their meals.

I find as I push through the tall, glass doors of the restaurant to leave that I'm wishing I had talked less and listened more...but still I feel secure in their love and care--amazing, not to have to be perfect to be loved.

The truth is that as much as "talking too much" is something I often wish I could change about myself, I see the Lord's kindness in surrounding me with dear friends who listen well--sifting through my many thoughts, anecdotes, frustrations, and dreams--and latch on to what's most important in what I've shared. Then they speak to that with words that resonate in my heart as we leave peach tea, dim lighting, and laughter over the ridiculous wisdom in a fortune cookie, and I drive home in the cold and clear of a night after snow.

I realized again how thankfulness leads to peace and a beautiful trust in God's love and perfect control and activity in our lives. Insecurity and fear only rob from the store of blessings God pours into our lives to build in us a trust in His goodness!

God used David's thoughtfulness (literally, the thought: "I wonder if Lizzie has posted anything new on her blog?") to prompt me to start posting again. In the midst of a still incomplete understanding of who God has made me to be, I know that he has made and saved me for a reason, and that the experience of joy promised me when I'm in His will will be an indicator that that work I'm giving myself to, is, in fact, fulfilling part of the plan He has for me and bringing Him much glory. When I'm writing authentically, I feel that joy, so I know I must do it and His grace will be motivating it. Many things hinder me from sitting down at my desk (some things legitimate, some things sinful) but may I begin to respond more readily to the prompting to "post a little somthing"--maybe a thought, an anecdote, a frustration, a dream, maybe in poetry, maybe in prose...maybe in sentence fragments (haha).

My hope is that in the (wonderfully) unpredictable process of creating and writing, people will find something worth latching on to and taking with them: a moment of truth, a glimpse of God's heart, the knowledge that their struggle is shared, an encouragement....