Break (Psalm 29)

 
Break (Psalm 29)
 
Adhered.
I find myself stuck to the ground,
Trapped in the earth,
Captive of the world.
Gravity is too strong,
Too grave.
I demand to know:
Am I an ant that I should bear
Ten times my own weight
For even ten hours more of waiting?
Am I a mere ant?
 
I’m not native to tunnels,
But somehow I find myself here often‒
Buried.
Encapsulated.
Aching to straighten my limbs.
Breathing back the same air.
For a while
I had an extra inch to spare,
But now I’m close to frozen.
Like dreams
In which I can’t scream,
It takes all of me and more
To make a squeak
That anyone at all might hear
And recognize its meaning
And come to let me out.
 
Yet I find I can muster a peep.
And with that whisper of a breath
I can ascribe
Just one stroke of one letter
Toward the telling of his glory,
A scratch on the concrete that encases me,
One fingernail tip tap toward my freedom,
Toward the glory due his name.
 
A key the size of one grain of sand
Unlocks the kingdom,
And the king himself is coming‒
He was already on the move‒
A thunderhead looming,
Advancing over the waters,
Accelerating in my direction.
Mine!
 
I’m sure ants would feel the tremors long before I do,
But at long last
I’m straining toward the thunder in the distance.
I crave the impossible crunch of the cedars breaking.
I glory in the splintering twisting of the oaks
And the blast of the storm that shreds their leaves.
There is such relief in the impact
Because I am saved.
I am safe.
I am free!
I can breathe.
 
From deep within the temple,
Almost unbidden,
Bursts forth the purest cry:
Glory!
An answer to his thunder:
Glory!
He spent his strength on me!
And I am resting,
Bathed in spirit wind
Atop the tenderest shoots of green
Under a clear vast sky,
In perfect peace.
 
‒erinrmsocha 8-17-2020

Bản Giốc

Bản Giốc

You are sitting very near the impossible thunder of the waterfall,

And there is no relief from the sound.

Nature is peaceful

And wild,

And the water keeps coming and coming.

It is lace with weight,

Immeasurable watery weight,

That smells like the breath of the rounded rocks it pounds on

And looks like a million brides plummeting,

Beautiful and violent and over and over.

There is no relief from the sound.

A thunder like this should drive you away,

But it draws you

And a thousand other people.

You wonder what it was like

Before they turned on the waterworks

And the tourists came, cheerful and chatty,

Like flocks of sodden birds,

Red and orange and turquoise and wet,

Getting impossibly close to the show

On gritty, slippery feet, legs sunk in green water up to the knees,

Or in a timed parade of funny little boats,

Mini maids in the mist.

You imagine this place empty. . .

Before the ponies showed up, ringed round the neck with bells and flowers

And frayed ropes held by waiting photographers.

Before you could get four bars,

Plenty to post that selfie

With the falls and the clouds and the crowds in the background.

Before the tents popped up selling tea

With the leaves floating in it

Poured in glasses quickly rinsed between customers

Who sit on those plastic chairs

That force your knees very close to your chin.

Before the souvenir market bloomed,

A segmented tunnel closely peopled

With beautiful dark heads, kind eyes, open smiles,

And the pulse of wrists expertly flicking advertisements-turned-fans

To stir the stillness.

Before there were stalls of little needlework dresses hung thick like curtains,

And tables of bracelets of beads and silver earrings already tarnished,

And jade Buddhas, big for your massive altar

Or pocket-sized for your souvenir shelf in Ohio,

And plastic Mickey Mice that don’t look quite right about the eyes,

And red t-shirts with yellow stars hung side by side

To make a faded garland just low enough

To brush your mist-dampened head with that certain kind of humid dust,

And warm Coca-Colas,

And rows of fruits you’ve eaten but don’t know the name of in either language.

Before the air held the smells of hair and heat

And salt from bodies and frying food

On the other side of the torn blue tarp backdrop.

It is its own kind of heaven.

You love the noise of voices and colors

And the misty pound of the falling water.

It draws you

And a thousand other people.

Still, sitting here, you dream of before all this.

You dream you discover this place when it was only white tumbling over stone

Under a rare blue sky with no one else around.

You find it quiet, undisturbed.

But, of course, it was never quiet.

The tumbling brides have always been here

Hurling themselves over the top,

Drop after drop after millions of drops.

None is the same as the one falling before it,

Yet somehow it is always exactly the same.

And there was never a time without sound.

To have been here before the constant roar

You would have to be God.

Your dear brother says as much to you

As you sit side by side on a wet stone bench,

Misted and moved by the pounding sound.

The two of you sit,

One young and brown and talkative

And the other older and pale and shy,

Having the same thoughts about eternity.

‒erinrmsocha 7-13-2020

Consolation

Consolation

It’s shocking how fast darkness strikes the heights

Where I’ve glued my feet to the narrow path.

The cry tears through my chest,

A song interrupted.

My foot is slipping!

Help! My foot is slipping!

Like Peter striding sure on the sea,

Right after left after right,

I’m stranded suddenly and sinking,

Smacked in the back by the wave of fear.

Curse that opportunist that follows so closely on the heels of faith!

Sheer terror curses, too:

Oh God! My foot is slipping!

Drop.

Is that really what I heard?

Yes.

Drop the heroic wave walking.

Drop from the high wire you strung up yourself

And named the narrow path.

Drop.

I will catch you.

I’m much too clumsy to execute a dismount.

I drop everything,

Good and bad both:

It’s all or nothing with me.

I freefall fast, flailing,

Wailing.

I told you my foot was slipping!

The jagged edged echo of my accusation follows me for a time,

But soon I’m so far removed from it

That it’s somehow ceased to be important.

With a grace not my own,

My fall is finessed

Into the perfect tuck and roll.

I’ve taken on the shape of a small smooth stone

That lands polished in the palm of your hand.

I meant to do that.

It’s not my voice that says it

To salvage a shred of my pride.

It’s yours.

I meant to do that.

There’s a chuckle in your words.

They’re not unkind.

After a time,

When the shaking has stopped

And my breath has slowed to match your heartbeat,

You uncurl your fingers.

I take my first timid steps back on high ground.

I can sing a little bit now.

The notes come out light,

And the words are small and distinct,

A trail of smooth white pebbles.

The path is indeed narrow,

But only where the light hits the pebbles,

Marking one sure step at a time.

“When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.” ‒Psalm 94:18-19

‒erinrmsocha 6-24-2020

Expectation

Expectation

(Psalm 5:3, John 11:1-44)

In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice;

In the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation,

And wait in expectation,

And wait. . .

Unto death.

Unbearable is the winding down to the whimper

That ushers in the void

Lurking on the back side of expectation.

It happens too fast

And much too slowly.

Here in our shuttered room by his side,

Time creeps at lightning speed.

Why are you not here yet?

Come quickly!

I need your grand entrance.

I watch the door in expectation.

Every moment balances on the verge:

You bang open the door with a brassy blast of triumph!

You don’t.

The only sign of life in the stifling room

Is the constant zing of my anxiety.

Strangely, it breathes freely amid the fug of despair.

And strangely, but slightly less freely, so does hope.

I know you’ll show up.

I wait in expectation.

Whatever happens next,

I will still have faith in you.

I know that you are God.

When asked, I will still declare it.

But, Jesus, must we miss out on our chance for a miracle?

You heal the masses!

He’s our brother whom you love,

And you love us.

We sent word!

I cannot know that even as I wait expectantly,

Even as he breathes,

Breathes again,

And soon will breathe no more,

You know exactly what you are doing.

How must you be feeling?

You deliberately delay your coming

With full knowledge of the risks‒

My deflated expectations,

My grief,

My misunderstanding,

My accusation‒

And with full knowledge of the other side of that moment

When you will show me more of your glory

Than I even know how to expect.

You will weep.

You will weep for my pain

And for the very real limits of my very real faith.

In this moment,

I believe in you.

I believe I will see the glory of God.

And so I wait in expectation,

Here by the side of my dying brother,

Not yet knowing we are all on the verge

Of life after death.

‒erinrmsocha 6-1-2020

Weight (or Mercy 2)

Weight (or Mercy 2)

Fault is the feeling that claws the space inside my ribcage because I forgot to serve the corn I bought to go with dinner. The dish sits in the refrigerator reminding me that I let things slip sometimes even though I spend most of my energy making sure I never, ever do. I pay way more in apologies than a can of corn even costs. No one else cares about the corn. Don’t beat yourself up over small things, they say. It feels bigger than that because I care and want to be known for caring. I do beat myself up. I bear bruises from my own hand over top of where the claws carve fault lines inside my chest.

Shame is the smothering weight that presses down on the back of my neck when my voice hangs in the air after choosing the wrong words‒the ones that drip with dorkiness or come out like darts when I didn’t mean them to. There are always witnesses to those misfires. The air in the room rings with awkward silence. I can’t suck the words back in. I am suddenly too big for the space, and I can’t hide far enough behind my own red face.

Regret is molten lead, hot and heavy and oppressive. It clings to my skin and seeps in. Or maybe it starts from within and seeps out through my pores. Either way regret is born of loss, and I toss that loss from hand to hand every other day: It’s not my fault. It is completely my fault. At the apex of the back and forth it balances at partially my fault, and that’s usually okay. Regardless, I lost someone who was entrusted to my care, and the heavy coat of regret seems impossible to shrug off.

Guilt is the conflagration of the anger of the world, seven billion fires burning righteous wrath right into you because of what you did. And it was bad. You choked the life out of a man and the world witnessed it. You can’t take it back, and you can’t ever pay for it. How do you live with yourself now? How do you survive inside the interminable unquenchable firestorm of What You Did while the world watched? It must be choking the life out of you like seven billion righteously angry knees upon your windpipe.

Mercy is a strange feeling to have toward you. Maybe mercy comes from my intimate knowing of fault lines formed by forgotten corn and the weight of wrong words and the loss of a prodigal son. The deepest grooves hurt the most when you can’t deny you carved them there yourself.

And, man, you can’t deny this one.

Sin causes the deepest cut, pumps in the most noxious air, lays on the heaviest weight, and burns with the most blistering beam of heat in existence. Faults and flaws, mistakes and regrets can be remedied by mind over matter, truth over trash, but sin? It’s the real deal, and you can’t shake it off, and you can’t stand up under it. It’s the weight of the deed and the weight of the seven billion stones you deserve to be buried under. I feel this weight for you, even while I feel the weight of the stone in my own hand, cocked and ready to hurl at your head. The weight of them all, or even one, would crush the breath out of you.

But instead, it crushed Him. Do you understand this? You need to know this. You need to feel the weight of What You Did and understand this: The infinite weight of a world’s-worth of sins bore its knee down on the Son of God. The moment of the turning of Father’s face from sin-disfigured Son was so much darker than the blackness blinding your eyes. It was so much heavier than the pound of flesh you owe for snuffing out one infinitely precious life. It was so much heavier than 7 billion times thousands of words hanging, backs turning, knees crushing, fists swinging, gas pumping, bullets zinging, whips slashing, thorns jabbing, nails piercing, and spears stabbing. It was so much heavier than your zeal, or your ignorance, or your hate, or your pride, or your adrenaline, or. . . what even was that, anyway? It doesn’t matter. It was infinitely blacker than the poison of your darkness and so much heavier than all of it, yet somehow the mercy of that one moment heals every single gaping wound‒theirs, mine. . .

And yes, man, even yours.

This is mercy.

“But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” ‒Isaiah 53:5

erinrmsocha 5-29-2020

Ears

Ears

Jesus, who are you?

Child, who are you?

Me? Don’t you know?

I’m the one who’s been longing

All my life

To know you,

To hear your voice like they do,

To feel what they feel,

To be who they are.

I’m one of your witnesses,

I’m one who knows, believes, and understands

That you are He:

The I Am,

The Truth‒

Nameable,

Describable in so many ways,

Definable‒

But microdefinable?

Maybe not.

I’m the one standing on the solid Rock,

But is the experience of belief itself

A monolith?

I know this at the cellular level:

Jesus, you’re flesh and blood.

You’re the one Way‒

Such an amazing, unthinkably broken way‒

To be reconciled to God.

You are the God

Who crafted each strand

Of several billion spirals of DNA

And shaped them into clay

Filled with one breath.

But what I don’t know, Jesus‒

Let me muster up the nerve to ask‒

What I don’t know is,

How many languages do you speak?

Please tell me it isn’t just one.

I hope it is several billion.

I speak English.

I learned French.

I know a few words of Vietnamese.

But I was completely lost in Germany,

Because they looked at me and spoke freely,

Assuming because I looked just like them

That I’d understand their language.

Jesus, my whole life’s been Germany.

I chased after the peace they described,

But I never felt it the right way.

I craved the love they described,

But I never quite felt all the way loved,

Because I looked enough like them

But never was quite enough like them.

I begged for the Spirit they were so sure of

To fill me and take over

But it never did,

And I strained to muscle out

Plastic apples and waxy grapes

That tasted as awful as that sounds.

I tried to raise my hands in worship like they did,

and lift my voice,

and wear the face.

And my heart really did feel the swell of the harmonies,

And the lyrics really did pinprick my tear ducts at times,

And I really did feel myself

Standing in the center of your light and not just the spotlight.

But I never had ears to hear your voice in my own language.

But then‒

Oh, the mercy of it‒

I opened the Word

And, Jesus, I met you there.

Was it really the first time

I’d ever sat at your feet and listened?

What strikes me most

Is how you tailored your touch.

Every time it was a flawless fit,

Clothing completely the naked need

Of the heart, mind, soul, and body

Of each one who reached out to touch you.

Because you were the one

Who’d breathed life into the clay you’d formed,

You knew them at the cellular level.

Jesus, I think I hear you now,

Speaking my language in your Word‒

Splitting the hairs as you count them on my head,

Cutting in, so infinitely small, to fit between my soul and spirit,

Seeping into the marrow of my bones,

Stinging me there but soothing,

Smoothing the sharpness of insult into the bluntness of conviction.

Be opened, I hear you whisper.

I feel you cupping my face in your hands

As you bless me with my very own pair of ears.

Jesus, may I share my story?

I think a few words of mine may translate well

Into someone else’s language.

I want to speak Truth

So the world knows where to look for it.

I want to go unashamed and tell

And walk alongside and guide.

Oh, Jesus, help me serve you well.

But, Jesus, help me tread lightly

And lead me not to microdefine,

For I know

That to mimic someone else’s speech

Is deafening.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” ‒Mark 4:9

“Be opened!” ‒Mark 7:34

‒erinrmsocha 5-15-2020

Thoughts After a Conversation About Boarded-up Churches (July 17, 2014)

Thoughts After a Conversation About Boarded-up Churches

I know it seems like we're losing, 

But . . .

Step beyond what's broken. 

Notice what you missed at first glance. 

Listen in the spaces between your breaths. 

Yes.

Rubble clutters.

Darkness blurs.

Silence deafens.

But know this:

The carpenter is at work,

Diligent, unruffled,

In the back room of the basement.

The pilot light is burning,

Pale, perhaps, but impossible to smother.

And the stones themselves,

Though ringing now with stillness,

Will rise up with a voice.

ERMSocha 7-17-14

Greed (Luke 12)

Greed (Luke 12)

It’s dragging you downward by the belly,

This insatiable gravity,

And now your eyes are too big for your stomach

But still too small to see the Son’s face

And too narrow to see the Father’s hand.

Your heart is too fevered to feel the Spirit’s cool wind.

You need to know

That greed is a burden for which there is only one real relief:

Sell your possessions and give to the poor.

Sure, the poor are all around you.

Flip a coin in their general direction.

It’s easy to hit one in the face.

There’s such pride in the tithe,

But the lust of the eyes is the coin’s other side.

Where’s the sacrifice?

You’ve heard it said:

There are all kinds of greed.

Look closer.

Who are your poor, really?

That depends.

To find them,

Look at what you’re harboring there in your absurdly big barn:

Heaps of the need for resolution, neat and tidy, no loose strings,

Piles of the striving to be always right, the best at whatever you’re doing,

Barrels full of the craving for deep pressure: movement, adventure, the mountaintops of life,

Buckets full of the demand for fairness‒or rather the lack of unfairness‒so that no one else ever has more,

Trunks full of the expectation of fulfillment in an instant when you rise up from your knees,

Crates full of the desire for complete understanding, always knowing, always known,

Jars full of the right to be cherished‒even worshiped‒when you stride into the room,

Baskets full of the wanting to be always on their radar, a ping, a blip, no matter if it means you’re a stumbling block.

Yes, your poor are all around you,

But they don’t need you to fling coins.

They just need a moment to breathe free from your expectations.

You’re like a tax collector,

Digging into their lack and heaping weight upon their backs

Simply to fuel your appetite

For your own peace.

Stop. Just look.

The raven lifted there on her sleek wing

Is not weighed down by greed

Because she will eat anything that nature offers.

That lovely bloom with her face tilted toward the sun

Is never wilted

Because the water that she drinks defies gravity.

And you, little barn builder,

Little nest-egg gatherer,

Are not a fool if you can see

That the opposite of greed

Is giving away everything you think you need.

And you do not lack faith if you believe

That to be rich toward God

Means to stand with open hands

In perfect peace.

‒erinrmsocha 5-14-2020

Mercy

Mercy

How can I explain it?

This morning my eyes opened

In a different kind of air.

The knowledge hadn’t even had time

To take the shape of words,

Yet it was there.

I really can’t explain how

The polished prongs of accusation

I’d spent so many days sharpening

Melted into pools of peace,

Harmless and deep,

Overnight.

Later it did come to me in words:

This man is not ignoring you.

He is carrying the weight

Of a thousand expectations

And just doesn’t know what to do for you.

And I see:

The mercy new this morning

Was for both him

And me.

‒erinrmsocha 5-13-2020

Voices 2

Voices 2

It’s getting hot in the kitchen

While the one who chooses better

Sits there in the other room

Listening to your voice

From her place there at your feet.

I need her to match my urgency,

But I can’t get a rise out of her at all.

She’s not taking the bait at all,

And you come to her defense?

Well, that’s not fair.

I can hear you in there,

Still going on,

As if I hadn’t even spoken the obvious truth.

I just love how the sound of the pots and pans

Drowns out your voice.

I can pretend I didn’t hear what you said.

Maybe she will hear the clanging and banging

And decide to be a good girl, too.

I keep forgetting that clanging and banging

Is often the enemy’s language of choice.

Since uproar is my native language,

It’s much easier for me to hear,

Not to mention that it’s easier to speak.

I’ll never really understand why your voice in its mercy

Works so hard to wedge its way in edgewise

Between a clang and a bang,

But it always finds a way.

I’m learning, slowly, to recognize it when it shows up.

It looks something like a wisp of smoke from a silent tongue of flame.

It sounds something like an unspeakable groan of deep calling deep.

Its shape is like a word that only makes sense

When seen in flesh that dwells among us.

After a time, it grows louder than the clamor,

And I’m very much aware that you’re as close as the next room

Under my very own roof of my very own house

Where, earlier, I opened my very own door and let you in.

In fact, you’re always right there where the one who chooses to

Can hear every word perfectly clearly.

Standing still in Martha’s kitchen

I can see Mary in there rooted at your feet,

And, suddenly, mercifully, I see:

You came not to be served but to serve,

Not to eat and drink but to pass out bread and pour out wine.

You came to pour out water to wash my feet—

Speaking of feet,

I don’t know how I got in here so fast!

Somehow, I’m the one sitting here with your clear voice washing over me

Instead of standing stubborn in the heat of the kitchen

Ridiculously deciding what you need.

—erinrmsocha 5-8-2020

Motorbike Ride (July 14, 2019)

Motorbike Ride

Hà Nội is full.

It's full of the hum of its heartbeat thrumming

through veins that move an endless, strobing stream of souls

by ones and by tens and by millions per minute.

Hà Nội is full of the whispers and shouts of those countless souls' stories

weaving in and out and around each other,

carried on the buzz of a million wheeled grasshoppers,

careening, leaning, reading each other in anonymous agreement.

Hà Nội is where, zoomed in, I can be found,

an anomaly ferried along on the tide,

looking out through a pair of gray eyes as I weave and lean.

But I cannot read, and so I ride.

And while I ride, I am full of Hà Nội–

full of the smell of its colors,

full in a way that I crave because Hà Nội is a feast

for senses I don't know the name of.

Each doorway under each block letter sign

in the language I strain to decipher

reveals a freeze-frame of scents, scenes, and sounds

that I lock onto and release in rapid succession.

Air con and music, hose water and light

leak out to the street with the smells

of coffee or wood smoke or noodles or tea–

something fried, something fresh, something strong.

Neat rows of produce are arranged in their kinds

by a grandma perched there on her stool.

She will move on when she's done with her day,

but to me as I pass, she is frozen in time.

Meat cleaved in pieces, ready to buy,

is displayed under lazily rotating fans

that someone's rigged up with rags for the blades,

wobbling and whirling away flies.

Dress shops, men's shops, makeup, massage,

hair salons, nail salons, toys,

and holes in the wall that I wonder who sees

are tucked in beside five-story, neon-bright malls.

Shiny aluminum shelves stacked up high–

I wonder who buys all of these.

And then, tied to the side of somebody's bike,

one swipes by just an inch from my knee.

Shopkeepers' children, so close to the street

that I marvel at how they survive,

wrestle, run barefoot and shirtless, or tease,

or crowd around YouTube on their parents' iPhones.

A girl whose job is sweeping up trash

pushes her cart against the flow

of polished professionals poised on their Honda Waves.

Their eyes skim her surface, unseeing.

A young guy, so proud of the pretty young thing

leaning dreamily against his strong back, revs his engine.

She squeals, and he laughs,

and then they're just another taillight in the distance.

Two men in front of a shop selling fans

air themselves out on the stoop,

singing karaoke to only themselves

and the split-second audience who is me.

Huddles of men hunched on blue plastic chairs

laugh and loosen amid smoke and stories,

and hold up their fingers to summon bia hơi–

I've sat there before, but tonight, I ride by.

I ride by, just one soul amid millions who flow

on these motorbikes–

the blood in Hà Nội's veins–

because, amazingly, I have somewhere to be.

But while I ride, Hà Nội is full, and I am full of Hà Nội.

Zoomed in, zooming, I can be found:

an anomaly ferried along on the tide,

looking out through a pair of gray eyes.

–erinrmsocha 7-14-2019

Pearl 2

Pearl 2

There is so much me in me

That wants to fling itself out to the world

In colorful bursts

Like beads or candy in a parade

To be caught by the open-armed open-mouthed crowd

That catches and clutches and teases and tramples

And always leaves me empty and aching to be filled.

Oh that I would rather pour me out

Endlessly and steadily into the open hands of my Father

And let him reshape me

Adding life

And light

And salt

And let him keep me full

While he portions out himself in me

In perfect pearly parcels

To be caught and treasured by an open-hearted few.

All I have to offer is me.

All he has to offer is mine.

All I have to offer is his.

All I have to offer is him.

–erinrmsocha 5-7-2020

Voices

Voices

The stranger’s voice is one I recognize,

That butter smooth voice of the father of lies

That sounds just like truth

But ends in a hiss

Of electric animation from the core of me out to my fingertips.

Oh, yes, I recognize it.

All too easily I bow and cower before its authority.

That voice is loud with self defense.

It translates yesterday’s peace and worth

Seamlessly into its own language:

A pidgin of coarse confusion and pettiness

Cross-bred with the loftiness of false clarity and arrogance.

It makes perfect sense in the middle of its grip

Where it tickles my lips with its coolness

And then burns its way down to where my appetite lies in wait,

Purring for attention

Before leaping at the bait.

The stranger’s voice isn’t strange to me.

I know too well the way

It strokes first and gets my attention seeking

Eyes and ears, making sense

A suffocating scramble

That condemns and overwhelms.

It lures me before it trashes me.

It thrashes through the garden

Where so recently

I blossomed under the gaze of my maker.

It warms before it scorches.

It nurtures as it sows and waters seeds of weeds in rows

Neatly labeled in a scrawling scribble:

Envy. Anger. Fear. Confusion.

Hopelessness. Loneliness. Worthlessness. Work.

Proud vanity.

Pointless vanity.

The weeds spring up in a breathtaking instant,

As the sprinkles swell into a storm.

That Jesus is crazy, the voice shrieks.

There is no peace for the likes of you.

I just realized I’m supposed to run away

From that voice I’m not supposed to recognize

With anything other than the refusal to give it credence.

But it seems I’ve let myself get rooted here with the weeds

Craving the acid rain,

And I can’t run.

Ah, but I can hide.

I am a tiny kingdom seed

Cupped carefully in the hand of the gardener.

I am grafted to a vine,

A vein pulsing with abundant life.

I am the one sheep carried home over the shoulders of the shepherd.

I am close enough to his face for the steady breath of his words

To reach my ear when I remember to listen.

His voice rarely rises above a whisper,

Yet it resonates like thunder,

Silencing the voice of the stranger,

Blanketing the thorns with a truth balm,

A shower:

Steady. Safe. Still. Calm.

Hope. Belonging. Value. Gifts.

Willing humility.

Conviction. Capability.

The voice of truth waters my roots

In the palm of his hand where my name is carved in stone.

It washes my wool white as snow.

It floods my senses and stills my striving.

It feeds my hunger and cools my tongue.

It smooths my tangles and straightens my path.

It transcends my understanding.

The voice of truth speaks my second language:

The word pronounced before time began.

I do know it well,

And I can listen.

--erinrmsocha 5-5-2020

Actual Jesus

Actual Jesus

He made it quite clear, really.

He imprinted it in our every cell, this longing to know.

It's the same longing that the serpent twisted

To lure Eve and Adam to try to stuff it in by mouth

Instead of simply walking by His side as the apple of His eye,

Tuned to His voice

And trusting and treasuring

The familiar that was already perfection.

He wrote it all down for us, you know?

He laid it out in His word long before He came

And jammed His Godness into the same skin we're in:

That skin that makes everything we do so natural,

That nature that makes everything

All about what we can touch and see,

That nature that ignores the hunger

While insatiably feeding on the stuff that guts us.

And therein lies His immeasurable mercy:

This allowing Himself to be ferried,

Carried along in the same boat we're in,

The one where we're scared all the time

Of the storm He can still

With the word we so naturally forget to remember to read.

Have you heard?

He is here within our reach.

He gives bread in bites we can chew.

He still multiplies it in our own human hands

So we have something to feed the five thousand or the one.

He knows how we are formed.

He knows we're afraid of the storm.

He knows we are always starving and stuffing and longing to know

And longing to be known.

The Actual Jesus is here in our midst,

As pure as the pages of the dusty leather book on the shelf,

As sincere as the one with the notes in the margins and the cover falling off,

As real as the tender heart that breaks for the one whose tender heart breaks,

As definite as any word in its own language can ever be.

He lets Himself live in the fumbling tumbling words

That spill like a mess out of the Spirit-filled skin we're in,

Sometimes in the loudest of shouts disguised as the softest of whispers.

He lets Himself live in the strong weakness of hands

That sometimes hesitate to touch and sometimes hold too tightly.

He's startlingly familiar, this Actual Jesus

Whose only agenda is being

I Am.

–erinrmsocha 5-2-2020

Fruit 3 (or Lost Ground)

Fruit 3 (or Lost Ground)

Someone picked my fruit today

And ate it right in front of me.

And she liked it.

And she told me so.

And I liked that.

It's what I wanted all along. . .

Before God tried to teach me not to want that

But to want only Him.

Before God tried to get me to stop watching and waiting for that

And to watch only for His face

And wait only for the movement of His hand.

Before God tried to tell me to stop counting

And figuring

And measuring by anything other than

His innumerable blessings

And His incomprehensible wisdom

And His measureless Godness.

I took my eyes off the Actual Jesus

And fixed them on the fruit she ate

And hoped she'd feed it to others.

It wasn't that her eating it was wrong–

I mean, that's what fruit is for–

But that the Eve in me watched her eat

And hoped she'd want some more.

–erinrmsocha 4-30-2020

Varsity

Varsity

One time,

You were in a canoe

With a friend and her dad,

And it was your turn to row,

So you crouch waddle rocked your way from your wet seat in the bottom of the canoe onto her bench in the bow and wielded that paddle in all your awkward 4th grade glory.

Apparently, there were eye-rolls behind you.

Apparently, you row like you speak:

Sporadically, frenetically, and never in a straight line.

And then it was her turn again,

So you crouch waddle rocked past each other again,

And you plunked your cut-off jeaned butt down in the puddle,

And her dad said, "Now we got our varsity back in!"

If there were a video clip of that moment available,

Its title would be "The Moment She Learns Her Real Name"

Because that was the day the word "Inferior" became sealed to your identity,

Closer than a shadow.

You'd felt that way before,

Inferred it from the eyes of others

And inflated it in your own mind,

But you'd never heard it voiced out loud by someone else.

And isn't that what makes things true?

In reality,

He didn't say you were less than.

He said she was better than.

But how was that any different?

You hadn't even known it was a competition.

You won competitions.

You got the best grades.

You got first chair in band.

You got solos in choir.

But in the most important competition,

The one that decides whether or not you are worth the skin you're walking around in,

You were Inferior.

They all got boobs.

They all got boyfriends.

They all somehow understood what was actually funny and garnered giggles every time they opened their mouths.

They all married tall, strong, confident men:

Definitely varsity.

They all got pregnant.

They all had varsity kids

Who got boobs

And got boyfriends

And somehow understood what was funny.

Meanwhile, you built your own family of kids who sometimes were varsity and sometimes sat in puddles.

And you loved your own man

And laughed at your own jokes.

Wasn't that winning, too?

In church,

There is a varsity.

It looks like tagging your favorite person in selfies.

It looks like shout-outs to the same people:

The best people,

The winners.

It looks like everyone looking like the brand of Jesus someone decided attracts the most people.

It looks like opening your mouth to make an observation only to be silenced by everyone else's answers.

It looks like a rat race to the prize of winning your kids' hearts for Jesus.

You didn't win those competitions.

You didn't win any of those races.

But why do you see it as a competition?

Aren't we all supposed to be racing for the prize of the Actual Jesus?

You have had moments of defined success in life,

But that feeling of less than is what defines you.

In fact,

You use it as your name.

It has taken you 40 years since that day in the canoe to realize

This is your biggest battle.

It has taken you 40 years to realize that maybe life itself can't be a competition

If we're not all playing the same game.

To the 4th grade girl in the canoe with your two pigtails, awkward elbows and knees, scrunched up butterfly nose, and too-big-teeth smile,

You were beautiful sitting in that puddle with your stork legs crossed Indian style and your soft straight brown pigtails bobbing on either side of your artless grin and your fingers five pale arrows just under the surface of the green water.

Maybe you weren't good at rowing,

Or maybe you were and it was just a dad encouraging his daughter who maybe was feeling inferior to you.

Go back to that moment and enjoy canoeing.

Dip your fingers into the river.

Watch your amphibian hand carve through the liquid jade.

Pick a water lily.

To the little girl inside the grandma squinting through your glasses at your laptop,

You are beautiful inside and outside of your softened frame, no makeup on the loosened lines of your face, writing out your pain and letting others glimpse some of your darkness.

Maybe you have too much darkness to be a Jesus follower,

Or maybe you don't and your words bring the Light of the World into someone else's darkness.

Sit in that moment and enjoy the light.

Reach into the Word.

Let the grains of Truth crystallize on the thread of a single thought.

Give them a shape.

Drop the competition

And fight this battle.

This is the battleground on which God will win

When he shouts with victory a single word:

Your real name.

And it is not "Inferior"

Because this was never a competition,

And there is no varsity.

–erinrmsocha 4-27-2020

Arrival and Departure (January 2, 2020)

Arrival and Departure

Of course,

On the other end of arrival

Is always departure.

What a time it was.

What a full, rich length of time

It really was.

When it was all over,

My husband picked me up

At the airport in Cincinnati

And drove me home.

On the way home,

We searched for a Starbucks--

Something comforting

For me to hold in my hand.

In the car,

I smiled.

I laughed.

I told the stories--

Jumbled and tumbling out,

In that way I always tell stories.

I cried.

I held my Starbucks.

I tried to hold onto the feeling

Of being there.

When we got home,

I went all the way through the house

From the back door to the front door

And out onto the porch.

I couldn't be inside.

I sat on the cool concrete front porch

Breathing the air,

And feeling the loss--

A bullet of ache in my chest,

And feeling the treasure--

A nugget of gold in my chest,

And feeling the connection,

And feeling the distance.

And I dialed up a video chat

Because I wanted to be there.

And for just another moment

I was there,

Knowing the space into which I was peering,

And loving their faces

And the so recently familiar cadence of their voices.

I am afraid to roll myself up,

Tucking in my knees and elbows

And heart and soul.

Before, I was neatly vacuum-packed.

After, I don't fit back

Into the packaging I came in.

Now I am here,

But I am always also there.

This is the price of going

And the cost of coming home.

This is the wealth and the weight

Of arrival and departure.

ErinRMS 1/2/2020