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

Tribe (February 15, 2020)

Tribe

Tribe is the difference

Between "We're all the same"

And "We're not the same without you."

There's no need for a personal brand,

And no need to fit in.

There's no need to name drop,

No need to compete,

No need to promote,

And no need to conform.

There's no slave and no free,

No Scythian and no Greek,

No male and no female--

Just a collection of souls

God’s formed into a "we."

When a tribe gets together,

No one thinks to take a selfie--

They don’t need to.

They don’t look the same at all,

And they don’t try to.

They are old and young,

And on the older side of young,

And on the younger side of old.

A tribe builds its bonds

As they face common enemies:

Apathy,

The inexorable pull of the culture,

Expectations and inadequacy,

The fear of loss or failure,

And the reality of loss and failure.

A tribe is forged in the side by side.

They work hard with

Noses down and energy up,

Hearts burdened and prayers scattered,

And minds boggled

Amid a thousand tasks juggled.

A tribe takes shape

Out of held-back tears,

Knowing looks,

Smothered smirks,

And burst-out belly laughs.

A tribe sounds like

"Me too!" and "You got this."

It calls out, "See you tomorrow!"

And reminds, "It's almost Friday."

A tribe tells its story

And sings its anthem,

And a tribe reads you like a book

And celebrates your own unique song.

Tribe is not having to force yourself

To be yourself

(Which really means

Don't be too much of yourself)

So that people will like you.

Tribe is the difference

Between "Be one of us"

And "You are one of us."

Tribe is something we all need.

Tribe is something we each need.

My tribe would not be the same

Without you.

ERMSocha 2/15/2020

Adoption (November 9, 2019)

Adoption

All of it is by the grace of God.

The loss
The brokenness
The aloneness

The longing
The seeking
The finding

The waiting

The joy
The joining
The learning

The building
The loving
The living

The growing pains
The push and pull
The remembering

The holding it together
The holding your breath

The thing we call family
The place we call home

All of it is by the grace of God.

erinrms 11/9/2019
November is National Adoption Month

Fruit 2

Fruit 2

How much fruit have I born, Lord?

            How many seeds have you sown?

            Your fruit is hidden with Christ in God,

            And your glory is not in this world.

How many souls have I saved, Lord?

            How many friends have you loved?

            You must put yourself last so that others might live,

            For your glory is not in this world.

           

How many ears have heard me, Lord?

            How much truth have you spoken?

            My word is living and active, my child,

            And your glory is not in this world.

How many eyes can see me, Lord?

            How many do your eyes see?

            Reach out your hand to the one who is lost,

            For your glory is not in this world.

How much light did I shine, Lord?

            How much dark did you enter?

            Take up your cross and step into the night,

            For your glory is not in this world.

How many crowns have I earned for you, Lord?

            How many crowns do I need?

            A kingdom built here will just crumble with time,

            And your glory is not in this world.

How great among men will I be, Lord?

            How much can you pay for your soul?

            Do not measure your worth by the praises of men,

            For your glory is not in this world.

–erinrms 4-24-2020

           

           

Fruit

Fruit

The tree gloried under the sun,

And the lust of her eyes surveyed all that she had

And all that she'd done.

Her eyes roved over and rolled over once more

The full to bursting rosy gold fruit

That hung on her branches, pleasantly plump.

Admired by all, desired by all,

She preened there under the sun,

Boasting of all she had,

Boasting of all she had done.

The tree noticed under the sun

Another tree steadily luring a crowd,

Luring them one by one.

And wave after unwelcome wave of desire

For the glossier juicier clusters of fruit

That hung on those branches more lovely and plump–

Admired by all, desired by all–

Made her burn there under the sun,

Weeping for all she lacked,

Weeping for all she'd never done.

The tree cursed herself and the other

Who'd stolen the crowd one by one

And hardened her heart

To the bearing of fruit–Such a burden was fruit!

And wished herself something entirely else

She'd seen once through a window some distance away,

Admired by all, desired by all.

And she yearned there under the sun,

Twisting herself in her mind

Into something she'd never become.

The object she fixed as her goal

Was a memory as fresh and as distant as snow,

As last winter's snow,

When she'd spied it from her barren post in the cold night.

Ringed with sparkles, tossed tinsel, and great glossy globes,

It was crowned at the top with a star!

Admired by all, desired by all,

How it bristled with joy at gifts laid at its feet

While denying the terrible truth:

It had sacrificed all of its roots.

When the tree recalled that naked stump,

She withered and shuddered and sobbed.

She'd forsaken her fruit for a fake

And could bear nothing more now than hard, stunted buds,

Malformed, malicious, malignant, and mean,

That dotted her bare limbs all along.

Unseen by all, unneeded by all,

She froze grounded in her own spindly shade,

Bleeding, self-severed, and lone,

And bragging of bleeding alone.

Then the tree heard a whisper, the wind,

And she tingled all over and listened again

To that voice she'd forgotten

Since so long ago it had landed and planted her there where she stood.

Water, it said. Water was all.

She felt down to the roots she'd forgotten she had.

Yes, water was all, water was all,

And she nursed on it there in the wind,

Feeding on all that she lacked,

Filling in all that was gone.

The tree dug down deeper to drink,

And the water took shape into words that took shape,

And the words were What is it to you

If this tree draws a crowd or that tree is cut down

Or one shimmers or bears sweeter fruit?

When water is all that that your fibers desire,

I will hang my Most Beautiful Fruit on your frame.

So she drank her fill under the sun,

Baring fresh leaves to its warmth,

Bearing pure fruit with no boast on her tongue.

–erinrms 4-18-2020

Faith

Faith

What is this thing called faith?

Is it precise or undefinable?

Is it laser focused or diffuse?

Is it supposed to balance tense on the head of a pin or bob relaxed in a vast ocean?

Does it struggle to lock in on a target or aim in the general direction of the broad side of a barn?

Is it 20/20 or completely blind?

Should it visualize the goal already in hand or practice living without it?

Is it mustered up from within or accepted as a gift?

Does it play right into the hand or hard to get?

Should it feel available or elusive?

Is it a song or a shout or a whisper?

Does it beam steadily or swell over and over in waves?

Does it require a single grain or the whole massive mountain?

Does it name and claim or release?

Is it bold and brassy or timid on tiptoes?

Does it blast a trumpet or whistle in the dark?

Is it the reward itself or the means to the end?

Is it one in a million or the whole million?

Is it personal or common?

Does it feed five thousand and collect the leftovers or offer up five loaves and two fish?

Does it move mightily or hold very still?

Is it more like wishing or hoping or believing or knowing?

Is it the bringer of joy or joy itself?

Is it the answer to the question or the question that is the answer?

What is this thing called faith?

erinrms 4-16-2020

Pearl

Pearl

When you were asleep

I tapped you on your side—

Just a light rapid tapping, three times,

So faint you could have missed it.

Ridiculous?

Perhaps.

But why did this flutter of a rhythm in the tenderest place between the upturned curve of two ribs wake you from dead sleep

And make you think

Maybe I wanted to speak to you?

No less real than the presence of a toddler tentative by the side of the bed,

Frozen in silence louder than a wail,

Holding his breath while watching you breathe and willing you to wake until finally whispering your name,

I hovered next to you waiting for the quietest moment so my whisper would resound

So you would listen,

Because isn’t that the way of my still small voice?

When you were pinned down and quaking

Under the raging demon screams of the firestorm—

Remember this later—

I was not in the fire.

I was not in the storm.

I was not in the quaking.

Who was it then?

Be careful.

It was not I.

I do not materialize on demand,

But the enemy is more than happy to do so.

And later,

After the herd of legion-jolted pigs’ feet thunders over you in impossible lumbering lightning speed,

Their horrifying awkward rocking rolls of squealing squalling hammy cloven hooves striking sharp ringing blows on the back of your head

That seem to echo deeper than the eternal depths of your soul,

Know this:

I’ve already bought the whole muddy field left in their wake—

Every square inch—

To redeem the tiniest pearl of a seed ground down so far you think no one could ever find it.

So lift your head and see the land I bought for you.

Oh, sweet girl,

You are the pearl under the pigs’ feet,

And yes those pigs’ feet are relentless.

The howling chaos when it seizes you is relentless.

But I am not.

I am a featherweight tap in the night.

Remember this:

If your spirit quickens,

It’s deep calling deep.

Hold still and listen.

Little lost sheep,

I always know exactly where to find you.

I know that the source of your terror scream seems deeper than I will ever be able to dig.

Its sulfurous supply seems infinite, beyond exhausting.

But why are you looking for the living among the dead?

I am not there.

Lift your head.

I’ve already been to the deep beyond that depth, and you know that nothing out-depths me.

So do not forget:

I am risen!

I am on the outside with you,

Where the air is.

Here.

Rest a moment while I wash your matted wool whiter than snow.

And then don’t call dirty what I have made clean.

And remember what you learned:

Blasphemy called the Son of God blasphemous.

It called evil what was good.

It demanded that the kingdom of God produce a king instead of the nerve of that man who slipped under their skin with a whisper.

It was I who confined that full to bursting mighty heart of God to a fist-sized mass of
thumping flesh—

And it was I who restrained it there,

Breaking

Every time I stopped long enough to dwell on their deafness.

They wouldn’t have heard me anyway if I’d screamed.

And neither would you.

I won’t compete to be heard.

Don’t forget this.

Don’t give dogs even a crumb of what is holy,

Because even you

Have a crumb of holy in you.

I should know.

I dropped it there one day when you weren’t looking.

I am the one

Who bought the whole field,

That pig-trampled field of treasures of great worth,

Each no bigger than a seed.

And you,

You were never the enemy’s weed.

You were never the pig.

You were the pearl.

--erinrms 4-15-2020

Saturday

Saturday

He was here and then he wasn't,

And we, suspended in a choking fog

Of grief and disbelief, suffered no suspense

Because we didn't know we were waiting.

All we knew was the silence of loss

After yesterday's utter violence.

It hung in the air of our hiding place

Like the last word spoken in a fight

Hangs in an empty room.

The palpable presence of the shape of pain

Was fast and final, irreversible and irreconcilable.

It is finished meant it was over.

We sat there mute in our disbelief,

Engulfed as our unbelief hardened.

He was here and then he wasn't.

The fullness of everything became inexplicably

The emptiness of nothing but our fear

And the back side of our faith.

All night and all day and all night again,

We sat in the shadow of death,

Numb on the knife edge of hysteria,

Gutted yet stuffed with the fist of the punch in the gut.

We sat in our appalling unfaithfulness, our embarrassing faithlessness,

Feeling justified in forgetting everything he'd ever told us–

Because, in fact, he had told us,

But somehow we of little faith didn't know

We were supposed to wait with him one hour.

We were supposed to wait for him three days.

He was here and then he wasn't,

So we slept in that tomb of a room

In an endless wide-eyed waking sleep with no suspense

Because we didn't know we were waiting.

But then, in the morning, just as he'd said,

He tore back through the veil into time.

The shroud of our misunderstanding

Dissolved like mist with the dawning.

Into our deaf and sightless stupor

Came thunder and lightning and crystal clarity.

Our faithlessness, that stubborn bulwark,

Splintered in the storm surge of his faithfulness.

It is finished meant I have done it!

We were stunned at the shape of him,

So recently with us and then so absolutely gone.

For he was gone and then he wasn't.

And that time we sat suspended

Was instantly redefined

As only that one day of hushed suspense

When we waited for the dawn of forever.

erinrms 4/11/2020