Chicks and Stones

 

Chicks and Stones
(Matthew 23, Mark 12-13)

Look!
Massive manmade glory,
Magnificent, your God-gifts glare—
Stones on solid stones blare
And broadly broadcast greatness
(Yours).
Your robes fall heavily as you brush by
And bless all
With a bland smile, a nod,
Focusing just beyond the small,
Seeking only eyes in which you see
Your own reflected greatness.
No one can outweigh you.
No one else is worthy.

Listen.
Copper—
Clink.
Clink.
Eternity echoes in one soft heart
(His).
Her rags skim over the dust and you see
Too late rocks,
Solid sturdy stone on stone,
Future rubble thrown down,
Separate stone by separate stone
Singly cold, steadfast, alone,
Just beyond the aching warm wings
Where the chicks knew to gather.

—erinrmsocha 3/25/2021

 

To the Gas Light

To the Gas Light 

Too much you is blocking the view.
We need a modern-day Luther
Or King
To follow the Word
To follow the one
Who follows the One.
If A equals B equals C equals D,
Then yes we can see
Some King
In you,
But too much you is still blocking the view,
And we strain our eyes
To see the real
Behind the construction
That’s built in your image
Because too much you is blocking the view,
And too much you is blocking your view
Of the one
Alone
Right in front of you.
We need a modern-day Luther
Or King
To draw the line between blindness and truth
Because too much you is blocking the view,
And we
Can’t
See. 

—ermsocha 2-9-2021

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