About Me

My photo

I write, mostly to keep my head from exploding. It threatens to do that a lot. My blog is the pixelated version of all the voices in my head. I tend to dive into what connects me to God, my community, my family and my doubt. I do a lot of searching, not as much finding. I’m good with that. I have learned, finally, to live comfortably in the gray. In the meantime, I wrestle with God, and my doubt and my joy.

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

God of the Desert

We walked in the shadow time,
in the sun's reflected light.
The sun is like God in the desert,
We cannot look upon its face and live,
not while we walk,
not while we flee
not while we search for home.

We are the shadow people.

Mama carries my brother on her back,
I carry water. We both carry life.
Water is like God in the desert,
Hidden and precious
and a trickster illusionist,
a mirage that shimmers.
Still, it makes the desert bloom

I am thirsty, but I do not drink.

My stomach is tight, unfilled,
but I am used to this gnawing hunger.
Food is like God in the desert,
A gift to be gathered,
just enough and no more.
Too much will spoil.
Too much might kill you.

We have learned to live with hunger.

We reached the gates
in the almost light of dawn
Mama lifts my brother down,
and I see her shadowed face -
Careworn lines, desperate worry,
and bruise-smudged eyes of infinite compassion.
She is like God in the desert,
Abandoned. Exiled.
Deserted, with
forgiveness on her tongue.

Forgiveness is a balm in the wilderness.

The gates spark with the rising sun.
Hard iron delicately filigreed.
I imagine our footsteps are
a trail of sand and tears,
leading us home. 
Gates are like God in the desert,
welcoming strangers.
Opening. Closing.
Offering redemption to all who seek it.

I am a stranger everywhere we go.

We walk on cracked earth, 
forward on swollen feet,
to the gate of Heaven
while my mother cries out,
her arms suddenly empty and bare,
but the God of the desert
has already forgotten.