About Me

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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.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Kaddish for an absent father

I knew you, God,
in my mother's breath,
and her sighs
that she thought I 
couldn't hear,
late at night,
and sometimes in the evening,
when she reached for 
a dish,
or a glass,
or a box 
kept on a high shelf,
and the effort
of her stretch
added to the effort 
of her days,
and Your name 
escaped her, unbidden,
hidden by the rustle
of days and time.
She thought I didn't hear.
But that is how 
I knew You first.
She taught me
effort and stretch
and the glory of Your name,
the simple in and out of
breathing,
that is awe,
and fear,
and mercy,
and love. 

I knew you, God,
in my father's absence,
a hollow presence
that became
faded
over time
and the wheeling of stars.
Stars are impossibly
beautiful and 
improbably far,
and silent,
like solitude,
or the grace
of longing.
Absence settles in,
a blanket of Almost 
and hoped-for.
And I could feel 
You there
in its folds
and tattered edges,
and the 
absence of 
my father's 
touch.

And I know you God,
in this ache
of loss 
that breathes through me,
this grief that 
began with absence 
and time,
and ends
with a single 
breath
a last
sigh
a whisper of Your 
Name.