Hunger

under the greenwood tree

Teach me your language.
The child in me, wide-eyed Wonder,
is your mimicry.
My spirit is in early development
but in its prime for teachability.
How do I speak the language of heaven?

Start with taste.
I know all ten-thousand hairs
on your tongue.
Every nerve ending
regenerating
every ten days
so you can renew your taste
and see that I am good.
Your spirit has a tongue–or didn’t you know?

When you stitched this skin together
in the womb,
you used words, not thread.
The language of heaven is encoded
in my DNA.
Teach me your tongue.
Every lilt and swell,
every syllable.
Meet me
where the practice of consonants,
curling the tongue to the palate
and the pucker of lips to produce vowels,
ceases
and fluency begins.

There is a time to sew
and a time to rip out the seams
and start over.
Start with breath.
Wind that stirred life from death.
There is a time coming
when all dust will return to the earth
and the spirit of man to God who gave it.
You cannot breathe apart from me,
so you cannot speak apart from me.

Hunger.
The language you teach me?
There is a pang in my belly
eating out all other desire,
a hunger that grows
like the fanning of flames.
I am empty,
my soul cries,
Daddy, feed me!
Fill me with your Spirit-wind
and I will taste and see that you
are good.

Why do you work for that
which does not satisfy?
I am the bread of life.
Come to me,
eat and live forever.
The bread that I give for your life
is my body,
and whoever feeds on me, abides in me.
Apart from me, you can do nothing,
not even hunger.

I am depending on you.
Every breath, every pang.
Teach me
the language of heaven:
the splatter of blood poured out,
the crack of breaking bone,
you were emptied.
The gush of water overflowing,
the whoosh of wind descending,
I am filled
only to find
my taste buds have reflowered,
and I am learning the fluency
of hunger.

 

 

 

 

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Gossamer

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Photo Credit: Mirella

Four months of silence.

It was one of many things God required during the winter–the death of my words. Rather, the death of my validation in you reading my words.

How will you see who I am if I can’t tell you with words, written or spoken?

How would you know me? If you don’t know my heart, do I still have value? Do my words have value if you never hear them?

As dust collected in the spaces of my keyboard, pain collected in the cracks of my heart. Fear mushroomed in that void between my heart and lips where words once flowed freely…. I will live unseen.

But he never took his eyes off me.

Several weeks ago, when he released me to speak, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to.

Over the winter I filled half a journal and two yellow Legal Pads with words. Words that only come from the deepest place of honesty because no one will ever read them–words that are mine and his.

Unfiltered, unedited, unjustified.

Just heartbroken, because I’m not convinced that his eyes will be enough for me.

Still, love holds me fast, fragile, like a gossamer web.

Soon I will tell you the story of this winter.

About the ways his Spirit underscored words I penned seven months ago, about the Aha!-moments long foreshadowed, about pain’s strikethrough of my heart (and mercy’s parenthetical encapsulation), about joy like a forest of !!!!!! when I understood the intricacies of my story within his–after plodding for so long like an …, to find that he never writes a plot with holes!–and I will tell you about love waiting to hem me in at the end of every unspoken sentence like a  .